Crunch...

...went my car today, a very final sound.

While driving this afternoon, slowed way down to turn right...

WHAM!

And my car, a VERY large 1969 Plymouth Fury III convertible, gets punted about 10 feet, accompanied by a horrendous noise. Then dies & rolls to a stop around the corner I was turning.

My glasses are gone, and since I'm blind as a bat without them, the first thing I have to do is find them. I had the top down, so God knows where they went. Pry myself out of the car and commence feeling around for them. Another driver stops and offers to help, he finally finds my glasses in the back seat. Now that I can see, here is what I find:

Neither the trunk nor the passenger side door will open, and it's pretty clear that the frame is tweaked. The hood opens, but with resistance and groans, although the engine looks OK. The top, which had been down, still closes but does not line up to latch properly, everything is shifted towards the passenger side. It still drives so I got it home, but it moans & groans and doesn't feel safe.

I think my car is toast. :(

The girl who hit me was moving at a pretty good clip. Her car suffered damage to it's right front and would not restart, so she had it towed. A cop was driving by so he stopped and took a report, the girl did not seem hurt at all. I was hurting but not enough to go to the hospital.

Tonight I've got mondo pain & pretty good bruising starting to develop all up & down my left side...and my neck hurts, naturally.

Luckily I've got a spare car, a '75 Pontiac I picked up to use while the Plymouth was undergoing restoration. I was just about ready to get the body work & paint done on the Plymouth, maybe next month. Now I've got to wait & see what the body shop says and see if the Plymouth is too broken to fix. And this after I sank all that money and time into getting the engine rebuilt and a bunch of other stuff fixed on it...

Bleah. And ouch.

Fresh Air, Yay!

Spent yesterday hunting and gathering rescreening supplies at Home Depot: A roll each of metal and fiberglass screen, two different sizes of spline (the rubber gasket stuff that holds screening into the frame) and a splining tool (a little roller tool to press the spline into the channel that holds it into the frame).

There was also a little VERY fancy car collector's club show set up in one corner of the parking lot, about a dozen perfect and polished 50's and early 60's cars on display with their elderly owners holding court in folding chairs next to them. The kid and I cruised through the display in my dirty, faded, top-down, loaded with old screens and hardware store bags, faithful daily driver 1969 Plymouth convertible and returned their horrified looks with cheeky grins.

She's rough looking but dependable, my girl Ruby. I felt like the proverbial bastard at a family reunion, it was great.

Scaring the straights was a bonus to the day, the real prize was sitting down and rescreening the kitchen window screen and the sliding glass door screen--that's where the heavier-duty metal screening went, the chickens sometimes jump and claw at the door when excited about a forthcoming goodie.

I can open my sliding glass door again without a stealthy feathery invasion, yay!

More Stuff...

The Plymouth has gleefully decided that it isn't going to let anyone enter on the passenger side anymore, thank you. Damned stubborn car. The push button on the outside of the door has been getting stickier and sticker, and today just made a very final-sounding, horrible grinding sound when I opened the door. It DID open, with much cussing, teeth-gritting and two-armed heaving on the door on my part. I think I bullied it into submission. Not easy to do with a 41 year old chunk of Detroit steel, but I did it.

But obviously, tomorrow's project: take apart the passenger door on the Fury and see what the heck is up in there, and fix it if I can. Not looking forward to taking the inner door panel off, when I removed them before to refinish the panels the plastic clips that keep them on were showing their age...I need to add 'replacement clips' to my never-ending list of impossible classic car parts to find/repair.

The kid managed to pull off the Spaghetti tree harvest trick on both a friend at school, her cousin, AND her grandmother today. *sniff* I'm so proud... I just made sure I took my little Chicken Drum (makes a VERY authentic chicken sound) around today, making it sound in inappropriate places and then carefully assuming a blank look when people started whipping around looking for a chicken at their feet. Great fun.

Went out tonight to drop off the kids' overnight stuff at grandma's since she's spending the night there, stopped at El Pollo Loco on the way back and narrowly escaped a HUGE blockade by the local police department--they had a major street blocked off for who-knows-what was going down. It looked like a major accident involving a whole slew of cars, though. Come to think of it, I also got to see one of my neighbors over by my daughter's elementary school being arrested first thing this morning when I was taking her in, too. He did NOT look happy.

On the way home tonight it was amusing to experience the mixture of Spring scents with people cranking up their fireplaces due to the cold snap we're having...

