The Car Saga

I know there aren’t many of you here left from the Old Blog. That’s ok. But if YOU are one of them…or if you’re just bored and interested….get a big glass of your favorite beverage, put your feet up, and read while I opine.

Hubby got into an accident with his motorcycle nearly 3 years ago. He was fine though badly bruised and sore and, quite frankly, he’s never really gotten over it. We got some money after hiring that shyster John Haymond who never did shit and never said shit, he just sat back and collected his 30%. So, don’t buy into his ads or those of any “TV lawyer”. They’re all crooks.  He never came to visit us (as his ads like to portray), in fact, he didn’t get anymore money for hubby than what we could have gotten on our own. He just collected 30%….for doing a whole bunch of nothing. Seriously…that’s what he and his ‘team’ did…jackshit.

At the end of it, after his greedy ass was paid, the hospital bills were paid, the physical therapy bills were paid we ended up with…oh yeah…nearly jackshit because the bitch who hit hubby had jackshit. She was already so far in debt she’d never be able to get out of it. I’d like to say I feel sorry for her but I’d be lying. I feel sorry for hubby and I feel sorry for the trees, the big old lovely trees, that were cut down on Sound Community Services property because undoubtedly Valerie Kent (that woman who hit hubby) cried about how she couldn’t see past them.

That alone is total bullshit.

But they’re gone.

We’re still here.

Whatever happened to Valerie Kent, I hope only Hell knows. That idiotic woman took from us more than she will ever be able to repay, not only because she’s broke as shit or her insurance sucked or the laws in the State of Connecticut suck, but because she’s a dipshit who couldn’t LOOK before pulling out of the parking lot of Sound Community Services.

Once Upon a Time, hubby and I enjoyed a rip-roaring sex life that fueled my writing life and my stories.

Valerie Kent took ALL that away.

So, yes, for that and so many other things, I hope the bitch burns in Hell for all eternity.


After all expenses were paid, hubby bought a 2009 Nissan Pathfinder.

I’m no fan of foreign cars but he had his heart set on it so we bought it for just under $10,000.00.  Hubby also had the foresight to lay out another $2,000.00 for the ‘extended warranty’. Which was great because the damn thing needed another $10,000.00 in repairs! Thank you so much Antonino Acura in Groton, Connecticut! No one should ever buy a car from you. Ever.

For the first several months we owned it, it was in the shop more than it was in our driveway. We had to fight, bitch, and scream for nearly every repair under the ‘extended warranty’.

Oh, it was so much fun!

Finally the damn thing was fixed. We took it to Cape Cod for first vacation in nearly 30 years. All was well. Hubby got fired from his job at Electric Boat for no reason other than bullshit caused by people who didn’t want to share the necessary information for hubby to do his job. Yes, friends and neighbors, those are YOUR TAX DOLLARS so NOT a work.

Hubby landed a job at Hanscomb Air Force Base in Massachusetts. We live in CT. He spent ALL of last summer away from me and it was so not worth it. We couldn’t even deduct the over $2,000.00 in rent he paid while he was there.

Thank you, Uncle Sam, you greedy fucking bastard.

The very FIRST DAY on his job he got into an accident because some Masshole STOPPED on the ON ramp to the freeway because she was texting on her phone. Because hubby hit her from behind it was his fault. He called me totally upset. He just TRASHED his NEW car, which at that time was upwards of $20,000.00 (given what we paid and the repairs that went into it).

The car was towed to some fly-by-night garage that saw the Connecticut plate and erroneously thought; Rich Bastard!

We spent MONTHS going back and forth with that garbage….sorry…garage…over the repairs that weren’t done correctly as we shelled out another $10,000.00 which we had to take out of an IRA. Oh yeah, and at Tax Time, we had to pay a ‘penalty for early withdrawal’ because it seems NEEDING a CAR to GO TO WORK isn’t a legit reason for doing so in the eyes of that greedy bastard Uncle Sam. I guess he would have preferred we junked it and went on Unemployment and Food Stamps rather than getting the car fixed.

Dealing with that garage was a major fiasco which ended up in a Better Business Bureau complaint and….hubby breaking down less than 20 miles from HOME…TWICE.

Enter Shea’s Garage.

The owner is a friend of hubby’s and hubby called him for the tow…twice.

We paid in good faith until we realized something was terribly wrong.

Then we went to the Barter System.

Hubby did a DJ gig for his daughter’s wedding.

Hubby hooked up his garage with surveillance.

Our Pathfinder was never right.

The radio stopped working.

Except when you hit the horn then it came on.

(Who knows if the driver’s air bag actually works?)

The car shimmed. It shook.

They didn’t care.

After SEVERAL MONTHS of back and forth we finally had enough when it started to shake so badly we were afraid to drive it.

And, ya know; Hey! My darling husband, I love you to death and I understand you want to kick your friend our business but he SUCKS as a mechanic! He’s HORRIBLE!

So we took it to Mugovero’s Garage. A place we’ve done business with for decades and never once had a problem with. They had the car for the last 8 days, which didn’t make me happy because I was without MY car for nearly as long until hubby and I had a huge blow out leading him to use Uber.

Today the car was ready and I went down there and paid $543.00 to get it back.

I was shown the housing and the fan.


Two blades were missing huge chunks from them and a third blade was GONE. Not there. At all.

The housing?

Cracked to shit.

That’s on top of the other less serious problems Mr. Shea was unable to fix.

Moral of the story: 1-hire an attorney whose first priority is YOU, 2-just because you have a Connecticut plate does so NOT mean you’re ‘rich’, 3-take your car for repairs to someone you KNOW will FIX it thereby possibly fucking a friend who’s incompetent to the max.

