A Craptastic Day

"I woke up in a great mood...I don't know what the hell happened."

- Mike Damone, Fast Times at Ridgemont High

I did wake up in a pretty good mood, primarily because I didn't feel like a metal spike was being shoved in my ear for a change.

Let me back up. My craptastic day actually started last night. Wait...last week. Wait...a few weeks ago.

My left ear is all frigged up. It's been blocked up for some time now and, when it started leaking ectoplasm, I figured it was time to call Egon and the rest of the Ghostbusters and get the damn thing exorcised.

I went to the doctor a few weeks ago and she confirmed my ear infection and waxy buildup. She gave me an antibiotic and said that when I was done with the dosage, to go and get one of those over-the-counter earwax removal kits and go to town.

My treatment ended a few days ago and I went to the store to get some Spic and Span, uh, I mean Murine Ear Drops. Come to appreciate the disembodied ear in the ad, because what it really means is that, when you use these, you'll wish you had lopped your own ear off with the edge of a manila folder.

I read the box and noticed some useful warnings:

"Never use instruments like cotton swabs, toothpicks, or hairpins to remove wax from ear canal.

"Toothpicks? Hairpins? Why stop there? They should have continued the list: meat thermometers, nail files, sharpened pencils, hardcover Harry Potter books, a mustard yellow LeCar...

Then, it continued..."Remove hearing aids while using this product."

Okey doke.

Then, I hit the jackpot:

"Do not use if you have ear drainage or discharge, ear pain, irritation, or rash in the ear or are dizzy".

We have bingo! I still had some leftover ectoplasmic residue, so I held off on the Roto-Rooter for a couple of days until that dried up. Gross, I know. Sorry. But hey. What can I do?

So, I give the ear a few days of ecto-free drainage before I decide to try to unblock it with the evil Murine.

The ingredients say this:

"Alcohol (6.3%), anhydrous glycerin, citric acid, polysorbate 20, sodium citrate, tartaric acid."

This is a lie.

The ingredients are actually: sulfuric acid, a million microscopic razor blades, and tabasco sauce.

I put a few drops in my ear and, in about 10 seconds, am met with the most excruciating pain I have ever felt. This was accompanied by being serenaded by the Rice Krispies and pressure that would even make Chuck Yeager weak-kneed.

This went on, unabated, for 15 minutes, while I sweated profusely and paced around the apartment, cradling my exploding head, praying for death. Actually, a little less heroically, I was praying for numbness. Oh, and my ear was now even more blocked.

Step 2 of the process is to fill this curiously shaped rubber bulb with lukewarm water and shoot a stream of water, at absurd speeds, directly into your ear canal. Not sure, but I think that getting water in my ear was the problem in the first place. But I follow the directions and now, after my ear enema, my ear is killing me, the entire left side of my body is soaking wet, and I'm hearing the sound that you hear when you hold a big sea shell to your ear at the beach. Only ALL the time. That's a tad annoying.

The pain finally subsided and I went to bed. I decided I would visit Dr. Mengele again and see, if she couldn't unblock the ear, at least Van Gogh me so I wouldn't have to deal with it anymore.I call for an appointment and they can see me at 9:30. That's pretty much where the good news stopped.I get in the car and proceed to the doctor's office. Long story, but they are pretty far away...like usually a 45-minute drive. Don't ask. I hop on the highway before the highway before the highway I need to take and it is beyond gridlock. 45 minutes after I left, I was 4 miles down the road and was already late for my appointment. I called to tell them I would be late and they rescheduled me for 11:30. I then said the stupidest thing I have ever said:

"If I get there early, will I be seen early?"

I should have known that I would not be getting there early. In fact, I wouldn't be getting there at all.I get on the second highway and I am making up some time. It's weird weather in New England...it's a little cold and drizzly. You know, the kind of weather that always fucks up you car's inside temperature, resulting in it being virtually impossible to get rid of the annoying, yet not debilitating fog that coats the windshield.

I'm going about 65 in the fast lane when...BLAMMO. My windshield and all windows in the car instantaneously fog up so I can't see a thing. Literally NOTHING. Instead of being bright and wiping off the windshield with my hand and rolling down the windows, I am dim and frantically turning and pulling every knob on the dashboard. I think I even pushed in the cigarette lighter. No luck...I can't see in front of me, behind me, or to my side.

I pretty much just guess that no one is around and miraculously get over 3 lanes and into the breakdown lane without hitting anything. Then, I notice the temp gauge is on hot and the oil light is flickering. I make it off the highway and into a parking lot. Wait an hour and a half for a tow and get to sit in the tow truck with a driver who isn't in the chatting mood, until we pass a local bar near my place which he loved. At this point, he became Mr. Personality-Plus for 5 seconds until reality set in and he realized that he is towing a 2000 Ford Taurus and in the passenger seat is an idiot who wanted to know if he should put the car in neutral after they hooked it up to the truck, completely oblivious that every car made after 1983 has front-wheel drive. I should have just asked him to drop me off there so I could get hammered.

I bring it to the dealer (who just replaced the water pump two weeks ago) and, when I told the guy there of my tale, he made a face like he just got an atomic wedgie from Vin Diesel at the very moment that the latest Nick Lachey song came on the radio. When the guy fixing your car and taking your money makes that face...you're in deep shit now, Francis.

He says the two words that I hate more than "free syphilis"..."heating core".

Oh shit.

When a car mechanic says that phrase, it makes a man shudder to his very innards. Much like when, in high school, his girlfriend says "I think I'm pregnant". In both cases, your stomach sinks, you feel like you got kicked in the balls, and you know it is going to cost you dearly one way or another.

I left the shitbox at the dealer and walked home, about a mile and a half in the rain, and waited for "the call".

"Sir, sir, Mr. Sir Dim Sir, uh, sir, unfortunately..."When the mechanic starts off with "unfortunately", you're in even deeper shit than you were before, Francis."...sir, it is the heating core sir. It rusted."

"RUSTED?!?!"

"The parts, are like nothing...less than $100. But it's a 5-hour job. Do you know where the heating core is?"

I didn't even know my car had front-wheel drive.

"Of course, I know where the heating core is. It's next to the Johnson rod."

Apparently, the heating core is buried pretty far in the hood, behind an 8-foot thick steel plate, the entire hardcover Harry Potter novels, and, curiously, a mustard yellow LeCar.

Now, these guys get paid more per hour than Heidi Fleiss and I can't even get a handy out of the deal. He high-balls me a quote only to call back to "give me a deal" since I just dropped an ass-load on a new water pump.

So, here I sit. No car. No beer. Half deaf. Wet. And literally watching the money fly out of my wallet. Then again, that could be from all the LSD I just did.

Hello Rusty Jones, goodbye Dim's hard-earned money.

Hope your day isn't filled with rusted heating cores and torturous ear drops. Then again, it wouldn't be. You're not Dim.

- Dim.

P.S. Hey, blogger sucks. I can't do much with images other than left justifying them, so if anyone can help, hook me up. I've had a shitty enough day without being able to center my friggin images.