Mechanic School ’09.

This morning I struck out on my Sunday morning ritual. This consists of waking up at 8:00, donning clothes deemed appropriate for the general public, and moving my car. Due to Saturday night traffic on the plaza, it has become a necessity–in the name of saving time and gas–to park in the parking garage on the next block over. Then, in my stealth ways, I move the car in the early morning so as to avoid getting caught–and getting a parking ticket. On this particular morning, however, my seven-minute ritual had other obstacles in mind.

I got a parking ticket. I.e., they finally caught on, and I thus added another to my ever-increasing parking-citation record in the files of the lovely plaza rent-a-cops. The key to remember here, however, is that these tickets aren’t on my real record that is stored in the metal cabinets down at the local station. (That record, it should be noted, holds only one parking ticket. And two cases of breaking-and-entering, both of those having been committed by a third and/or fourth party and having resulted in window replacements, to say the least.)

Thank you, Barney Fife. You never cease to stay true to yourself.

Moving my car to a free-parking zone was of no big consequence. Getting out of the car, however, proved to be quite the experience. In a phrase, my door handle broke. I pulled the handle and pieces cracked. Pieces fell. Pieces now stick out in ways that can only be looked at through a few perspectives, some of which being extremely inappropriate for more than one reason.

Lucky for me, I took a course in auto repair. Fixing this problem has a variety of solutions. I can (1) crawl out the passenger side each time I want out of the car, or (2) roll down my window, reach out of the window and open the door from the outside, roll the window back up, and then turn off the car. (Note: Tests prove solution number 2 to be the most efficient; much to my surprise.)

And the rest of my Sunday morning ritual? Spending a dollar fifty on a Sunday paper at the street corner vendor, which is then perused during breakfast. Yes, I’m aware–I’m old at heart.

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