*Driving along with the top down, cold weather be damned*
'Ahh...flowers...'
*aroma of fajitas grilling*
'Orange blossoms...'
*fresh-cut grass smell*
'Ooooh, Night Blooming Jasmine!' (the scent of which is like sex and just melts me, thank you)
*FIREPLACE OUTTA NOWHERE!*

Yeah, really jarring when you are just floating along in a convertible enjoying a Spring evening.

I've Got A New Car! I've Got A New Car!

Yay!!

Well...OK, not really. But hey, when the odometer zeros out on a 41 year old Plymouth and it's still a faithful daily driver, you should celebrate somehow.

Duds!

Well, surprisingly, the 5 eggs we had under the broody mamas never hatched. So now we wait until the 26th to see what the incubator produces. I promised several of N.'s friends that they could come over and watch the hatch, which is always a fascinating process.

Meanwhile, Chicken Sister is STILL laying eggs, producing like a 2 year old hen! Sheesh...

And I have my Plymouth back again, yay! It still makes a ridiculous 'ftftftft' noise, which the mechanic tells me is the exhaust, so that fix will be in the near future, once I get a little money saved. But it now has a working gas gauge AND (thanks to a lucky, new-in-box online find) clock, which are both total luxuries that I've never had with this car before.

Now if I could find window weatherstrip for it, I could be dry during the rainy season, too! It's gettin' there...

The Plymouth Is Home!

After 63 days, the Plymouth is home again with a shiny rebuilt engine, among other things.

And the dash is back together.

Parts replaced/repaired:
Engine rebuilt, new hoses, oil, filter, plug wires, etc.
Thermostat
Engine mounts
Harmonic balancer
Heater core
Water pump
Carb rebuilt
Engine & engine compartment painted
Replaced dashboard voltage regulator
Replaced Fuel gauge
Repair/replace dash wiring
Replace turn signal cam
Install 4 speakers
Replace horn ring
Replace/repair temp control cable
Install new trunk, door locks
Replace ignition
Fix driver's side door (drifted closed & bit people)
Repaired/replaced tailpipe strap/bracket
Replaced pass side front grease cap

A few kinks though: the convertible top rear window glass hangs up on the rear seat speaker, so I need to either find one that fits the speaker well better, remove it or find a way to mount it on a diagonal so that it slips into the speaker well better. Also, the gas gauge, which worked at the shop when I picked up the car, had failed again by the time I got it home. The speedometer, which had been fine, is now twitching at speeds under about 25, and when I floored it in a long, empty stretch behind the local Target store, it only got up to about 20 MPH, when I KNOW I was going much faster than that. Sadly, the clock in the dash didn't revive, either. The new engine runs a bit rough and feels kinda strange, but that may be due to needing to be broken in. But all in all the car is vastly improved and I'm happy with it.

It's a bright spot in an otherwise really, REALLY shitty month.

The Engine Is Back From The Spa!

And it looks LOVELY!

A very pretty shiny piston!

The crank waits, still enrobed in cosmoline, for installation...

Because nothing is ever simple, other things besides the engine rebuild had to be done.
The work under the dash is proceeding, the wiring is nearly all done, the new ignition and locks are in, 2 of the 4 speakers are in, the turn indicator cam is installed. 

And I have to say, visiting your car mid-engine-rebuild and seeing it SO apart is a little like watching a family member have major surgery--disconcerting and disturbing, but you know it has to be done and ya just gotta trust.

Think this speaker is Blaukaput? :D

The engine compartment sports a fresh coat of black paint to protect it until waaaay down the road when the bodywork/paint stage is reached.

The Black Hole Of Calcutta!

The water pump, however...

...is officially toast. J. installed this thing about a year and a half ago. The engine was going through water like a mad thing, so we ended up topping off the radiator with plain water more often than we should have.

Use coolant, every time, kids!. The car is rounding the turn and coming into the home stretch...which is good, because I miss my car.

Grit Your Teeth, Here Goes

It has begun.  The engine rebuild.

From this:
*And please note tolerant but bemused husband giving me the fish eye over worrying and hyperventilating about my car going in for major surgery...

To this:

The Grand Canyon:

But wait--why stop THERE?! What about inside the car as well?

The dash looks too intact, let's FIX THAT!

AAGGGHHHH!!!

Well...that doesn't look so ba--


Oh.

I guess a burned wire on the clock would tend to interfere with it keeping time.

