I speak for myself, and I think likely for Terpsichore as well. Winter car trouble stinks.
In the Spring, the Summer and the Fall, if your car fritzes, you putter around with it and think philosophical thoughts about how life is strange like that, and that everything’s probably ok, because the birdies are still singing.
Birdies. I scoff at you. There are no birdies. And you are now sitting in an unheated car. Wondering why you looked at the frostbite chart this morning. How many minutes was that? Less than 5?
Well, unless your car just won’t start in the driveway. You put in the key, and the car gives one scoffing huff at your misguided optimism and whirs itself back to sleep. Were you going somewhere? Ha. Walk, human. You’ve got legs. In fact, put me in neutral and walk ME into the nice garage.
In the Upper Midwest, some people prevent freezing cars by having some kind of electric plug installed. I don’t know what it goes to in the engine, but it plugs into an extension cord for several hours or overnight. I googled it. Most people who ask about it live in Alaska, but around here, plugs hang out the front of trucks all year round. I want one.
BECAUSE I’VE BEEN IN HERE FOR A WEEK, AND I’M GOING CRAZY. I’M GOING TO START HOME ALCHEMY PROJECTS AND SEE ABOUT PURCHASING BULK CHICKEN WIRE TOPIARY FORMS FROM INDONESIA AND PIN HALF AN OMELET TO THE CHRISTMAS TREE.
Or else, I’ll drink tea and possess my soul in silence. Of which there is plenty. Silence, that is. Tea is limited.