So, I bit into the spicy, juicy Texas Hot sausage kolache at the intersection, and the melted cheese shot out sideways, splattering the driver's side window, door, my eyeglasses and work attire. I've consumed many kolache breakfasts on my commute, but this is the first one to explode. Thank heaven for the jug of disinfectant wipes riding shotgun in the Buick.
Heading back home after a fun-filled day adding homeschooling math books to the library catalog, I was discouraged to find a new orange trouble light shining on the dash. Whaddya mean, service engine soon? I just serviced engine to the tune of $600 in June.
In my dreams the cheese splatters merged with the check engine icon. One forty-five a.m. wide awake and panicked. This was scary stuff, and it's meaning could not be more clear if it was the call for Batman in the Batmobile. Time. Time for a monthly car payment.
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