Friday, 26 Aug, 2016. In the local bodyshop getting my car inspected according to Virginia state DMV standards. Hopefully, the sugar ants that have taken up residence in the floormats this week will not point directly to my neglectful care (of the interior; the exterior is dusty but fine).
Yesterday, signed up for a VA drivers license at the DMV in town. (Read: Charlottesville.) Not an awful two hours there. Read a book; eavesdropped on Christian fundamentalists sitting directly behind me – they had a lot to say about a lot of things, much of which was eye-poppingly racist, small-minded, ignorant and, this part is the kicker, really loud! Like keep-that-hate mongering-to-yourself loud. I expected someone to school them in current affairs and how the world speaks these days, but no one said a thing. I was embarrassed to be white, sitting there in front the loud lady’s know-it-all warped godspeak, and I was glad to know better.
Today, got there earlier and registered my car, new plates ordered and all, which brings me here: Mechanic Mancave.
Imagine that manfriend/housemate probably drools every time he’s here for an oil change or tune-up. I bet he breaks stuff on his car JUST to come here and hangout. Heck, I’m drooling just sitting here – all vacuumed and snazzed up with automotive coolness and hunting magazines everywhere. Boy dorm room grows up. Way up.
How cool is this? (Bad shot of old gas pump.)
So, Friday. End of week two. Things are nice, good, even. Had a couple bumps on the path but nothing we can’t handle. He’s working crazy harvest hours; I’m finished phase I training at New Job and my workbrain has not been this happy in a long time. It’s about to get busy for both of us.
*While writing this, the lead fellow asks if I want the NY dealer frames around my temporary plates (“…we are in Virginia, after all…”) and if I want the NY registration sticker (“…might be able to get a prorated refund.”) When I roll out of here, no NY on my car except for DD’s high school mascot, a trimmed Blue Devil window cling, center rear window. Ten minutes later, the assistant gearhead hands me the old registration sticker and the beat up, blue and white NY plates and it is everything I can do not to fall to pieces in this testosterone den. Don’t go in reverse here, it’ll ruin your tires.
The moving truck finally comes early tomorrow with all my stuff. (Correction: 96% of my stuff. Still need to go back to NY and empty the house of small things, unwanted things, ghosts of that chapter.) While moving here is going well, I think, I’m not ready to see the vacant house, again, even though putting that to bed would be freeing.
Choosing to go takes effort. So does choosing to stay.
I will get there and I will come back.
The car is ready, paper tags, new inspection. It passed.
And so will I.