Old Iron

Sunday the 14th was the day of the Pomona Antique Auto Swap Meet, held numerous times each year. It is held at the Fairplex in Pomona, right next to the racetrack, and spans something on the order of 13 acres. It includes a vintage car show/sell area on one side, and people selling old car parts swap meet-style on the other. It is MASSIVE, to say the least.

I only scored three things for my '69 Plymouth this time: a set of curb feelers, a set of black armrests (Ruby will have a black interior when she is redone) and a 'Plymouth Fury' keyfob. I shall persevere in the hunt for replacement parts though, and I have if not high hopes, than at least reasonable ones. You see, as true muscle cars such as Road Runners & Barracudas (called A and B body cars) become more and more desirable, they will be subsequently priced right out of range for the average person. Also, as the A and B body cars become more popular, more businesses realize that there is LOTS of money to be had in making restoration parts--weatherstripping, carpet, door handles, etc.

That's were the lowly C bodies come in. People like me are turning to them, because that's what we can afford.

See, right now, many of the true muscle car enthusiasts sneer at C bodies. When you call these businesses to see about parts, you are told coldly, "That's a C body. We don't make parts for THOSE."

They will, as soon as they realize that hey--there's money to be made here!!! I can already see the tide turning, as more and more people are commenting to me (with some surprise in their voice), "You know, those C bodies are pretty nice cars, and they're getting more popular!"

The worm will turn, friends...

Meanwhile, I got many, many pictures of some VERY beautiful cars at the swap meet. Here's my favorite, a lovely blue Nomad:



Isn't it pretty? Beautiful blue, and the chrome shines, as a matter of fact the entire car shines--wait. What's that?


Ah--! I see, the owner has left a security guard!


"You touch my Nomad, I KEEEEELL YOU!!!"

Google Maps Street View, Here I Come!

Yesterday on the way to the dentist, I was bopping along the freeway in the Plymouth with the top down and realized that I was behind one of those TeleAtlas camera cars, the ones that take the constant photos for Google Maps Street View.

I'll have to check Google and see if N. and I made the cut in a few weeks or so.

Of course, I couldn't resist making a huge, sappy-happy :) face for the camera as we passed. Regardless, it gave me a giggle.

Minutiae and Majoriae (Is That A Word...?)

On the Major side: The top goes down on the Plymouth again!!! It required a trip to Convertible Specialists in San Gabriel and hanging out there almost three hours (my Carl Hiaasen book kept me entertained, as did peeking out into the shop at the other cool old cars there), but damn, all it needed was a proper charging of the hydraulic system, the top motor is in great shape! Turns out that a couple of air bubbles had escaped the attention of my mechanic (who told me up front he was not an expert at these things). Eventually the bubbles joined forces at some point and were enough to stop the top from going up. So the 38 year old convertible top motor lives. Go, Detroit steel! I've been running the top up and down practically non-stop over the last week to really test it, before I proceed with the next step...body plugs, carpet and PAINT! The upholstery and rechroming will have to wait for now, but J. got me some new quilted moving pads that I'm going to fit as seat covers, sew holes for the seat belts and add some grommets to tie the things down with. That'll work!

The other day N. and I had gone on a foray for my $100.00 shoes that I have to wear. I hate buying shoes, just like I hate buying tires. Very expensive and not fun. As we came out of the store and were getting into the car, I see out of the corner of my eye something odd--a drunken bum...on a scooter. One of those electric ride-on things. Humorously surreal, as it's around 10AM and he's cruising down the sidewalk in a decidedly wobbly manner, a can of beer clenched in his fist. He stops. Suddenly, he bellows, "MAN, I'D MARRY YOU JUST FOR YOUR CAR!" I make the mistake of laughing, and off he goes--apparantly, 'extra-damned-loud' is his normal volume level. And he's a big guy, so he can really YELL. He goes on and on about what a great car it is, how much he loves those old cars, yada, yada, yada... People a block away are turning their heads to see what all the damned hollering is about. Geez. As we drive away, N. says, "He was LOUD!" No kidding.

As far as the little stuff goes, tonight I opened the enclosed part of Ace the rabbits' hutch to check for eggs, since the hens LOVE to go in there. Not only are there eggs, but Sugar the Buff Laced Polish hen is in there, looking offended. She's a sweetie, so I reach in to pet her a bit and say hello. Damned if she didn't bite the heck out of me! Not just a little warning peck, either--a full on BITE! Didn't know she had it in her.