Now, to be fair, Mr. Shea might be a competent mechanic with a totally inept staff. Who knows?

But if YOU live in New London, Connecticut and YOU need car repairs and YOU want to support a local business over the ‘lovely people’ working for car dealerships….take it to Mugovero’s Garage on Jay Street. Dave and his lovely wife are completely honest people who will never steer you wrong.

Or, you know, in the alternative and in order to avoid ALL of the above; Watch out for Valerie Kent because she isn’t looking out for you.

Trust me, if I ever come across that fucking bitch I’m going to exact from her every single ounce of Life’s Enjoyment and MONEY she took from us.

In a heartbeat.

No regrets.




Coming to Grips

If there’s one thing that I want everyone out there to understand it’s this; you’re finite. You actually have an ‘expiration date’. You will die. It’s inevitable.

Was that a downer?


The truth is no matter what you do, no matter how weight you gain or lose, how much you workout, how healthy you do or don’t eat, how much plastic surgery you have, how much makeup you wear, how many times a month you dye your hair, how much alcohol you drink, how many drugs you do, how much meat you don’t eat…you are GOING TO DIE.

Could be today.

Could be tomorrow.

Could be next year.

Could be decades from now.

But we ALL come to the same end no matter who we are, what our race is, what our religion is, or how we lived our lives.

DEATH is the final outcome.

There’s no escaping it.


Oh, my GOD! Moonie! Why are are you writing this shit?

Because it’s the only inescapable truth.

Ok, look, I went to the Doctor last week for my COPD and they had me do a ‘breathing test’. They put some cushioned clothespin on my nose and expected me to BREATHE. Seriously, they did. That didn’t work out too well. Mostly because I ‘breathe’ like normal people have become accustomed to doing so; my diaphragm CONTRACTS while taking IN a breath. So no matter how hard I ‘blow’ into the contraption I’m destined to fail.

Then, they put my ass on a SCALE.

I told them not to say my weight out loud but they did so anyway.

162 pounds.

Oh my fucking GOD! I wanted to DIE right then and there.

Look…..Once Upon a Time I vomited forcefully, I took laxatives, I LIVED on a Dexatrim and a Diet Coke a day, in fact, I REFUSED to EAT if I tipped the scales at over 90 pounds. In fact, the very fact that I weighed in at 89 pounds through out my ‘high school career’ was a Badge of Honor.

Then they announced my height. I’ve LOST two inches. Yes, I am now exactly 5’2 even where I was once 5/4 (and a half!)

Well, that explains why I can no longer reach to the bottom of the washing machine to get the clothes out. LOL

Then I went back and had my little consult with the doctor who couldn’t remember everything I’d told him last time. So he asked me; how do you feel when you exert yourself?

Pardon? Look, for one, I wore exceedingly high heels for DECADES. I have shortened calves. I’ve spent 20 years sitting at a desk as a secretary and when I wasn’t doing that I was sitting at a desk being  a writer.

Walk? Uphill? I don’t think so. I’m in agony long before I’m out of breath. From my calves to my ankles to my hips and lower back…there better be a damn good reason why I’m walking. I mean, seriously, honestly, I damn well better be trying to run towards this

Or away from this

Got me?


Anything in between equals me talking my way out of the situation or just not caring about the same.


Because we all DIE.

It is the inescapable truth of the TWO things every single living being on the planet shares.

We are BORN and we DIE.

In between some of us get to pay taxes…oh joy!

I came home from that appointment feeling very ashamed of myself. More so than I did in high school when I was literally starving myself in hopes of attracting a mate. I never stopped to think if he would be a ‘worthy’ mate because my self-esteem (as dictated by the ads and movies and TV shows and Victoria Secret BS I say) was all wrapped up in landing ‘a guy’.

Fast forward several decades.

I landed a ‘guy’ who was about 120 pounds soaking wet when I met him but who is now well over 250 pounds. Yes, when I met him I could read a newspaper through him.

Do I love him any less?

Of course I don’t. He’s MY guy. The love of my life. My soulmate…I don’t give a shit how much he weights or if he has a six-pack. I just care that he’s HERE with ME and we get to spend the rest of our lives together. That’s it.

But I keep reading article after article regarding how we’re both supposed to “stay young” and “fit”.

Fuck that.

Those articles state that people now live to be between 85 and 100 years old.

What they leave out is; dementia, diapers, immobility.

I’d rather die fat, happy, and stoned at 60 than go through 15 years of ‘who am I? Who are you? How did I get here?’

(That’s my Aunt Babe went through…20 years in a nursing home suffering from Alzheimers until she couldn’t even use the bathroom any longer let alone recognize her own children!)

So, I speak from experience, honestly, I do.

My father died at 68 years of age after working for 35 years for the same company which supposedly offered a pension and an annuity. He collected THREE Social Security checks. THREE.

My mother tried to collect said ‘widows benefits’ but they were denied to her. She went BACK TO WORK at 60 and died at 64…several years after my father. She didn’t collect one single Social Security check.

They both, honestly literally…worked themselves to death. Saving every penny and never enjoying all that Life had to offer. In their defense they were both members of the “Greatest Generation” and “Depression Era” kids. To this day I feel so sorry for them.

True, being their Only Child, they left me the house that I still live in, they left a very small inheritance but not enough to for me to keep the house we live in without doing battle with the Tax Man for a few decades because taxes in the City of New London are far beyond belief!

I will not be my parents.

I will live fat, happy, and stoned with a head full of gray hairs, without make up, without pretense or falsehood when I meet my Maker.

And I’ll be broke as shit.

(Sorry kiddos, I love you to death)

But I’ll meet Him as ME.

With any luck, may you be able to say the same.

Because you know what? Like it. Lump it. Leave it.

We’re all