We live in a VERY DARK area with turns and curves and hills galore, and other drivers are constantly driving with their high beams on and then not turning them off when oncoming traffic approaches within 500 feet, as per the customary rules of the road. And the result is BLINDING.
After about the sixth car did that the other night, Matt said, "This is crazy. You should flash your high beams at them."
(I have since Googled the practice of flashing your high beams and it appears that such behavior can be viewed as aggressive, or even illegal in some areas. Let's hope I can't be retroactively ticketed because I am about to incriminate myself in the next paragraph.)
And so I flashed my brights.
And Matt said, "Why did you flash your fog lights?"
Well, color me surprised. I told Matt I thought those were my brights, and that I was sorry but unfortunately I did not have any other light selections. And that's when he told me to push the lever that also controls my windshield wipers and turn signals AND LO AND BEHOLD, THERE WAS LIGHT.
AND LOADS OF IT.
I had no idea those lights existed but now that I know they're there, I cannot stop using them.
I can't even blame those other drivers for not turning them off. The visibility is just amazing.
The whole situation reminds me of when I was a little girl and my mom took me to the movies a few days after I got my first pair of glasses. As soon as the movie started, I slid my new specs down my nose, bifocal style, and throughout the movie I went back and forth between watching with my new glasses and without them. My mom noticed my strange behavior and leaned over and asked me if everything was okay with my glasses, but it turns out I was just fascinated comparing how poor my vision used to be with how fantastic my glasses made it.
In both situations, I'd literally seen the light.
Speaking of my car, it has been violently shaking for many months now. Anyone who has ridden in the car with me knows that during periods of acceleration and idling at red lights, there is so much vibration that you have to raise your voice to have a conversation.
Naturally my solution has just been to wildly smack at various plastic fixtures in an attempt to quell the noise.
And it's worked for me. Until that same car trip the other night when Matt said, "How long has your car been shaking like this?"
Oh, ten, twelve months or so.
It turns out I needed a new motor mount, which Matt ordered online last week and planned to install on Saturday. I didn't want him to think I was lacking confidence in his automobile repair skillz, but since my engine stillsmells of burning oil from his last "maintenance day," I said, "So, you know what you're doing here with this motor mount, right?"
"Oh yeah," he said, "It should be fine."
Should be fine?
I'm going to need a little more certainty.
"Well, tell me the worst that could happen."
(Why do I do this to myself?)
"You really want to know the worst that could happen? Well, I guess it would be that I drop the engine, but I promise that won't happen."
And then out the door he went with his toolbox and a whole lot of confidence and I stayed in the house and my nervous energy and I scrubbed the sink until it glistened and EVEN WIPED DOWN THE BASEBOARDS.
Matt came inside a few hours later brimming with the pride of success.
I will say, my car has never felt so smooth and still. Occasionally, at red lights, I fear that it has shut off completely because evidently I've become accustomed to the shaking.
And then, because we cannot catch a break, the fan in Matt's car began to blow with great enthusiasm and the check engine light lit up on Sunday. He drove it over to the dealer, and when he called to give me the update, he told me the water pump was leaking and he had to get a rental.
Since the last time he needed a rental he got a FAN-CAY Camaro, I figured he would have been given a vehicle of similar caliber. "Oooohhh, what kind of car did you get?" I said.
"Wait until you see. You will not believe it."
And twenty minutes later, 6'1'', sports car loving Matt pulled into our parking lot in an itsy bitsy, teeny tiny, bright red, Ford Fiesta.
I half expected to see his feet running furiously beneath it, Flinstone style.
He said he was going to call it the Fiesty instead of the Fiesta, but when we took it to the grocery store and I thought I was going to have to get out and push it up the hill, I couldn't help but wonder if perhaps the name was too grand.
Matt's car was all fixed up with a brand new water pump today, so I followed him to the rental place to drop off the Fiesty, and when we got there I said, "Why did you slow way down when we turned onto Route 30? Were you looking at your GPS or something?"
"No!" he said, "I was pedal to the metal! That's all the juice it had!"
So they Fiesty may not have much power.
But I bet she has powerful high beams.
And to me, that's what really matters.