We took N. down to Huntington Beach yesterday. The conditions were a bit odd, what with the monsoon conditions coming up out of Mexico. The surf was a little bit higher than normal but was WAY fiercer than normal, too. Rip currents aplenty, and the lifeguards were out in full force. I took N. out into the surf about knee deep while J. stayed on the beach blanket. Every few minutes there'd be a wave that would come in MUCH farther and taller than the others, and it was amusing to see the people that had arrived on the beach and misread the waterline, placing their chairs and whatnot too close to the water. Surprise! Also entertaining were the 30-something Hispanic guys who had brought along a huge killer whale pool ride-on toy...their kids tried it out and quickly decided it didn't work in the waves (smart kids). Well, the DADS swaggered on out to the surf, laughable inflatable toy in hand. Their wives stayed in the beach chairs, watching...and you didn't even need to speak Spanish to understand what the ladies were telling the guys.

Sure enough, the macho men stuck that toy between their knees and ran out into the surf...which had pulled out a bit...remember those once-in-a-while huge waves?

Yeah.

Tumbling men! Everyone on the beach laughed.

By the way: beach showers are NOT for lounging in like you haven't had a wash in three weeks, especially when other people are stacked up 10 deep waiting for you to finally hose the sand out of your crotch and move along. The next time I see someone doing this I shall forcibly drag them out of the beach shower by one ear. Face it, you are never going to get all that sand out in a piddly beach shower anyway.

Also, kudos to the seagull who intercepted a Frisbee in mid-flight, thinking it was a slice of bread thrown into the air. One of the guys playing Frisbee had to hike down the beach a bit to retrieve it. We finally got out of there just as it started to rain--fat, warm, large tropical drops.

That night, around 11PM, long after N. was asleep, I heard a sudden commotion out front, banging and laughing. I opened the door to see what was going on...to see some guy on his hands and knees on TOP of the cab of J.'s truck. He's laughing and so are his buddies, who are dashing around in the street. Great, I figure, drunk teenagers. I call J., who had also heard the noise and was on his way out to see what it was. We both go out onto the porch, where J. asks the guy (a whole lot nicer than I would have) to get off his truck.

"Sorry man, a DOG chased me up here!" The kid calls back. Well--! That's about the last thing we expected to hear... His buddies have taken refuge in their car, where a tail wagging, smiling pit bull has them cornered. J. and I are laughing and J. goes out to see if the dog had tags (it didn't). The dog was perfectly friendly, the kid and his buddies obviously saw A PIT BULL OMG and freaked out. Once J. got out there and showed the kid it was harmless the kid climbed down, climbed into his friends' car and they split.

Life Is Outrunning Me

I hate it when that happens. Things are happening that I'm planning on, but before I'm ready for them.

My car needed work: brakes, transmission adjusted (annoyingly, it won't reliably go into 'park') and the ignition was refusing the key. Had to wait until N. was out of school and I could go without the car for a few days.

OK, so the thing spent three days lounging at the mechanics last week, because everyone else had the same idea. My mechanic is close to having a nervous breakdown, he's so busy. I need the car back so I can go and get new glasses, which I'm trying to schedule for next week.

Get the car back, and it's acting strange on the way home, although it's problems seem fixed. Later that day, I go out to the car...and my car radio is possessed--it scans through all the channels and won't stop, then it fades out and turns off. Restart the car, repeat weird radio problem. *sigh* Well, I knew that radio was on it's last legs, anyway. Start car to run errands...and it dies. Hmm. Go to restart it, and it's dead.

OK, now I'm getting annoyed. An electrical problem. I just GOT the thing back. I need it to be reliable and NOT strand me on some hot as Hell LA freeway in summer. I call the mechanic and he swears up and down that he didn't TOUCH the electrical system. I suspect he shorted something out. So J. gets out his volt meter and finds that the battery has a low charge, and it's dropping. The alternator (which is less than 6 months old) isn't charging the battery. We jump the car and get it back over to the mechanic. HE tests parts, and says both the alternator and voltage regulator are fried. So we take it back home and J. spends a couple of happy hours in the oppressive heat changing out the parts. Joy, it lives again. It still is acting funny though, so I think it has more surprises waiting in the wings.

So this morning I have a doctors' appointment, another tomorrow with a different doctor--I'm going to call the optometrist to make that appointment, but first I run out front to turn off the sprinkler. I get some water drops on my glasses so I grasp them to take them off so I can wipe them dry...

