"Dash, dot, dot, dash. Ampersand!" is how my son Mason swears. He gets it from comic strips mostly, where the author/artist will replace choice words with dingbats. But, since he likes the sound of dash and dot, it sounds a bit like he's cursing in Morse code. (Although I have no idea what "dash, dot, dot, dash." would work out to be.)
Today, I am swearing because my dash-dot-dot car is on the blink. Actually, it decided to throw a starter wire, which is, at least, blessedly simple (I hope) to fix. It's at the garage right now, though it took some monumental effort to get it there last night. (Many calls to Triple-A, much waiting and pacing in the 4 degree weather, lots and lots of "dash, dot, dot"s from me.)
Also because Minneapolis/St. Paul has a pretty lame public transportation system, I walked about three miles this morning (uphill both ways!) But seriously, after one of Mason's school friend's parents dropped me off at my coffee shop this morning, I decided to start hoofing it down Grand toward our service station. I'm glad I did, because I was able to show the mechanic exactly which wire was the problem. As I jostled the wire, a big chunk of it actually broke off. We looked at each other for a moment. Then the mechanic says (completely deadpan,) "Yeah, that could be a problem."
Sometimes I love Minnesotans.
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