Jenna's House of Idiosyncrasies Version 10.0 [Focus.]

I am a little late with this this year, but it remains an important Christmas Eve tradition. Read More »

It feels like an eternity, but it is has been just weeks since I lost my dog, Ginger. The whole family lost her, actually, but more than any other pet I've had, I really felt like Ginger belonged to me. I belonged to her.

Ginger, March 30, 1996 - May 5, 2010

Since I moved back to my parent's house in Winder, Ginger became primarily my responsibility. In the beginning, it just meant making sure she was fed and spending a little time with her each day. Last summer, it meant bringing her inside in the afternoons and letting her sleep or pace around my room while I worked, so she could get a break from the heat and I could have a little company. Soon after that it meant anticipating when she needed to go out, and cleaning up after her when I missed the window. I cleaned up after her a lot, and so did my parents.

Ginger started getting stuck in the bushes and groves of bamboo scattered around the yard, and I had to go out at all hours, from early in the morning to after midnight, to untangle her from whatever briar she'd gotten herself snagged in. This started happening several times every week. She'd bark and bark until I went to get her out, over time I became tuned in to that bark, so I could hear it even when I had the TV or loud music on. Read More »

Three weeks ago my 27th birthday came and went. I had a marker post planned for that time, all full of longing and regret for time gone by. A few histrionic sentences about how though I've reached the same ephemeral age as every member of the 27 Club, I'll just be another year older by this time next year and will have probably accomplished little.

I may still write that post eventually, but so far this year I haven't had time to dwell on my lack of artistic genius. On my birthday, my paternal grandfather—the only one I have ever known—had to go into the hospital. His cascade of problems started with a case of pneumonia, and finally progressed to him losing a leg. A leg. It was just a lack of oxygen that landed him in the hospital in the first place, and just over two weeks later, he'd undergone an above-the-knee amputation. Amputation. I can't stop wiggling my own fingers and toes, wondering what it's like when your toes are suddenly no longer there to wiggle, wondering where that leg is, previously flesh, bone and titanium that was a part of my grandfather, now medical waste somewhere, somehow not a part of my grandfather. Read More »

On Friday my Dad invited me to dinner in Winder in honor of my grandfather's birthday. I walked to my downtown parking spot straight from work and hit The Loop™ on my way to 316. I was cruising along, jamming to a random shuffle on the iPod when the car jolted several times. Speed up, shudder, slow, speed up. Russo (my Honda) was throwing himself in and out of Sports Drive (or Super Drive, or Over drive, depending on your own car's make and model. There are probably half a dozen more names).

I can tell you than randomly accelerating and decelerating, jolting forward at haphazard intervals while all the time wondering if your brakes still work, is not my idea of a good time. Determined not to be stranded on the side of the road, I got off and parked at a gas station, taking great care to not hit anyone with my car that had a will of it's own.

I called Dad. He told me to check my transmission fluid. I had absolutely no idea how to do this. I pulled the Honda repair manual from my trunk and consulted it. It contained lots of words that are new to me like “transaxle”. It told me the dipstick for the “transaxle” fluid should be on the passenger side of the engine. I looked and looked but I was so not finding it. Dad volunteered to come rescue me, at which point, any pretense of getting to eat with my grandfather was given up.

While I waited for Dad to show, three young men parked near me and got out, asking if I needed any help.

Exasperated, I laid it down for them, “Well, actually, I'm having a really dumb problem. I'm trying to check my transmission fluid and I can't find where I'm supposed to check it.”

The three of them volunteered to take a look. I was sure I was about to be shown up by men and their useful vehicle knowledge.

They proceeded to spend the next ten minutes searching under my hood for the spot. They couldn't find it either. About seven minutes into it, I exclaimed, “I am so happy I'm not the only one who can't find this!”

They all gave me good natured looks-as-if-our-manhood-has-been-threatened nods and smiles. Then one of them had a eureka moment, reached down into the bowels of the engine and retrieved the dipstick, something I was not able to do later without burning my hand on the still-hot engine.

Even though they claimed to know nothing about cars, two of them accompanied me inside the store to search for transmission fluid. Finding nothing of any use, we all walked back outside, where the most attractive of the three advised me the his “daddy refuses to work on those sideways motors.”, indicating something about my car that I myself had just learned—the engine is set left to right instead of the standard and predictable front to back position. “He's all American.”

“That's pretty funny.”

“I don't know what to tell you.” He grinned. “Buy a Chevy.”

I laughed, and thanked them for their time.

Dad arrived, and after a brief diagnostic in which we discovered, among other things, that I was low on oil, he drove me over to Wal-mart where I purchased fuel injector cleaner, oil, and very expensive transmission treatment ($10!). We then drove back over and applied these various treatments.

I don't know exactly which fluid hit Russo's sweet spot, but in any case, where he was indecisive and uncooperative before, he was now a smooth operator. Fluids in every orifice brought back his stamina, and he was happy and sated. Through, after all that he did have a little trouble getting going again. Russo's pick-up hasn't been the same since. He now needs lots of extra encouragement, like he's self-conscious after being all probed and explored.

I will say that this experience has informed me that I am indeed the girl who doesn't take care of her car. I kept meaning to do all the check-up type things that would have prevented this whole episode, but I just let it slip my mind while I worried about make up and boys.

I course, had I done all the check-up type things, I wouldn't have had the more salacious experience of learning all about what Russo has under his hood.

I finally found a station with a west coast feed of Loveline.

You have no idea how happy this makes me.

Today was okay. Work, followed by some work. Then I came home and watched the original version of Ocean's Eleven with the little ones.

Then I told them all about my grandfather's obsession with spraypainting everything.

His shoes.

His garden statuary.

The doors inside his house.

His '69 Impala.

(maybe I forgot the Impala?)

I raise my rock hands in salute to the Abinator!

Goodnight.

As you might have guessed, one of my presents was a cute new digicam.