They fall in half in my hands.

*double sigh* I truck back into the house and dig up an old pair of glasses, which I'm wearing now and are a grand headache in the making. I call the optometrist...he only works on Wednesdays.

What's this Wednesday, kids? Fourth of July, yay!

He can't see me till NEXT week. Just once I'd like things to just HOLD OFF for a bit. I'm going to get them done, I swear! Gimme a break, for cri-yi!

No, But Thanks For The Ego Boost, Anyway...

I drive a 1969 Plymouth Fury III convertible.

Not a muscle car, but a beach cruiser/professional gasoline swallower. The other day I was walking away from my car after I'd parked it at a local shopping strip mall, when some guy in an SUV stops next to me as he's passing.

"HEY! Want to sell your car?"

Now, I'm not exaggerating when I say I get this ALL THE TIME. People stop me to ask, shout it across streets and parking lots, pull up at red lights, knock on my front door, leave notes, etc. The longing look in their eyes is downright amusing and they practically drool. Even my mechanic wants it, and he told me that in his research of my car, it's estimated value is around $30,000. I already knew this, as I'd done my own research long ago...but it was nice to hear from an independent source!

So anyway, I politely decline the guys' offer, coupled with a smile and my standard response of, "Sorry, it's my baby." Most people recognize that there is no chance of a sale and accept it graciously enough.

Not this guy, he's determined.

He's also not pulling away, and I stand there somewhat awkwardly, waiting for him to pass by so I can continue into the store.

"Aw, come ON! Are you sure you don't want to sell it?" *cue longing look* "It's an awful nice car, I love those..." *wistful look* Oh dear, another Fury fan. I can sympathize, I know that illness. I again decline, with an understanding smile.

Undeterred, he desperately begins rummaging in his glove compartment. "No, wait! I'll...I'll TRADE YOU! I can give you TWO fully restored Corvairs! I did them myself, it's a hobby..." He waves a fistfull of photographs. At this point he's attracted the frowning attention of a police officer, who is getting into his cruiser parked nearby.

Oh God, the guy loves Furys AND is a rabid auto hobbiest. He's now holding forth the fanned-out photos and has a hungry, pleading look in his eye. This is getting a bit weird, and I'm not about to approach some strange guy's car close enough to inspect the photos. The cops' stare is getting harder by the moment.

I still say no, but nicely, and wish him goodbye and good luck on his Corvairs, then step back a pace or two...I'm going to go around the back of his car and into the store that way. The cop shuts the door to his cruiser and prepares to walk over to the guy, who now has two cars waiting behind him.

Finally, to everyone's relief, the guy accepts defeat and goes on about his business. But I have to say, that's the best offer I've had for my car yet!

What Does THIS Mean...?

Today as I pulled up alongside a Cadillac hearse on Imperial Highway, I noticed that my car is both larger AND longer than a modern-day hearse. Are people getting smaller or are we just STILL getting the shaft on legroom, even in the Hereafter?

Note to self: Check trunk for Jimmy Hoffa.

Something Stupid...

..the ONLY kind of personal experiences I seem to have.

Today it was the car. I just had the transmission rebuilt on Ruby the Plymouth, and ever since I had gotten her back, I had noticed a slight--at first--hesitation on shifting into second gear (and then with that I-just-turned-on-the-afterburners kick), then she was lateshifting into third, at around 45 mph (normally around 35). Not a huge deal, but she hadn't been like that before. Call the mechanic, who says he may need to make an adjustment to the tranny, drive it for a bit and see. Today it's dramatically worse, she insisted on staying in first gear aaalllllll the way to N.'s elemetary school, which causes other drivers to look at you in weird ways. On the return trip home, she does get into third gear, but at 53 mph, thank you--way too late. Mechanic says OK, bring her in. I do so, and interestingly, the first thing he does is pop the hood (isn't the transmission housed elsewhere, somewhere darker and more greasy...?). Anyway, I start the car for him and pop out from behind the wheel just in time to see him take off the air cleaner housing, then make a face and step back a moment. I follow his eyes and see...

The large armature and spring that connects the carbuerator to the accelarator pedal dangling free!

