conspiracy and paranoia

It's an odds and end sort of day.

Bri: Your new web design is like you.
Me: How so?
Bri: It's yellow and Asian. Just like you.

Well, there's no denying that, anyway.

The new design is, I believe, complete. There are no more dangly bits and unruly pages that have yet to be converted; if there are, I am unaware of them, at any rate. Some kinks with the notify page have been worked out at last, so those who have been waiting for a working notify page can now trot on over there and register. If y'all find any weirdnesses in any pages, just holler in the Comments.

That said, there's a salami haunting our kitchen.

How's that for segues?

It (the salami) has been there for weeks now -- months, in fact, though I only bothered to mention it a few days ago. I pass the kitchen and get the smell of salami smack in the face, an abusive blow that has no concern for personal space or human dignity. I have no objection to salami as a meat, though the concept of it leaves me cold; there is something very -- I'm groping for words here -- earthy? Bestial? about the smell of salami, (musty?) that makes me think of cavemen flopping about in their fetid condos, surrounded by week-old carcasses of dinners past.

The Guy swears that there is no salami in the kitchen, and yet I wonder. I do not put it past him to silently sneak one into the apartment and squirrel it away behind the refrigerator, though his motives for doing so escape me. I have never forbidden it in our house. Our small family believes less in 'you may not' than it does in 'I will.'

Anyway, there you go. A rogue salami is lurking in our kitchen. The Guy promises, face straight, to ferret it out. It is not beyond the realms of possibility that he mocks me on this matter.

Conspiracies run amock in the background of my life, as does paranoia. The salami is simply the tip of the sausage, if you will excuse the phallic and inappropriate metaphor. My car, whom I have always considered to be a cheery and willing participant in my life's endeavors when I thought of him at all, has abruptly started displaying an uglier, hitherto unsuspected side of his personality. It seems that he has long been brooding over wrongs unfathomed. News to me. I have always attempted to treat him with the same respect and consideration I extend to all my colleagues: oiling, feeding, washing. What abuses he is imagining has been his lot is beyond me; he does not communicate with me, obviously.

His likely counsellors in this would be the motorcycles, the Guy's and mine, parked in the same covered parking lot -- you see how I even protect him from rain? -- and I can see how it would be in their best interest to drive a wedge between us. A disloyal car is an untrustworthy car, and in a time of trial and travail, where else would a betrayed rider go but to her faithful motorcycle?

My first indication of the car's newfound sense of grievance was when he decided, case unfounded, that I was a car thief who had somehow managed to steal him from his rightful owner.

It is difficult to maintain a sense of dignity in the face of such pure irrationality. Attempts to gain access to my car are now almost always accompanied by the agitated honkings and wailings of the his alarm system; he has only the barest glimmer of respect for the unlocking remote, viewing it more as a cue to squeal for help than a courteous request from his legal owner to let her in, goddammit.

You simply cannot trust the inanimate. Just because they can't hold a knife doesn't mean they can't stab you in the back with one.

He's always at his worst right after Aikido.

I park him in the parking lot just in front of the dojo. From there, he can see directly into the dojo itself, a front-row seat to the stage of the mats. Who knows what's going through his maladjusted mind? "Oh, look. Yuhri got smacked down by a teenager. I'm a car. If he can take her, I can take her."

Whatever the reason, after class I stand in the rain, pushing futilely on the security fob while he attempts to trick me into opening the unlocked -- alarm-active -- door.

I have learned his tricks. I am wary, like a cat. I have learned much from my Aikido masters.

Click.

Bee-woop! Woop! Woop! Woop!

The locks pop up on the door -- I can see them through the window -- but it is an ambush. The first few times, I was caught by this pretence of compliance. "What is this 'woop woop!' crap?" I thought idly to myself, and opened the door, only to be driven away by an instant shriek of triumphant accusation.

BWAAAAH! BWAAAAAH! BWAAAAAH! HAAAAAHHHHHHNNNNNK! HAAAAAHHHHHHNNNNNK! "Help me! I'm being stolen! Oh, God, someone, help! Help!"

A true unlocking, an unlocking in which the alarm will not activate if I open the door, is heralded by a "bee-woop! Woop!"

Click.

Be-woop! Woop! Woop! Woop!

Inside the dojo, people talk in the aftermath of class. I can hear them from outside; my ongoing struggles with my car inevitably end up woven into the warp and weft of their conversations.

Click.

Be-woop! Woop!

He has learned new levels of sophistication, my car. I hop inside, relieved, only to hear a disturbing afterthought of "Woop! Woop!" still coming from the car security system. It is not, however, an alarm.

I put on my seatbelt. I put the key in the ignition. I turn it.

The car loses it. Caught red-handed! The police will have to arrest her now.

BWAAAAH! BWAAAAAH! BWAAAAAH! it screams. HAAAAAHHHHHHNNNNNK! HAAAAAHHHHHHNNNNNK! "Help me! Help me! I'm being stolen! Oh, for the love of God, she's going to sell me to slavers! They'll take out my kidneys and give them to rich, dying BMWs! Heeeeeeeeeeeeeelp!!"

Even when I have managed to win my way past his initial wails and complaints, even when I am actually seated in the driver's seat, he continues to wage war. Starting the engine starts in more screams and farts; it is unthinkable that any self-respecting human being would drive this cacophony of hysteria out of the parking lot and onto the freeway. There are California highway patrolmen to be considered, always on the alert for shrieking SUVs tripping gaily down 101.

There is much cursing while I fumble out the keys, search for the security fob, and smash its buttons. The wailing stops, only to be replaced by ominous, teary hiccups. (Woop. Woop.) I tumble out of the car, convinced any moment now the airbag will release and attempt to smash my face in. My features are already alarmingly two-dimensional; they require no assistance from a '97 Honda CRV.

Inside the dojo, the black belts and brown belts are nodding sagely. Were I at a supermarket or a dry cleaner's, people would be peering out the windows or staring out the door to see what was going on. Not the people at my dojo. They have grown accustomed.

I believe it entertains them. There is no understanding the blackness in people's hearts.

The car tricks me three more times before I am able to finally -- finally! -- negotiate him into surrender. We pass no bored policemen on the way home, and I drive precisely at the speed limit to prevent any unwanted attention. As outrageous as his behavior is when no authority figures are about, I can't imagine how he'd act if I were to be pulled over. He'd probably try to hump the police cruiser and take its battery hostage in exchange for a sub-woofers and a fast flight out of town.

He is still sulking when I pull into my parking lot at the apartment; I can tell from the steam rising from the hood.

I leave him to his buddies the motorcycles, and head hastily upstairs to change and shower. "Meet me at the restaurant?" I told the Guy on the way home, and I'm later than I expected.

I walk into the apartment. On the way to the bathroom, I am smacked in the face by salami BO.

What the hell is going on with my life?