Well, it’s official: one glance at the photo above, and it’s clear that my car and I have lived in the Pacific Northwest for quite a while now. Going on seven years, in fact. I hang my hoodie in a place where 1. it rains more than it did in my former home base of southern California, and 2. there are no fancy-schmancy events to attend on San Juan Island at which one’s sparkling clean ride is a sought-after status symbol. Yes, back in the day, I tooled around in a sexy teal Porsche 928S for nine of my fifteen years in Malibu, before I switched gears (so to speak) to a convertible 4WD Jeep Wrangler, prior to inexplicably turning into a super-boring-but-reliable compact SUV chick (what my vehicles suggest about my various life phases is worthy of an altogether different blog post).
Face palm, otter: “‘Save the rainforest’ doesn’t mean carry it around with you on your SUV. Sheesh!”
I suppose I should be embarrassed that not just a touch of green scum,
Ok, this is more than, “just a touch.”
but an entire bed of forest-worthy MOSS, has taken up residence on my spare tire cover (apparently, moss-sprouting is what the lettering is intended for).
And I haven’t even shown you the photo of the lichens growing on the side moulding.
Well, okay, I guess I couldn’t resist.
My car is rapidly becoming a Chia pet.
What can I say: with the promise of rain on a regular basis, very few people up here wash their cars. In fact, all of our vehicles, whether white, silver, red, or blue, share the local distinction of being “island color.” Which is varying, mottled combinations of mostly rainforest slime green and dirt road grey (hey, these could be this year’s new fall fashion colors for the style-conscious country bumpkin). Since my driveway is not a proper driveway at all, but more akin to a stony, rutted dry creek bed kicking up either dust or mud, there’s just never any point in bothering to hose things off. Heck, I probably get a tad less mileage per gallon due to toting around all these natural resources.
Face palm, sea lion: “I can’t believe what this neighborhood is turning into.”
The car is a lot like me when I’m home composing: basically stationary. When I’m not traveling for work, I instantly morph into a happy hermit in loose fitting pajama-like togs just weird-looking enough to scare the dickens out of anyone who dares to show up unannounced. And, I hole up. For days at a time if possible. Even a simple trip into the tiny stress- and traffic-light-free town of Friday Harbor is a disruptive undertaking to be staved off until supplies are perilously low. The dire need for peanut butter… eggs… wine… cat food (not for me, I promise)… chocolate… becomes so urgent that I have no choice but to put on “decent” clothes worthy of public appearance (an enormous effort right there), and hop behind the wheel to take myself and my volunteer plant life collection on the 15 minute jaunt into civilization.
A rolling stone gathers no moss, but a working composer might end up like her car if she isn’t careful. Happily, I’ve just checked and I can proudly report that nope, there is NO MOSS growing in any of my nooks and crannies. Yet. [Phew]. There are, however, a lot of musical notes sprouting up, and I’ve been tending this garden of muses with great care. Which is a lot more than I can say for how I tend to my poor
Face palm, house cat: “Over and over… and OVER again. Of all the people out there, I end up being adopted by a composer. How many more times do I have to hear that @#$% passage until she gets it right???”.