Now, how in the HELL Ruby was even moving under her own power with that whateveritwas hanging there like that (don't know the technical name for that part, sorry), I don't know. To make matters worse, there was a good-sized bolt that went to a limiter on the carb lying on top of the valve covers, and the clip that held the armature and spring in placed has vanished. Once he reconnects this part (as I laugh, quite frankly) and fashions a new clip out of a metal chunk, the car runs like a freakin' top. Go figure.

All of this got me thinking--I rarely HAVE normal experiences with cars or other things such as injuries. This car previously had, in the middle of Nowhere, New Mexico, snapped a large spring in the carbuerator which caused the accelerator to stick in 'Oh Holy God FLOOR IT!' mode, which is quite thrilling when you are driving, thank you. Luckily J. was driving and manhandled it to the side of the road, engine roaring at full throttle all the while. He found a small hardware store and jury-rigged a replacement spring, which is still functioning to this day.

Then there was the Ford Mustang I used to own that one day, for no damned good reason (or so I thought at the time, it was actually planning ahead) decided that the welded piece of metal that holds the adjustable seat in place MUST BREAK, causing the drivers' seat to rocket back and forth like an E ticket ride at Disneyland at every minor movement. Driving was impossible, I actually had to have the thing towed home where a large C clamp was permanently installed, the piece that broke being a component of the frame (great design!). Six months later, when I went to lunch at work one day, I discovered, to my horror, that I couldn't get my seatbelt unfastened! The button refused to depress when pushed. The clasp/release button arrangement on the seat belt of this particular car (bucket seats) were down too low for me to see WHY the damned button wouldn't press.

Here's where the broken seat and C clamp thing comes back into the picture: since I am short, I drive with my car seat all the way forward so I can reach the pedals. The C clamp was holding the drivers' seat firmly in it's steely jaws...I couldn't move the seat back and so loosen the shoulder/lap belt combination to escape in that way! No cutting tools in the car, either. I would have gladly cut the damned belt in frustration, just for the pleasure of maiming the car.

I was well and truly trapped, and everyone else in the office was gone to lunch. I sat there for a moment, trying to figure out how in the hell I was going to ace my way out of THIS one without becoming an Amusing Office Story, even IF those heartless bastards would stop laughing long enough to free me.

I ended up driving over to my mechanic, who, lucky for me, just happened to be walking through his garage bays when I drove up. He waved as he walked by, then came over, puzzled by my frantic waving. Once I explained to him how I was trapped, he climbed into the passenger side of the car, peered into the clasp of the seatbelt, pulled a screwdriver out of his back pocket and used it to pop a penny out of the clasp! It had wedged itself perfectly behind the button so I couldn't press it. Couldn't have happened like that in a million years. I thanked him for saving my dignity but I saw he was grinning as I drove away. Oh well, I'd rather be an amusing story at his place than mine.

What about that personal injury thing? Glad you asked. One morning when I was in a hurry to get to work, I rewarmed my scrambled eggs in the microwave. Just for a few seconds, not too much.

OK, too much.

I took one bite and gave it half a chew (since you don't REALLY need to chew eggs) and swallowed. Fatal mistake. Ever swallowed lava?

I have.

It took it's sweet time going down, too. I drove to work later on anyway, but no amount of ibuprofen and sipping cold water all morning eased the considerable pain. I finally gave up and called my family doctor, who was nice enough to give me something for it. He DID laugh, which I did not begrudge him in the slightest.

When I was a kid it was stubbed toes, mostly because I insisted on going barefoot. Once I walked down the asphalt driveway to join my mom, who was leaning in a friends' car window, talking. Stub my right big toe. Retreat to the house for Big Fun with the methiolate bottle (read: battery acid for cuts) and band aids, then come back out to visit. Stub my OTHER big toe this time. Retreat in disgust back inside where it is carpeted and safe. My other thing was whacking my head on the large, crank-out windows of our house that the sidewalk leading the the garage and back yard passed under. I was juuuuust tall enough to crack my head on the damned things, but NOT tall enough to seem them in time. My dad even hung strands of red ribbon ("The color of the blood coming from your head!" He chirped.) from the corners of the windows, to no avail.

It's no different at work...need to open the cleaning supply closet? Well, then! The two brooms, dustmop and mop will have been leaning up against the door, waiting for ME to open it so they can leap out and suddenly pummel me on the head, in full view of three of my coworkers, while I flail about and try to defend myself/stuff the demonish things back in the closet in a Marx Brothersish frenzy.  That time I pulled a hat trick--THREE people laughing at me at once.

