Cat-a-strophic

A few more “Moving to Kansas” stories:

Two weeks ago, Aaron and I drove down to Kansas City with more of our belongings, somewhat begrudgingly relocating in hopes of better opportunity in a larger city. I have spent a lot of time down here and a lot of time job hunting, praying that I’ll find something that I can call a career. So far, the prospect has been bleak, so, to insure that at least one of us has a job and, therefore, money to make the car payment, Aaron has decided to transfer his retail position rather than try to find something completely new. Bless his heart. As we sailed through many an amber-wave-of-grain, my check-engine light decides to turn on as the car downshifts to pass the world’s slowest-moving pickup. Naturally, I become scared beyond all reason, and here’s why:

Once upon a time, I decided it was time to grow up and get my own car, so I trade in my nice chocolate brown Chevy Impala for a neighbor’s semi-used Lexus (yeah, I said Lexus) SUV-ish thing. Within a month of driving said luxury vehicle, strange things start happening. First and foremost, all of my money was going into fueling it. Accustomed to the bottomless gas tank of a new, fuel-efficient car, I couldn’t believe I was paying over $60 a week to back in and out of my parking spot. Little did I know, things were to only get worse from there. What I can only imagine was immediately after another expensive re-fueling, I drive headlong into the night for North Liberty with my soon-to-be husband and our friend, Jarren. All Jarren had to say was, “Oh! That was a hard shift,” for everything to fall apart. By the time we returned the Lexus was barely with us. Over the next few days, its ability to change gears lessened and lessened, jerking violently with every attempt. It finally decided to nix the driving habit completely while I was on Interstate 80, headed home. It wouldn’t accelerate or change gears, I was sure it would slow down, but I was on the Interstate and didn’t exactly want to do that. I called my mother to say goodbye and cried hysterically the entire way home. Then I called boyfriend Aaron to come console me and drive me around. This, to the less than car-savvy, is what happens when your transmission dies. A few thousand dollars and months later, the car has a new transmission, and I feel phantom jerkiness and engine problems every time I drive. I quickly traded it in for a Ford 500, swearing that if I ever had car problems again, I’d sell it and walk.

So, after the slight jostle of downshift and the sudden and incessant screaming of the check-engine light, I was sure I was out another transmission and another thousand dollars, which I don’t exactly have considering I just quit my job. I immediately begin cursing like a sailor and hysterics ensue. Aaron, of course, is sure it’s nothing and decides to call our friend, Scott (a really great mechanic) when we park to see what he thinks. I don’t have the heart to tell Aaron that Scott is two states away and cannot possibly help, you stupid, stupid boy! After a hearty meal at the Olive Garden, luckily, I’m much more agreeable. Scott recommends going to an auto-parts store (shop? Place?) to borrow their scanners that hook up under the dash and read the car’s computer. Scan complete, we learn there is low pressure in the gas tank. Most likely cause: loose gas cap. The engine light turned on because of a gas cap. Properly tightened, the light went off as soon as we started the car. I couldn’t believe it. I was angrier that the light went off than I was when it came on. I was using Scott’s name as a curse now, for thinking of something so simple as scan for a gas cap. The light shouldn’t come on for things that aren’t actually problems. Fact.

Secondly, my cat crawled down the heating vent. My new bedroom has been recently painted and the vents taken off for proper paint coverage. The cat, in her infinite curiosity and wisdom, climbed into a hole tinier than she is, fell two stories, and spent the next hour and a half trying to climb back up while my sister, her friend, Tim, and I called, “Here, kitty kitty,” up on the second floor because we were sure the cat couldn’t have gotten very far. We eventually found out she was in the basement, and Tim was in the process of ripping the ducts apart when I sent my sister upstairs on a lead that a certain vent the cat was under might lead to the living room. Right as Tim was making some progress my sister puller her out, the little dust ball that she had become. Currently, there are bags, cans of paint, a mini fridge, and a fan blocking all of the vents (and, so, the heat) so this won’t happen again.

With Zooey’s trauma-induced cuddliness endearing her to me, I decided to drag my air mattress into “their room” and spend the night with the kitties. Every two hours for two hours, I was forced to wake up and rebuild the blanket fortress I had constructed to protect the mattress from kitty-claws or getting run over by crazed cats chasing each other from one end of the room to another. After the allotted two hours, they settle down to sleep, which means I sleep, but then get woken up by cats walking on, kneading, licking, purring near, and violently biting and scratching my head. Shooing them away only made the running start sooner, so I tried to hide under the covers until lack of oxygen made me pass-out and fall asleep.

I can’t seem to catch a break, although, I did get the surround sound set up and I have a space heater that works, but as winter creeps in, I can’t help but wish it was warmer.