Good Karma, Bad Car-ma

The surviving Saab gave up the ghost today, expiring with a mechanical sigh on the main road while I was on my way to the gym. It died with some dignity, coasting into a parking space at the mechanic's -- but it still died.

This is not very good. I had to have the stepdaughter's car towed, so the mechanic could fix it, as well. Presumably, it's fixable, but the Saab is dead.

My next vehicle will almost certainly be a small truck.

But speaking of small trucks, I now have two teen-agers in the house. Will, who is growing into a rather large truck, turned 13 today. I can't decide if it feels like he's been around longer than 13 years or less than 13 years. But I'm happy he's around. And he was happy with his "free stuff," as he put it.

About 3:30p, I called to check on the car -- they hadn't had a chance to look at it. Since it was somewhat driveable (a clutch problem that has yet to significantly assert itself and a dead mouse in the heater), I did my second run of the day.

I'd done 3.1 miles after dropping the boys off for school and really wasn't in the mood, but pulled off the 4.8-miler to the mechanic's. Stopped and got a new bicycle pump at the hardware store, since our one trail bike has a flat, and grabbed some ice cream for Will's dessert.

Really, I'm trapped between outrages today. On one hand, there's this, from the American College of Plastic Surgeons.

I'm sure that burn victims, trauma patients and people who have breast cancer can benefit from plastic surgery. No doubt. But I don't think 329,000 cancer patients are getting boob jobs. It just seems a bit ... don't know, is "superficial" the word I'm trying to get?

And here's the second outrage du jour. At least, I think it might be an outrage. Or it might just be more proof that God has a supremely developed sense of irony. One of the few people in the 2008 presidential race who hasn't been divorced and who's gone through some pretty heavy-duty trauma -- hey, guess what? Things ain't getting easier for you! Enjoy that campaign trail!

Finally, this just pisses me off. I may go kill a goose, slowly, just in protest. Three words for these people: Get. A. Life. If we overfed baby koalas and roasted them alive, that might be one thing. But we're talking foie gras here. Goose liver. And Chef Puck's quote is just a little, um, suspicious:

"People coming here once a week with signs has nothing to do with my decision," he told the Los Angeles Times. "The protest didn't affect me at all."

What-ever.

On the calorie front, I figured my two runs today gave me the equivalent of a Hardee's Monster Burger. But I'll probably forego that particular delight in favor of some of Will's ice cream.

Hope he's as much fun as a teen as he's been as a young boy.