1:03 p.m. - 2006-08-11
gooski and the rusty wheel well or whatever
This afternoon Kevin and I applied for our marriage license. It's weird to use the word "apply" because that makes it sound like you have to convince someone to like let you get married by showing that you would be good together. Like you have to submit an essay along the lines of "Why we probably won't get divorced" or something.
The security ladies at the city/county building were strangely friendly. As soon as they saw us they said "Ya'll here for Marriage License" We grinned and said "Yup." They were like "Oh, we can tell! Aw....good luck." And so on.
Then we had to go in and fill out some paper work and confirm that we are not "related by blood." Then we had to raise our right hand and swear we were telling the truth. That was a little weird.
This was all conducted by a girl who had a voice like Minnie Mouse, was wearing jean shorts and appeared to be about 20 years old.
Outside the city/county building, which is in the middle of downtown, they sell fudge and tomatoes and homemade honey and soap. There were a lot of people shopping there. Like a little farmer's market. In Seattle this would seem normal. It just seemed out of place in Pittsburgh. Like, that's usually where the homeless people and crackheads (who are also often homeless) congregate. Maybe that's why they put a farmer's market there. So happy couples shining with almost-wedded bliss and angry couples shining with almost divorced relief don't have to be intercepted and posed with "Can you help me out today folks? All I need is 50 cents to catch the bus home tonight..."
So my dad and Kevin have spent a sizable chunk of the last week diagnosing and taking apart and putting back together and replacing parts of my car that has been making a noise similar to what it might sound like if I were, say, dragging a medium size tree behind down the road.
I've spent a lot of time at Kevin's house peering out the window, through the curtains at one or both of them hunched over, squinting up under the back passenger-side tire, twisting this, turning that, muttering things like "You BASTARD....Son of a BITCH." Not to each other. This is how you address a car that is not cooperating.
This is all the more amusing because of Gooski, the stray cat we adopted, who now lives outside because he very purposely and indignantly peed on the carpet right in front of us. All the while this manly grunting, strong-arming, tool using an dcursing goes on, this tiny little black and white cat is shoving his dainty little nose in whatever he can. AND YOU CAN NOT STOP HIM. He does not respond to shooing, yelling, or even a firm shove. He wants his face in your face, between you and whatever nut, bolt, hub, nub, whatever you're trying to do something to. And he doesn't move quickly, so you often either step on him or almost step on him.
This went on for hours. Days. Over a week. It cost about 4 trips to the auto parts store, at least 15 phone conversations, and about 200 dollars. The noise would stop. Then come back. Then get exponentially worse.
Yesterday, we finally took it to a mechanic. Today we got the call. It will cost ten dollars to fix.
Lesson: It might be easier to take the car to the mechanic the first time, but the bonding that occurs between your father and fiance in this whole process is priceless. Someone call Mastercard's ad agency.