It's summer! Well then! Weather is nice, so I leave the front door of the apartment I was living in at the time open for a moment as I step outside to walk the three feet to the laundy room. When I come back with my laundry fresh from the dryer, I discover that an Alligator Lizard the size of Milwaukee is now standing in the middle of my living room, looking ill tempered and bitey (those damned things bite like nobody's business). I run to get a broom, but he resists all efforts to shoo him back out the front door and instead bites the broom briefly before dashing under the drapes. This, at least, gives me time to form Plan B, which involves my ironing board, my large foldable cutting mat I use for sewing and several cookie sheets pressed into service to form a Lizard Expressway. Surprisingly, between the Rube Goldberg contraption, my by-now determined broom (I've wasted enough time on Lizard Boy, already!) and a bored Alligator Lizard, it works and he is funneled back to the great outdoors, where he is no doubt looking for a small child to bite.

It's Christmas! Been tirelessly wrapping gifts, and down to the very last one? Well then! As I stick the last bit of ribbon in place and stick down the bow, I sigh, "That's it, I'm done!" The word 'done' has scarcely left my lips and is still hanging in the air when the ribbon on the package springs apart with an audible "thoing!, flinging the bow across the room for good measure. I sit there and stare at it bemusedly at J. doubles over, laughing, on the couch.

So now I reflect on how it's ALWAYS Something Stupid, and now that SONG by the same title is stuck in my head...at least it's a great rendition, performed by The Mavericks and Nancy Sinatra.

*sigh* I shudder to think what Fate has in store for me next...

Grrr...

...and so NOW the Plymouth has decided that today--oh yes, it must be TODAY is the day for a new transmission.

She decided this, considerately enough, AFTER I had parked at N.'s school to pick her up. When I got us all strapped in and ready to go home, there was an ominous 'bang' when I put the car in reverse--almost as if someone had hit my bumper--and the car wouldn't move. When I looked in my rearview mirror and saw no other cars around, my heart sank, and I had a sneaking suspicion that this was going to be expensive.

It will be, never fear.

My mechanic tells me, though, that he is currently looking for a 1969-70 convertible for himself, and was shocked at the price of even fixer-upper Camaros and GTOs. I told him he couldn't have picked more popular cars--heck, everyone wants a Goat, for cri-yi! He told me that my car was well worth repairing, since it is very rare and worth (even in it's present seen-better-days condition), around $30,000 to $40,000 dollars. I had recently learned this so it was no surprise, but it was nice that someone else praised my (accidental) automotive accumen.

Especially since it's currently sucking my purse dry in huge gulps...

She's Coming Into Focus!

 NOW--! Here she is with the new top!

After 6 days at the shop, Ruby is home with a beautiful new top! Since nothing is ever simple--especially with old cars--once my mechanic had taken the old top off, a new set of hitherto unknown problems surfaced. The wooden (yeeeeees, wooden) tack strip that the top attaches to above the back window was crumbling and needed to be repaired, the top pads that protect the top from rubbing against the metal frame were shot, and the metal frame for the top was rusting in spots and needed scraping and repainting. Since I don't intend to do this anytime again soon, NOW was the time to get it all done in one fell swoop.

My mechanic said he hadn't done a convertible top in many years but he was game if I was, so I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth, crossed my fingers and said, "Go ahead...". He and his three other guys swarmed all over the thing for 6 days and did a beautiful job. He did call me down to show me the newly discovered problems partway through, and it is really disconcerting to see your car taken so completely apart--no seats, no top, no convertible frame.

It was also discovered that the hydraulic pump that raises and lowers the top needed possible rebuilding. We were unsure of it's condition because it had sat for so long without hydraulic fluid in it and the seals had dried out. Once he got it back together and refilled, I discovered that it was working perfectly, and I got to drive around with THE TOP DOWN! The car was turning heads again, this time for all the right reasons.

For about a week.

Then...well, things started to get hiccupy and reluctant. The last time we put the top down we very nearly didn't get it raised again, and then only with J. manhandling it into position while I held down the control button. So for now the top is up to stay, until I can save the money to have the top motor rebuilt. *sigh* It's always something...at least we found a place up in San Gabriel to rebuild the motor.

N. loves to ride in it and is constantly asking for the top down, and to her the best part was when we went for a drive just after dark one warm evening...the breeze, the lights--it was just magic for her. She has also taken a liking to my George Harrison tape and keeps asking to hear 'Blow Away' over and over again.

