Today's topic: "Bubble wrap: do you love to pop it or not?"
Ah, finally a subject on which I consider myself informed. I LERVE bubble wrap. Well, popping it, anyway. I've never had much use for it otherwise. Sure, sure, I know you're supposed to pack stuff in it, but I tend to squirrel it away in closets and then I forget I have it and end up using newspaper, so it doesn't fulfill its intended function.
But the popping part is awesome. I especially like those marshmallow-sized cells where the sensation of pressing your thumb against it is like puncturing a water bed; it's so swollen, it's ridiculous.
When I lived alone, I happily popped with impunity, often while multi-tasking during an activity like watching TV or writing something for school. Living with David and Jarrah has changed all that, sadly. She will come caroming around the corner at first pop, wanting her own piece of the action, and David will permit only about five pops before he yells for us to stop it. Which is kind of weird, now that I think about, because he is generally tolerant of all other things that would annoy the hell out of me.
I can respect his position, but it's still sad. Sometimes popping a full sheet of bubbles does give one the sensation of having achieved something, or at least completed it satisfactorily, and there's not much I can say that about. So it feels good.
What didn't feel good was the past six hours, when I wandered and sweated up and down Mission Gorge while my car was at Midas. They were able to determine pretty quickly that the R2D2 noise was "a blown diode on my alternator." I put that in quotes because I'm proud of myself for remembering it. They said there was no telling when the other diodes would blow, and I didn't like the sound of that. It took exactly the two hours to fix they said it would, during which time I drank a lot of coffee at Coco's, texted and contemplated glitter nail polish at the CVS. I picked up the car and started for home, looking forward to a shower.
Then I noticed that the A/C, which I had just turned down from the wind tunnel setting someone had left it on during the test drive, was no longer conditioning in any perceptible way. In fact--I noted now that I'd driven about three blocks--no air of any kind, conditioned or otherwise, was emerging from my vents. I made some phone calls, all involving long periods of holding and a lot of repetition, only to be told by someone that the alternator and whatever this was seemed unrelated.
Well, I have to admit, I can't argue with that. If you'd told me that the engine and gasoline seemed unrelated, I couldn't argue with that, either. Not my area. Know what my area is, though? Analytical thinking. And that was telling me that if my air conditioner was working when I arrived at Midas, but wasn't working at all when I left, Midas was in some fashion responsible.
I was more than a little worried I would cry when I told them this. For one thing, I often cry in these situations, which is sometimes helpful, sometimes not. For another, I was feeling hot, tired, frustrated and out of control, and those things (if you add hunger you have a sure thing) often lead to crying. Amazingly, I did not cry, nor did I yell. I explained that I'm a good customer, and not just of oil changes. Then I explained my theory about this particular coincidence.
I'd like to say that I convinced them, or that they had to admit I was right. Nope. In fact, they were still swearing it was a coincidence when I picked up the car another two hours later. But they did decide to comp me for the part and labor, which perhaps testifies more to the skill of my argument than anyone agreeing with me might have. At any rate, I was happy to agree about the coincidence if it meant I didn't have to pay any more money to be fanned with cool air as I drive around in July.