Old Red

Have I mentioned yet that I drive 80 miles to work each day? Well, I do: 40 up and 40 back. Five days a week. Good thing I've got Big Red! Someone once told me (or, come to think of it, several people have often told me ... and it might even appear in the Bible) that it's wrong to love an inanimate object. To those people, I say this: Mind your own goddamn business. Big Red and I will be celebrating our twelfth anniversary in February. Can you say the same?

Sure. We have our squabbles. Like, sometimes, Big Red spontaneously (and violently) flips on the windshield wipers just to scare the shit out of me. Or, on occasion, it inappropriately shifts gears, tossing me around in my seat like a rag doll, leaving me fearful that I will be stranded along the mostly deserted freeway in the middle of the night. And, yes, I'll admit it: I sometimes resort to name-calling. "Christine!" I shout, referencing Stephen King's evil-spirit-possessed Mustang, "I'm taking you to the junkyard if you don't knock it the hell off!"

But, honestly, it's nothing we can't work out.

I suspect that Big Red worries about a younger model catching my eye. But that's just not gonna happen. Those new-fangled, blue-tinted lasers they're calling headlights these days are the bane of my existence. They're downright counter-intuitive. That's what I say. The whole point of headlights is for the driver to have a better, clearer view. It's all about safety. But these lasers are positively (and I mean that negatively) blinding to other drivers. Tonight, in fact, I nearly ran off the road when a laser-equipped sedan sped up behind me in the fast lane. The reflection in my rear view mirror is now forever burned onto my retinas. At the same time, I can see (around the new dark spots in my field of vision) why people like to purchase cars with lights like these. Once I flipped my mirror down and could almost see again, the laser lights from the car behind me shone the way for what seemed like miles.

Big Red's lights are dim and clouded with age, much like an elderly person suffering from cataracts. I've started to think of it as Old Red. You know, like Old Yeller ... but without all the heartbreaking tragedy. That's the best thing about loving an object: The chances of it contracting rabies are slim to none. I'll never have to take a shotgun to my beloved Big Red to spare it the misery of an agonizing death. Yeah, that's a big plus.

Anyway, in case any of you were wondering what to get us, I understand that silk/linen is the traditional gift for the twelfth anniversary. Hmm. I'm thinkin' ... silk seat-covers? A linen window shade or floor mats? Really, you can be as creative as you want. It's the thought that counts.

Pet Peeve of the Day:
I was going to say those blue-tinted lasers that pass for headlights on new cars ... but never mind. Um. Oh! I know. Every one of my (admittedly awesome) co-workers seems to have some kind of negative opinion about my lunch-time Cup O'Noodles. Yes, I know they contain more sodium than the Dead Sea. Yes, I realize the potential dangers of Styrofoam chemicals. Yes, I'm feeling okay. But, people, 27 cents. Need I say more? On the bright side, these same opinionated co-workers are concerned enough about my health that they have started bringing me home-cooked meals that I can defrost on my desk all day and eat when I get home. Just this evening, I enjoyed a pot of minestrone soup made by Megan, one of our senior engineers. That girl is amazing! Not only can she cook like Martha Stewart, she's a whiz with code. Tomorrow night, I might go over to Angelica's house so that her husband can cook me a fabulous Japanese dinner. He might not speak a word of English, but that guy has a real passion for the culinary arts. Mere days ago, Scurvy and Rickets were a real threat. High-tech publishing has changed all that. Nothing warms the heart like co-workers who don't want you to die. Even so, I wish they'd stop criticizing my Cup O'Noodles.