"Our perceived enemy's ability to inflict harm on us is really quite limited. If someone challenges us and we can muster the inner discipline to resist retaliating, it is possible that, no matter what that person has done, those actions do not disturb us." -THE DALAI LAMA
Laura calls me back. I have a bad feeling about this. From my previous conversation with her (during which she repeated the same things over and over, and I ended up yelling at her), I realize that she is neither sympathetic to my situation nor interested in finding a way to help me. I do not trust Laura to have made my case. She claims to have spoken to the owner of the gym, who has insisted that I present proof of a change of address or hotel reservations for my entire trip in order to put my membership on hold.
"As I've told you," I respond, "I'll be on vacation. I won't be staying at hotels the whole time and I'm not changing my address. Do you want affidavits from the friends I'll be staying with?"
"I don't think that will work," Laura chirps.
I am glad not to be standing anywhere near Laura, because my inner bully is quickly rising to the surface; I try not to hiss.
"What if I bring in receipts from all the restaurants I eat in and dance lessons I take, all my movie ticket stubs, museum entry tickets, subway fares, and everything else I do while I'm gone; will THAT be sufficient to prove that I will be out of the country?"
"No, because you need to give us everything before you go, and the receipts would be after the fact," she chirps perkily.
I am quite certain that I am foaming at the mouth. "How about if I give you a copy of my plane ticket and reservations for hotels at the beginning and end of my trip?"
"I'll have to check with the owner," she perks chirpily.
I am most certainly foaming at the brain; however, I do my utmost to reply sweetly, perkily, and chirpily: "Okay. Please do that" -- while secretly calling upon evil spirits to haunt and torture Laura for the rest of her life and beyond. (I know that there are probably no evil spirits or that they won't be listening, but I can dream, can't I? Or, perhaps, Laura IS an evil spirit...?)
My mind is running wild with revenge fantasies, little ways I can take my frustrations out on Laura. The Dalai Lama would not approve.
I've actually already decided that I am not going to pay the $25.00 "Hold Fee" (equal to what I pay for my monthly membership), when I'll be returning two weeks into the next month's hold and will be refused entry to my zumba classes for the second half of August. I'm also convinced that Laura is going to come back to me with another negative response, anyway.
Two weeks pass. Laura has not called, and I will not confront her. My ire has subsided, my inner discipline restored. Hello, Dalai!
Monday, June 28, 2010
A Visit with Baby Doc (Richmond, VA)
I am miserable. I can't walk comfortably, which means I can't salsa or zumba. The ball of my foot is aching, so I find an orthopedist (orthopod?) who specializes in problems of the foot and ankle.
If you're like me, you never saw the TV show "Doogie Howser"(sp?), but you might be familiar with the premise (or perhaps I'm making it up): a 15-year-old is a brilliant medical practitioner.
Well, my foot doctor looks like that guy's younger brother.
Doogie, Jr. lopes into the examining room and, without niceties or preamble (such as: "Hello, how are you?" or "What brings you here today?"), asks: "How old are you?"
The response I want to give is: "How old are YOU?" but I refrain and tell him, instead, my age.
"Diabetes?" he asks.
I barely resist the urge to reply, "Cancer?"
My back is up. Of course, now that I'm in his office, my foot doesn't even hurt, but I'm upset about wasting my time and my co-payment on a young whippersnapper who lacks any discernible bedside -- or even roadside -- manner.
X-rays reveal no broken bones (even as a result of the stiletto-ing I received from somebody's heel a couple of months ago). Junior starts pressing different areas of my foot. When he jabs his finger so far into the top of my foot that I fear it will emerge through my very soul, I yelp.
"Your toe is swollen," he says.
"And you're the one who swolled it!" I want to shout. I resist both making the accusation and using the incorrect verb conjugation. The ball of my foot doesn't hurt a bit; the toe throbs.
"You need a splint," he says. "If that doesn't work, come back next week for a cortisone shot."
I am not into needles and don't want them into me. "If the splint doesn't work, what are my alternatives?" I ask.
He picks up one of my shoes and bends it until it almost breaks in half. "You need a shoe with a stiff sole. Buy one from us or go through your closet."
Little Doogie has, obviously, never gone through my closet, and I don't have all year to search for a hard-soled shoe, so I ask to view his collection. He leaves, leaving me to ponder whether the styles will resemble running shoes or comfortable but hideous, old-lady shoes.
His assistant returns with something that you'd wear after a major skiing accident.
"This will not work for me in Mexico," I think. "What's another option?" I ask the mock doc when he returns.
"A metal plate you put in your shoe," he says. "If that doesn't work, come back next week for the cortisone shot."
Baby Doc's obviously stuck in an eager-to-inject mindset. I'm in escape mode.
