Friday I leave for California. It's a prospect both exciting and terrifying, this new life plan of mine: on one hand, I'm thrilled to be relocating to an excellent city (or, excellent in my limited experience of it, which included sea lion sightings, five ice cream cones, several hours in Chinatown, and a massive hangover). On the other, I'm worried that I might become a pauper, as my dad suggested. Scratch that: there shall be no pauperdom! Indeed, I have a job interview the day after my arrival, and another potential employer called this afternoon while I was napping. 

The bad news: I think my car is falling apart. This morning, I took the Golden Chariot in for an oil change, and afterward the mechanic told me that, actually, truthfully, my car needs massive repairs. The conversation went something like this:

Mechanic: So, yeah, we did the oil change, but there are some other problems...

Me: Oh?

Mechanic: Well, there's some corrosion on the battery, and your alternator belt is massively cracked, and also, did you know that your check engine light is on?

Me: Yeah, it's been on for a year.

Mechanic: Well, the light is there to signal a problem.

Me: [Staring sternly] Yes. I took it to the dealership a few times and had them shut it off.

Mechanic: So, the alternator belt...

Me: I'm in the middle of moving, so I'll think about it.

At this point, I grabbed my keys and ran [walked briskly out of the lobby]. Haunted by visions of being stranded in the desert, surrounded by vultures and tumbleweed, I took my car to my mom's [reputable] mechanic to get the alternator belt replaced. If all else (or anything else) fails, I have AAA.

Ali (who was there to witness the entire above-mentioned exchange) posits that the mechanic was actually hitting on me, to which I must respond: the worst way to hit on someone is to tell them that their car needs $500 of repairs. Word to the wise.