How many normal humans does it take to change a light bulb in a '94 Honda Accord passenger side headlight? Who knows? We stopped at 3.
Hey, I've always been able to replace headlight bulbs and do other minor car repairs. It's a family tradition. Like Dad would've disowned any child of his who didn't know which end of a screwdriver to use.
Enter the '94 Honda Accord. The bulb burned out Wednesday. I put off buying the bulb 'til Friday because I was busy chauffeuring Nancy, counting ducks, and niece sitting. I thought I'd just slip it in on Saturday morning. Bright and early I opened the hood, removed the radiator overflow reservoir as instructed and tried to unplug the connector to the burned out bulb. It wouldn't budge. I looked in the manual. Repeated exactly the steps in the manual in great pain as it involved squeezing and pressing simultaneously - the one movement I absolutely cannot do with my right hand since a lifetime of computer abuse has rendered it chronically weak and incapable of a pinch grip. I cursed a little.
I drove across the street to the Mobil station (which is gas station only - not a garage) and asked the nice young boy who works there (his Dad owns it) if he would do me a favor by removing the old light bulb 'cause it involves squeezing (these guys pump the gas for me because squeezing the gas pump handle often involves pain for me so he was not surprised at my request). He squeezed and pressed. Nothing. It didn't budge. He got a screwdriver and pried. It didn't budge. He poked prodded squeezed - nothing. Customers required his attention so I bid him adieu and went to pick up Nancy at the bus station for our evening out: dinner at the Blue Diner and then Space Jam (yes I liked it - yes it's silly). I sulked through dinner and part of the movie feeling ineffectual and helpless. Powerless over this stupid light bulb.
Sunday was taken up with the poetry festival (I'll write that up as yesterday's entry I guess).
So today I woke up at 9:30 AM, looked out the window at the fine coating of snow turning everything glazed like fake Christmas scenes with that white spray-on junk and promptly went back to bed. Sometime around 12:15 I got up because Wilbur had finally lost patience with me. I fed him, ate cereal (Cheerios if you must know), drank tea, and showered. At last I was ready to face what was left of the day. I went over to Starbucks ordered a grande latte, schmoozed with Lisa and Jen and the red haired girl (I forget her name). Chris was about ready to punch out and I know he works on old cars as a hobby so I asked if he thought he could help me with the light bulb. "Sure, no problem."
Chris couldn't budge it with his bare hands either. He got a series of progressively larger screwdrivers from inside the store. What on earth does Starbucks need such huge screwdrivers for? Finally after about 45 minutes of hacking and prying, he got a hammer and used the biggest screwdriver as a chisel and whacked the connector off. While he was doing this I was asking passersby if they had Hondas and had ever changed the light bulb. One guy who returned to an Accord exactly like mine parked next to the post office looked petrified when I asked if he knew anything about the Accord. "This is my wife's car, I don't know anything about it." and off he went.
Chris and I spent another 20 minutes in the freezing cold taking turns trying to get the new bulb screwed in. Not as easy as it looks. It has 3 plastic tabs that fit in slots. Then you turn it one quarter turn clockwise and plug the connector in. Do you think we could get all 3 tabs to stay in while we turned it? We couldn't. Finally, we gave up. Chris went home. I went back into Starbucks and drank a second grande latte provided gratis by redhead.
Fortified by as much coffee as my body could tolerate, I drove to the Honda Barn in North Reading, walked up to the service desk with the light bulb in my hand and said: "Help!". The service manager knows me and took pity. So he scheduled the work for as soon as possible. He also said the passenger side low beam is the hardest one to change. For some reason this didn't comfort me much.
In the waiting room Oprah was singing with Rod Stewart hocking his new album. Weird. I read Elle magazine and watched Oprah out of one eye incredulously while I waited. An hour later, voila, headlight works. They didn't charge me for it.
With regard to the current on-line journaler's controversy: Am I real?
Could I possibly make this up?
I am a real 45 year old lesbian, ex-corporate executive, recovering work addict, aunt, plover warden, litter box washer, and writer. I really am the Janet Egan who wrote Writing a UNIX Device Driver. Any number of ex-MASSCOMP people can vouch for both my existence and my former UNIX expertise.
I really do have 5 brothers, one mother, and two nieces. I use their real names in this journal. Bobby really is in Bosnia.
Nancy is real.
My walking buddies Joan, Claire, Rita, and Priscilla are all real.
Mark is real.
The coffee crowd:
My cousin Richard is real.
Nikki, spawn of Nikki, spawn of spawn of Nikki, and the dog are all real.
Wilbur my cat is real. And he really worked on the movie, The Crucible, last summer at Hog Island. All the cats I mention at MRFRS are real as are the humans. Only one human's name has been changed to protect the innocent.
Mrs. Reed is real, as is the cat that isn't hers.
Igor, the broken winged Canada goose is a real goose. The cygnets and their parents are real too.
The green vans are real.
The mockingbird is real.
The pit bull and Pepe are real.
All Russian scientists and Earthwatch volunteers mentioned in my travel journal are real.
My friends Charla, Joan S, Kate, JR are all real.
It just doesn't get any realer than this.
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