Volvos only smile at the Sun.

The 10-Day Forecast for Oakland calls for rain for nine of them. It could make for a romantic couple of weeks, except that Joe left today and he’ll be gone for both of them. And it’s the holidays. And no matter how much I tell myself that Christmas will be wonderful - just me and mom and enough wine to make each other wince - I can’t help but feel a little lonesome.

I don’t want to play the sap card too hard, but in the midst of it all, my car broke down this morning. In the middle of Broadway.

Moments before, I had dropped Joe off at the BART station, so that he could catch his flight back East. The car had been acting up on the drive over, so he told me to promise to keep it in third gear on the way home and take it to the mechanic first thing Monday morning. We kissed goodbye, he boarded an escalator down to the train, and as I tried to edge my way back out into traffic, everything on the dashboard lit up orange and yellow and red, and the car rolled to a stop. Joe was, of course, already underground. Thanks again, gods of timing, for one of your most graceful choreographies.

As I listened to my heart race through my ears, I turned the key again and again, but each time I tried to drive forward, the car would move about a foot, then sputter and pause, only to roll to a stop, always displaying its dead dashboard carnival.

Fortunately, I’m one of those girls whose parents instilled in them the idea that a AAA membership that is continually, though begrudgingly, renewed each year, pretty much equals a valiant horseback prince. He might drive you nuts when you’re feeling all self-sufficient and righteous, but when you need him, there he is, in all his damn needed glory. It’s just one of those things. And when you’re feeling supremely helpless, that stupid plastic card suddenly feels like 50 annual bucks well spent.

The car sits at the mechanic now, awaiting a brand new repair price tag (my guess is $850), and I sit on the couch, mildly proud of the fire I built for myself. I may watch a second movie, because my afternoon film, the not-at-all enchanting Sweet Home Alabama, wasn’t anything I’d hoped it would be.

It just rained so hard I thought I might go deaf from rain on skylight. It woke up both cats. And that says a lot.

Looks like Joe is now flying over Michigan’s Pere Marquette State Forest (thank you technology), which sounds dark and beautiful and entirely foreign to me. I hope he is enjoying his extra legroom. I am stretched out on our couch, writing my half of our story. I will go grab the last half of my day-old macaroon, browse the Netflix queue, and settle in for another few hours of delicious sloth.

The logs just caught themselves on fire again, so I’m giving myself a well-deserved point (and potentially pouring another drink) to celebrate this minor success.