So next will be the top motor rebuild, then paint--I'm pretty sure Ruby will return to her original Marine blue color--then upholstery and carpet. This is going to stretch out for a while, since all of these cost serious money, except for the carpet which curiously enough is only going to run about $135.00 and is readily available. Plus the carpet is easy to install and can be done by us in an hour or two without major disassembly of the car.

I can't beleive what a boost being able to put the top down on the car again has given me. It reminded me once again of why I bought the car in the first place, that instant falling-in-love feeling. I know it's dorky but I can't help it.

It's Got...Potential...

...that's the polite way to phrase it. In blunter terms, it's The WhiteTrashmobile. I'm referring to my car. Here's my horror story for Halloween:

That's right, my own car. My preferred mode of transportation, personally chosen BY me in 1992 and driven daily (well, almost) since.

By way of explanation, I have to tell you that my car is a 1969 Plymouth Fury III convertible. No, NOT a muscle car. I laugh at muscle cars, muscle cars are far too easy to find parts for. It is nearly impossible to find parts for my 36 year old car. Leave it to dumb ol' me to fall in love with it. No, mine is what is called a 'C Body', which translates to 'Land Barge'. It sports a twenty four gallon gas tank, is nearly 9 feet wide and 20 feet long.

I get my money's worth at parking meters.

What I DO love about this car is that it handles like a dream, has a surprisingly tight turn radius, runs like a champ (and the faster you go, the smoother it runs) and I can SEE out of it. Since I am short this is a major plus. This car cried out to be named, as some cars do--her name is Ruby.

Besides, Ruby is just plain cool. When I first bought her in 1992, she had been freshly sold to a man who soon discovered that this was NOT the car to drive from his home in Fountain Valley to work in Long Beach, it was eating him alive in gas money. HE had bought it from the family of the original owner, who purchased it in North Hollywood in 1969. The first owner had obviously loved the car and taken very good care of it. So when it came to me it was in pretty darned good shape, and had a brand new convertible top.

Fast forward to 2005.....brace yourself, here's how she looks now:

 OK, so not too bad. You'd think. Until you see another picture from a different angle, which more clearly shows the 13 year old vinyl top:

Oh, dear. Tape? Can that really be TAPE?! Why yes, yes it is. Ohsoshiney, silvery, reflective tape. Wait. It gets worse. Let's move in closer, shall we?

 Ahhhh....yes....lovely, isn't it? Notice the hopelessly fogged over elcrapo plastic window, impervious even to Superman's vision. The loose bits of tape flutter nicely in the breeze, thank you. Hold on to your hats though, it gets even better:

 The crowning glory: A black trash bag. There is, at least, an amusing story to the trash bag.

It's patching a large, cat-sized hole.

Yup, one morning we went out and found this enormous hole, which at first I thought was someone either vandalising the car or one of the neigbors making a none-too-subtle point. Not true, as the muddy pawprints that vanished, skidding, into the opening professed. The no doubt mortified kitty was long gone. As I stood there looking at this, J. turned to me and said, "I would have paid cash money to see that happen..." So would I, so would I.

Next photo! Let's look inside, shall we? Cause as nice as this is on the OUTSIDE, the INSIDE must really scream 'class'...

That green bit in the middle is the sky! N. is now officially embarassed to be seen at school climbing into this car. She doesn't have it too bad though, because here's MY seat:

 Let us, mercifully, end this tour by viewing the passenger side, exterior:

Now if you saw this coming into your lane on the freeway, you'd move, right? Because obviously whoever drives this...this...thing can't possibly care if it takes any further damage.

I practically get the road to myself these days.

My mechanic, when I pulled into his garage area today to have this disgrace of a top replaced, actually laughed so loud I could hear him from inside the car--admittedly, not too tough with the overhead cat door--and yelled out, "Hey, you think you got enough tape on there?"

I told him I thought I had pretty much gotten my money's worth out of the thing.

So this evening Ruby sits, hogging TWO of his garage bays, while his guys remove the old top and fit the new one on, complete with GLASS back window. I'll post more pictures of the finished product in a few days, as long as nothing ELSE goes wrong. I just HAD to get pictures of Ruby at her worst, poor thing...

Next: Upholstery, carpet, and paint. Ruby, who was originally a pretty shade of Marine Blue, is trying to be blue AGAIN in many places, as the cheapo Earl Scheib special paint job wears away, which only serves to make her look like a giant, rolling bruise.

Onward!