Our Day with the Car

We thought about going to Memphis. Well, I thought about going to Memphis. I think Mrs. Wigglebottom thought we were going to the park.

Instead, we got off at the first exit across the Tennessee River and headed south. Eventually, we ran into Shiloh, which was nice, because, not only did I see a street sign with my name on it (though I did not take it), the battlefield was free today.

So, Mrs. Wigglebottom and I found an out of the way spot to put the car and then we walked around reading signs and sniffing and peeing on things. In case any of my Southern readers are concerned, I don’t believe we peed on any of your dead folks, but, if we did, let’s just assume they enjoyed seeing a dog and a woman, instead of only sobbing old men from Missouri, who seemed to be the only other people in the park.

I’m not knocking crying over tragic deaths. I’m just saying that, after a century and a half, I bet the dead folks like to occassionally have a cute dog come by and sniff around the trench their remains are piled in.

For those of you who’ve never been to Shiloh, it’s really something to see. I’m always especially moved by the Iowa monument, which is a big stone looking thingy with a statue of a woman on one side who is writing something which I should have bothered to remember on the side. Ha, that’s a ringing endorsement, but really, it’s very cool.

Then we were trying to decide if we were going to go to Mississippi, but decided against it, since we didn’t have any of the CDs we wanted with us. I don’t know what made that the deciding factor, but it was.

We meandered east until we hit the Natchez Trace Parkway and wandered up it. We saw this enormous turkey vulture that seemed to be just hanging in the sky, the circles it was making were so slow.

And I can’t remember what else we saw, but it felt good to be out and around.

The Butcher is Changing My Oil

Mrs. Wigglebottom and I are both alternating between standing anxiously at the door and trying not to watch as the Butcher tries to find a way to park the car over a rut so that the car is secure and he can get under it.

America, I know this is the kind of thing that people do all the time–change their own oil. My dad used to change the oil on our cars all the time when I was little. I loved to stand in the garage and wait for him to say things like “Hand me the Phillips screwdriver.” And the Butcher often assisted as well. Plus, he’s a man, so he’s got that oil-changing gene*.

But my dad never decided to sit around on Saturday so long that all the oil change places closed before he got out to them, went to work, and then decided at 10 o’clock while standing in Walmart that he could just do it himself.

Which makes it a little different. Plus, the Butcher just came in and said, “You might want to google ‘How to Change the Oil on a 2003 Stratus’ because I’m not sure which is the oil tank and I don’t want to unscrew the wrong thing.”

Should I throw on some clothes and go help? Will he resent that I’m butting in? If he breaks my car, we’re royally screwed.

And, if he breaks my car, Mrs. Wigglebottom and I cannot go on our exciting adventure, which I have been waiting for for weeks.

Finally, the Butcher has a day off when I have a day off and I want to get in the car and go.

Oh, well, folks, there’s our answer. The Butcher has decided NOT to change the oil, because he can’t figure out what he’s doing. I have decided to go for my car ride anyway, as we’ve looked at the oil that’s in the car and it’s still thick and oily looking.

So, I’m off for the day. If I’m not back in time for the Superbowl, I chose poorly when I chose to get in the car and go**.

*Ha, I threw that in there just to make the folks from Vox Day feel more at home.
**It seems to me that a couple of you at least are saying to yourselves, “Well, god damn, B., that ‘every 3000 miles’ isn’t set in stone. You could probably take it up to 7,500 and not hurt anything if you didn’t do it regularly.” to which I say, “Hush.” I love to worry. Don’t take that from me.