We got up at about 8:30 today, and decided to have breakfast at Finch’s Family Restaurant.
In front of my house, when I turned on my car, nothing happened by a crank sound. Uh oh.
I remembered that yesterday, when I’d started up the car to go for our walk, there was this slight hesitation that I’d wondered if I’d just imagined. Perhaps not.
We drove Robert’s car to Finch’s.
The big news there is that they’ve gone from a health inspection rating of about 75 (yes, 75!) last year some time, to today’s posting of 92.5! Yay!
The one waitress we saw walking back to the kitchen with a bunch of dirty plates she’d just taken from a table, and licking each of her fingers as if she might be getting some good-to-the-last-drop-ort off of one or more of the plates, may be impacting their chances of getting that remaining, coveted 7.5 points. I’m just saying.
Don’t get me wrong, we actually like this waitress — have had her many times during previous visits. She’s “honey” this, and “sugar” that, and very gay-friendly, as I am typically there with a table full of gay guys.
Though we weren’t in her section this time, later, after the finger-licking-good-gig, she came to our table with a small, square Tupperware container of frozen treats. They were little chocolate cups — a hard outside dark chocolate shell, with a chocolate mousse filling, and capped with some kind of white cream.
“Have one, sugar.”
“Mmmm, those look good,” I said.
“They’re just precious,” she replied.
I thought right then and there that I prefer the adjective “delicious” to “precious” when it comes to food, and Robert pointed out how versatile the adjective seems to be these days, running the application gamut from toilet paper to ice cream. But I digress…
“Did you make ’em?” I asked as I grabbed one.
“Oh, no, a customer made them, honey. She brought ’em in here yesterday.” I wondered if she’d licked her fingers as she’d made them or as she’d placed the little potential germ capsules into the container. All this, as I scarfed it down, of course.
Once home, we tried to jump my battery from Robert’s, to no avail.
I called AAA, and after some discussion, was talked into sending a tow service here, instead of a battery service, to take my car to Triangle Car Care (TCC) off Glenwood Avenue.
After setting that up, I called TCC, only to receive their voice mail message telling me that they were closed on the weekends.
I called back to AAA and changed the towing location to the Jiffy Lube, about a mile from my house.
Two minutes later, I called back, and changed the request yet again, to have them send their battery service out instead of the towing service.
Shawanda was real patient with me, though I suspect deep down, Shawanda how many more times this fool was gonna call.
About an hour later, the hottest guy in history arrived to jump my car. Both Robert and I wanted him to jump our bones instead. What a hunk of man he was — as well as polite and customer service-oriented.
After the jump, he tested the battery, which tested in the “Good” range, and he asked if I thought I might have left the lights on, or something.
“My lights go off automatically when I turn off the car.”
“How about the map light, or having left a door open?”
“Well, the dome light goes off automatically, after a while; it fades first, then goes out. So I don’t think it was that. I guess the map light was a possibility.”
“Well, that’s usually the kind of thing that causes this, when a battery jumps okay that seemed totally dead, but then registers ‘Good.’ If you can let your car run for about 20 minutes, that will make sure it’s good and charged.”
I couldn’t bear to just let my car run for 20 minutes in my parking spot. It seemed to me that if it was going to be running, I ought to at least be running errands with it, so Robert and I made a trip to Target, and I stayed in the car with it running while he did some quick shopping for us.
After that, we stopped at the Goodwill Store that I had no idea was near that Target. I bought two cooking implements (a spoon with holes in it, and a ladle, which were $.79 each), and Robert found a pair of white shoes, which he’s going to need for Cosmetology School. They were brand new, and only $20 bucks. The deal!
We met Steve and Stephen for dinner at Porter’s at 6:30. I haven’t seen Steve in over two months, and it was good to catch up.
He brought me a copy of a most excellent obituary, a real doozy — not seen since the likes of this one.
| Frederic Arthur (Fred) Clark | ||
| Frederic Arthur (Fred) Clark, who had tired of reading obituaries noting other’s courageous battles with this or that disease, wanted it known that he lost his battle as a result of an automobile accident on June 18, 2006.
True to Fred’s personal style, his final hours were spent joking with medical personnel while he whimpered, cussed, begged for narcotics and bargained with God to look over his wife and kids. He loved his family. His heart beat faster when his wife of 37 years Alice Rennie Clark entered the room and saddened a little when she left. His legacy was the good works performed by his sons, Frederic Arthur Clark III and Andrew Douglas Clark MD, PhD., along with Andy’s wife, Sara Morgan Clark. Fred’s back straightened and chest puffed out when he heard the Star Spangled Banner and his eyes teared when he heard Amazing Grace. He wouldn’t abide self important tight *censored*. Always an interested observer of politics, particularly what the process does to its participants, he was amused by politician’s outrage when we lie to them and amazed at what the voters would tolerate. His final wishes were “throw the bums out and don’t elect lawyers” (though it seems to make little difference). During his life he excelled at mediocrity. He loved to hear and tell jokes, especially short ones due to his limited attention span. He had a life long love affair with bacon, butter, cigars and bourbon. You always knew what Fred was thinking much to the dismay of his friends and family. His sons said of Fred, “he was often wrong, but never in doubt”. When his family was asked what they remembered about Fred, they fondly recalled how Fred never peed in the shower — on purpose. He died at MCV Hospital and sadly was deprived of his final wish which was to be run over by a beer truck on the way to the liquor store to buy booze for a double date to include his wife, Rush Limbaugh and Ann Coulter to crash an ACLU cocktail party. In lieu of flowers, Fred asks that you make a sizable purchase at your local ABC store or Virginia winery (please, nothing French – the *censored*) and get rip roaring drunk at home with someone you love or hope to make love to. Word of caution though, don’t go out in public to drink because of the alcohol related laws our elected officials have passed due to their inexplicable terror at the sight of a MADD lobbyist and overwhelming compulsion to meddle in our lives. No funeral or service is planned. However, a party will be held to celebrate Fred’s life. It will be held in Midlothian, Va. Email fredsmemory@yahoo.com for more information. Fred’s ashes will be fired from his favorite cannon at a private party on the Great Wicomico River where he had a home for 25 years. Additionally, all of Fred’s friend(sic) will be asked to gather in a phone booth, to be designated in the future, to have a drink and wonder, “Fred who?”
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After dinner, we walked to see Steve’s new Big-Ass Vehicle, a Chevy Tahoe, affectionately known as “The ‘Ho.” He drove us back to our car, so we could test the ride. Luxurious.
Dancing was okay tonight.
In spite of both fans blowing on us, I was still soaked when it was all said and done.
It was “Kodiaks Rugby Night,” another night where the team seemed to only talk to each other until it was time to sell Jello Shots as their fundraiser.
Robert and I bee-lined out of there as soon as dancing stopped.