We�re nearly at $1,000 for 5 trips to mechanics, and the car�s no more fixed than it�s ever been. I informed the mechanic of the continuation of the front brake problem when I rang this morning about my missing hubcaps. He offered to change the back brake pads, since that�s the only thing that hasn�t been replaced. I informed him they�ve used up all my credit, and I can�t afford it. As if to make himself feel better, the kid gave me a speech about how hard it is to fix something you can�t see. I then made a speech about how I�d informed them repeatedly that the brakes stick when the car is warmed up and that it worsens each time I have to stop, so merely driving it around the block won�t cut it. He acted as though I were lying. I don�t know what to do. Continue to make payments on a car I can�t drive, I guess.

Deep breath. Must stop crying at work.

I took no comfort looking around the family at Thanksgiving. Sometimes it seems like we�re all blessed with little black clouds hovering over us. Well, except my siblings. (At one point my aunt looked out the window at the Saab convertible and Eddie Bauer Explorer and asked me why I didn�t have a fancy car. But it was clear she liked me better for that lack.) Grandma can scarcely stand and has some bizarre growth on her arm that can�t be removed. Grandpa is nearly immobile, has no idea who anyone is, what time it is, or what he�s supposed to be doing. My other grandmother was upset about increasing incontinence and refused to leave her house. My cousin and his wife were absent, due to an appointment at a hospital in Madison. During the trip, they were to explain to their 9-year-old daughter that her daddy needs a new kidney, that they haven�t found any matches, and that he might not make it. The cousin with the brain tumor seems to be doing okay for now. Though it�s not nearly so grave a problem, after months of therapy, I can�t exist without constant back pain, and I can�t go to my therapist, because I can�t get there. My diabetic father�s smoking like a chimney and wearing one of those Medic-Alert bracelets, as seen on TV, while my mother�s growing exponentially larger by the day.

Happy holidays.

Pops and I rode back home together Friday evening, when the snow showers were sending cars off the roads left and right. We were nearly hit by a mattress, even, but somehow persevered. We, the family Scrooges, even sang along to assorted Christmas favorites (you know, �I�m Getting Nothin� for Christmas� and Elvis�s version of �I Can�t Help Falling In Love with You.�), until we passed the scene of a deadly accident and lost our brief moment of good cheer.

It doesn�t help that I�ve been having dreams about the Patrick again. Fairly benign, but he�s there. I guess maybe because it�s this time of year, because I�m bored and lonely, because I�ve been stewing about New Year�s plans. I have to decide in a few days whether I will reserve my tickets for the Robbie Fulks New Years Eve show. Much as I adore Robbie�s shows, I hate NYE. I think we�ve covered this. I won�t go to a show that offers tickets by the couple, which ensures most people there will be couples. Even Robbie�s showmanship won�t cut through my lonely bubble, and I don�t want to feel any more alienated than necessary. Somehow the girls don�t understand and think I�m being dramatic, when I�m just trying to be okay. The idea of missing out hurts, though.

Sitting in the mother ship Saturday with Jeremy, I�d just finished relating the tale of the pressure the girls are giving me about the show, when a line of buses from the school from which P graduated zipped by outside. At that very moment, a Robbie Fulks song hit the jukebox, and I just wanted to crawl under the table.

I want off this roller coaster.