I refer to my last post, that of this morning, the one that asks why my post was blocked as "inappropriate" at the Thom Hartmann web site. As it turns out, it wasn't a glitch. It wasn't censorship, either. It was the word pornographic. They've decided, because the word contains the modifier, porn, it will not be allowed—somebody might be trying to post a link to a pornography site. So now, with my edit that has the word as xxography, my post was allowed. Huh? Brilliant, guys.
Well, I'm glad it wasn't a technical glitch. I've had enough of those lately. For example, one day last week I got in my car, put on my seat belt, turned on the engine, locked myself in and started to back down the driveway, when holy-hell of hells, a clattering arose like I've never in my life ever heard before, and it wasn't raindeer on my roof, though it could have been. Immediately my mind went to the fascist who lives next door—what the hell did he put in my gas tank? The guy is just the type, with his American Flag and the cigarette butts he and his biker friend toss all over my driveway...
So, my embarrassment —no, grudging paranoia— in tow, I drove clattering away down to Pep Boys. It didn't take the mechanic long to figure it out—the door lock on the driver's side is corroded, or something, but somehow that affects each and every lock on each and every door (4), which means that unless the lock device is in exactly the middle position, the damn thing goes bonkers, like a hail of gravel on my roof. The mechanic showed me how to make it stop and didn't suggest a repair; so, fine with me—I'll just drive around unlocked. At least it will be quiet.
Not so fast. On Friday I went over to the Vons Shopping center to drop of my Netflix mailer. I parked. I got out of the car without my purse —it was only a drop off, for heaven's sake— and, not thinking, locked the car with my remote key thingy. All well and good. Problem was, when I returned and tried to open the car door with my remote key thingy, as is my habit, the door wouldn't open! The lock wouldn't respond! There I was in my habituated mind-set at a loss as to what to do—no money, no purse, oh no! So I'm standing there looking like a complete dunderhead, after trying this and that, popping the trunk (the seats were locked in position there too), when a man who was parked behind me sitting in his driver's seat, and who apparently had been watching my entire, idiot performance, calmly rolled down his window and said, "You might just try your key in the lock..."
Duh. Of course, that was the correct answer, and so I was able to open the car door and drive off to visit at my son's place, but only after sheepishly thanking the nice man for his gallant rescue.
Not so fast. After arriving safe, sound and quiet at my son's place, I made the same bloody mistake—locked the car with the damn key thingy. But this time the thing started clattering again. But wait! I knew what to do, right?—open the door with my key!
Not so fast. That was when the key wouldn't go in, and that was when the alarm honk kicked in. Great. There I was standing in my son's Rancho Penasquitos, quiet, well manicured neighborhood with a honking car —the loudest honk you've ever heard. Well, I don't know what I did, but, after many a panicked attempt, it finally stopped. As I gathered up my stuff and my withering self-esteem, I walked down the sidewalk toward my son's house—just as one of his neighbors was backing out her driveway, giving me a look, like, "Go away, insane woman with your late-model heap..."
My temperamental car lock, where the mechanism has to be in just the right spot, reminds me of one of Stephanie Miller's favorite mini-jokes: What is sex like with an optometrist? "Is that better now, or worse now; better now, or worse now..."