We just bought a car. Great rebate, great financing; we went for it. And, for the first time in 25 years, Steve got the new vehicle. You see, when we were first married I cleverly pointed out that insurance rates were far cheaper for women than for men of the same age group. Therefore the female should always drive the newer vehicle. He fell for it immediately and he's been driving my hand-me-downs ever since. Now, before you go start feeling sorry for him, you need to realize that Steve is a Simms. As in Simms CHEVROLET. (Two friendly locations in Clio and Ortonville where they treat you just like family.) They got new cars as soon as the ashtrays were dirty! (Boy, am I going to get in trouble for THAT!) My family, on the other hand, replaced a vehicle only when it had been driven to death. It was replaced with the cheapest thing on four wheels. No frills for us. No automatic door locks or power windows. That's why all the drivers came with arms. And we used those upper extremities plenty. Dad never trusted "automatics." It was a stick shift or nothing. Power steering? That's for sissies. Air conditioning? Are you CRAZY?! We had "460 Air." Roll down all four windows and go 60. I remember when we finally got a car with a radio. Dad propped his old transistor up on the dashboard and VIOLA we had a radio. When he drove me to school it was my job to catch the radio whenever we rounded a corner before it slid off the dash and onto the floor. As I was saying, we just got a new car. It is a mechanical marvel. Sadly, within 35 seconds of backing it into the garage on its maiden voyage, I broke it. I was just finishing my inspection of the "cargo area" and slammed the hatch. Right on… … … the little tennis ball that is suspended from the garage ceiling to tell us when we've pulled far enough into the garage so I won't knock the house down. It made a very bad sound sort of halfway between a squeal and a yelp. And the hatch seized up. Not quite closed, and certainly not what one would consider open. And, there was no way we could pry the tennis ball out. It was lodged BEHIND the piston do-hicky (sorry for the technical jargon) that makes the hatch go up and down. Steve wanted to just yank it out, but I was afraid that the tennis ball, or worse yet, the do-hicky, was filled with compressed air, that would explode if it was yanked. I forbade him to yank. I suggested instead he might use the drill to put a hole in the tennis ball and then it would smoosh (sorry, more technical jargon) and then very gently, while wearing safety goggles, we could pry it out. Or, better yet, extract the tennis ball with the drill bit still inside, as if it were a cork stuck in a wine bottle. This reminds me of the time we heard a noise in the flue above the fireplace. To me it sounded like a mouse than had taken a nasty slip and fallen into the chimney. Poor thing, trying to claw its way out just about drove me nuts. I had just finished binding a quilt and took the leftover strips of backing and tied them all together like they do in the movies when somebody has to lower themselves out of the second story window because their house is on fire. I tied a big piece of cheese at the end and made Steve climb up on the roof and dangle it down the chimney, reasoning that the mouse was hungry and tired and therefore couldn't make his way back UP the chimney. The cheese at the end of the string of fabric would not only give him sustenance, but a soft, inviting cloth ladder to safety. And it would have worked too, if he hadn't been a morning dove stuck in the chimney. They apparently don't care for cheddar, and don't climb well either. (He fell out with a loud un-mouselike clunk several days later.) No such luck with the tennis ball. Even dangerously under inflated due to the drill bit, it wouldn't smoosh. (Steve had painted it bright green so I could see it at night and the paint made it too stiff.) I was forced to take the car back to the dealership, the one bearing my name, and explain just how it is that I had broken my husband's new car so quickly. Red-faced I explained what I had done. The mechanic, much to his credit, gave but a small chuckle and then just YANKED the tennis ball out. No safety goggles, no protective headgear, not even a short prayer. Out popped the tennis ball and I was on my way in less than five minutes. Mercifully I was on my way WITHOUT having to fill out a work order where I would have had to confess my true identity and sirname. Thankfully I am not recognized at Simms Chevrolet as a Famous Quilter (gee, what a surprise) or as an infamous sister-in-law. When they do see my first name, most mechanics call me OMNI, like the car. (I'm AH-mee, like "SALAMI.")