When Life Hands You Lemons

Maybe “You wanted a green one” won’t be the answer I get when I ask God why I smashed up my brown Altima at the beginning of this month. I don’t know. The verdict is still out.

I have no idea what book it was, but I do have this recollection of a frog in a children’s story when I was too young to read to myself yet, which said something like, “Chugarug, chugarug.” (Bonus points to whomever actually knows what book that is. What are bonus points good for? Well, they raise you in my esteem, which should be just about as good as sliced bread. Right?) Anyway, Kermit the Green Altima has been making a noise rather like that ever since I brought him home. Possibly I shouldn’t have named him Kermit, but it’s too late now: Mark-the-Plow-Guy and TAG and numerous other facebook friends are already, apparently, on a first-name basis with him. (Meanwhile, many of the same people are calling me “Crash.” I probably shouldn’t tell you that.)

Wednesday evening, therefore, if the downgraded storm we were supposed to get then actually stays downgraded, I shall be driving Kermit back up to his dealership for an appointment on Thursday. I’m hopeful that they can sort him out and I can take him back home, but what if he’s a lemon and I have to go back to square one? I’m in a much better mood than I was about a week ago, but I’m getting really tired of dealing with cars. I may just make good on my threat and re-re-locate to London, where I can walk or take the Tube everywhere.

P.S. Has anybody noticed that I am starting to develop my own Sesame Street? I now have an Oscar and a Kermit . . .

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