I remember being in the same situation with Corolla #1 (aka Bluebell). I was getting ready to move out, and I'd had Bluebell paid off for about six months. The thing was, with 177,758 miles on it and struts that needed repair -- not to mention the fact that, over New Year's that year I dropped more than $900 in repairs on it -- the chances of it being reliable for me to keep were slim to none, and if I were going to get a new ride, it would probably be better for me to have it in the budget than to have to add it in once I was in the crib. Adding fuel to the fire, I received a coupon from the Toyota dealer we always dealt with offering a good deal on vehicles. So I told Dad I was going to look, and he told me, "Now, make sure you just LOOK -- no test driving, nothing like that. We're just getting an idea of what's out there. Ok?" Sure Dad, I said. I doubted I was going to like anything, anyway.

Then I saw a '95 Corolla with a moon roof (since I'd just broken up with a dude that had a convertible, that was HUGE) and 25,200 miles on it. I brought it home.

First thing Dad said was, "What'd I tell you?" to which I replied, "But Dad, look," and pointed to the odometer with its eensy little miles on it. "NOW you're talkin'," said Dad, proud that I'd picked something cute AND practical. He threw on a shirt and went back to the dealership with me that night to get the rest of the shit done.

That was the last time Dad and I got to buy a car together. On second thought, I AM going to hate giving it up if and when I have to.
Oh, whatEVER.

Labor Day weekend, 2001: Dad was pretty much comatose by the Monday before, so we had hospice set up him at home; he sure as hell didn't want to be in the hospital any longer than necessary, anyway. So we knew it was an any-moment deal, and I told Mer that, to which she offered to cancel the trip. I wouldn't hear of it, though, because I might not have known when Dad was going to die, but I did know that I was going to need someone to lighten my psychic load when it happened.

Fast forward to that Thursday: Dad had pretty much lost consciousness, and his temperature was starting to rise, which apparently is one of the final signs that the end is nigh. I'd brought Rube over to see him -- they totally loved each other -- and I picked up my young cousin (Crazy Aunt's daughter, 14 at the time) to see him, too. But signs not necessarily being indicative of anything concrete, my young cousin and I took off for O'Hare to pick Mer up from her 7:30 flight, thinking that Dad was in a holding pattern and that it was going to be smooth sailing to the airport.

Except it wasn't, because traffic was backed up at the Spaghetti Bowl, which is at least 20 miles from the airport. And I should probably mention that I didn't tell my crazy aunt that I was taking her child with me, because that'll be important later.

So after fielding a frantic call from Mer wondering where I was and trying to put off the wrath of my crazy aunt for hijacking her daughter to another state (!), we found Mer in the bar. We hugged, I told her how awesome she looked because she did, she told me I hadn't changed one bit, and we started heading for the car. But as we headed for the car, the weather turned wicked and started torrentially pouring -- lightining, thunder, the works. And as were walking through the torrential pouring and lightning and thunder, we realize that we can't find the damn car. "You know, this is right out of a Seinfeld episode, (Broad)," said Mer, to which I replied, "Right. All I need now is to get the call from Ma that Dad died ..."

Now, I'm sure y'all are going to be like, "No WAY! That totally didn't happen!" and I wouldn't have believed it either if didn't happen to me, but no sooner did that come out of my mouth, damned if that phone didn't ring with Mother hysterical on the other end.

Standing there in the torrential pouring drenched through to the bone, I lost it for a few moments, then I called my one best friend to start making the phone calls to all my other friends. Oh, and no, we hadn't found the car yet, so we walked around awhile longer trying to find it. At that point I was about as useless as tits on bull, so we had to call security, who, after 20 minutes of driving us around FINALLY got us to the vehicle. (I won't even go into the nightmare that was, and how he wanted me to fill out a customer service card about his service.) So we finally get out of the parking garage about 10:15-ish, only to discover that the pouring had been so torrential, it flooded the underpass to get out of the airport.

Now, say what you want about souls and the afterlife and whatever, but I firmly believe that, realizing his one and only daughter has a habit of getting herself into fucked-up adventures such as this, he put off going to heaven to make sure the Corolla (the '95 one, not the old one) and I, along with my passengers, made it through the torrential pouring before the airport people shut down the airport, which they did about 10 minutes after we got out.

We went straight to my parents, where two of my aunts, an uncle, a cousin and a hospice nurse were waiting for me to get there so they could call the ambulance to take Dad to the funeral home. The first thing out of my mouth when I saw him? "He looks like a fucking concentration camp victim!" as I burst into tears. Mer, in the meantime, was standing there, embarrassed as fuck, wondering if she should stay or not. I begged her to, because like I've said before, if it weren't for her, I would've been a complete and utter disaster. Oh, and my one aunt and uncle took my young cousin home, but not after my crazy aunt thoroughly tore me a new one for, again, hijacking her daughter out of state. To Illinois. She was pissed off enough at me that she didn't come to Dad's wake, although I think she'd also just had surgery on her foot or something.

It probably doesn't sound like a very funny story, but looking back on it now, I could see Dad standing there, shaking his head: "Yep, this could only happen to you." And you'd realize just how funny it actually was.
Oh, whatEVER.

[Courtesy of the Post-Tribune]

Politics with which I don't agree aside, I don't have a problem with kids being homeschooled, especially if they also have a good social network outside of it that keeps them off the slippery slope of social retardedness. (Few do, but that's another issue.) But how is the school denying the girl the right to an education? It's not preventing her from attending the school -- in fact, I'm sure it'd be happy to have her back. And yeah, Ok, Ms. Nurse pays taxes, so she should be able to take advantage of the school system, but so do many elderly people who live in the town who don't have school-age kids. She has a school-age kid (or more), ergo -- say it with me now -- she can take advantage of the school system, whereas elderly people are paying into a system of which they get no benefit.

That's why, if you're going to homeschool your children, the parent or guardian needs to be either uber-nerd brilliant in all areas, or be willing to foot the bill for someone who can teach what they can't.
Oh, whatEVER.

I'm an apparently intelligent, liberal, disgustingly generous, pathetically simple-minded, dribbling child!
See how compatible you are with me!
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey
Oh, whatEVER.

Part of it took place on a street in I-don't-know-where, and I was trying to call my aunt, but I had, like, six or seven phone booths from which to choose, so suddenly it became important for me to check to see if all the phones were working. (I even called someone to let them know of my results, but again, hazy at this point.) Then there was something to do with a family party and my aunt telling me that BFKAS said that "the other 13 people and two gay guys" were the reason she would be there, (!) but the whole point of it was she wasn't there to see me. And then my uncle would show up in their old Lincoln every so often.

Fast forward a bit, and I'm sitting on a couch flipping the reomte in what appears to be the crib, only it's in an upscale hood and attached to a palatial estate. Three dudes are hanging in the room with me, and they're trying to get in touch with another dude who has something they want a la Alias, and apparently I know how to get in touch with him, or someone I know does. In the meantime, someone hands me a joint rolled with coke, and I for some reason think this is the best. thing. ever. and decide to share it with my friends Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie. AND PARIS' MOM Kathy, only it didn't look like her.

No, I've never done coke in my life.
Oh, whatEVER.