I go straight-away to the pharmacy where Doctini said I'd find the splint. He wrote down the name of the item, but when I reach the store, I can't find the note.
"I'm looking for a something for my toe. A bindi splint? (Some kind of henna-painting device?) A Burundi splint? A banana splint?"
The guy behind the counter looks at me as if I were crazier than I am. Whatever it is that I want, he doesn't have it -- or a clue.
I approach another employee. She Googles and identifies what I'm searching for: a budin splint. We both scan the shelves and locate something by another name.
When I go out the next day, I wear the booty splint for about an hour. My digit is red, swollen, throbbing -- in such pain that I tear the thing off (the splint, not the toe) and ditch it. Wow! I feel better!
A little while later, the original pain returns. What am I to do?
The cortisone shot's a no-brainer; I'm not going to get it for my toe, either.
Forget about the metal plate. Trying to explain that it's not a weapon, as I am forced out of the boarding line on the way to my airplane to Mexico, is about as appealing as trying to get through Customs with a thousand condoms. (See my first blog entry.)
I'm going to try the rest-and-hope-for-the-best method. Hopefully, it'll work, and I'll dance my way through Mexico.
And if I'm still in pain when I get back to the States, I'm going to find a grown-up, mature, professional doctor who'll greet me before he suggests splints, metal plates, cortisone shots, or amputation. A nice "hello" and a smile always make me feel better...
If you're like me, you never saw the TV show "Doogie Howser"(sp?), but you might be familiar with the premise (or perhaps I'm making it up): a 15-year-old is a brilliant medical practitioner.
Well, my foot doctor looks like that guy's younger brother.
Doogie, Jr. lopes into the examining room and, without niceties or preamble (such as: "Hello, how are you?" or "What brings you here today?"), asks: "How old are you?"
The response I want to give is: "How old are YOU?" but I refrain and tell him, instead, my age.
"Diabetes?" he asks.
I barely resist the urge to reply, "Cancer?"
My back is up. Of course, now that I'm in his office, my foot doesn't even hurt, but I'm upset about wasting my time and my co-payment on a young whippersnapper who lacks any discernible bedside -- or even roadside -- manner.
X-rays reveal no broken bones (even as a result of the stiletto-ing I received from somebody's heel a couple of months ago). Junior starts pressing different areas of my foot. When he jabs his finger so far into the top of my foot that I fear it will emerge through my very soul, I yelp.
"Your toe is swollen," he says.
"And you're the one who swolled it!" I want to shout. I resist both making the accusation and using the incorrect verb conjugation. The ball of my foot doesn't hurt a bit; the toe throbs.
"You need a splint," he says. "If that doesn't work, come back next week for a cortisone shot."
I am not into needles and don't want them into me. "If the splint doesn't work, what are my alternatives?" I ask.
He picks up one of my shoes and bends it until it almost breaks in half. "You need a shoe with a stiff sole. Buy one from us or go through your closet."
Little Doogie has, obviously, never gone through my closet, and I don't have all year to search for a hard-soled shoe, so I ask to view his collection. He leaves, leaving me to ponder whether the styles will resemble running shoes or comfortable but hideous, old-lady shoes.
His assistant returns with something that you'd wear after a major skiing accident.
"This will not work for me in Mexico," I think. "What's another option?" I ask the mock doc when he returns.
"A metal plate you put in your shoe," he says. "If that doesn't work, come back next week for the cortisone shot."
Baby Doc's obviously stuck in an eager-to-inject mindset. I'm in escape mode.
I go straight-away to the pharmacy where Doctini said I'd find the splint. He wrote down the name of the item, but when I reach the store, I can't find the note.
"I'm looking for a something for my toe. A bindi splint? (Some kind of henna-painting device?) A Burundi splint? A banana splint?"
The guy behind the counter looks at me as if I were crazier than I am. Whatever it is that I want, he doesn't have it -- or a clue.
I approach another employee. She Googles and identifies what I'm searching for: a budin splint. We both scan the shelves and locate something by another name.
When I go out the next day, I wear the booty splint for about an hour. My digit is red, swollen, throbbing -- in such pain that I tear the thing off (the splint, not the toe) and ditch it. Wow! I feel better!
A little while later, the original pain returns. What am I to do?
The cortisone shot's a no-brainer; I'm not going to get it for my toe, either.
Forget about the metal plate. Trying to explain that it's not a weapon, as I am forced out of the boarding line on the way to my airplane to Mexico, is about as appealing as trying to get through Customs with a thousand condoms. (See my first blog entry.)
I'm going to try the rest-and-hope-for-the-best method. Hopefully, it'll work, and I'll dance my way through Mexico.
And if I'm still in pain when I get back to the States, I'm going to find a grown-up, mature, professional doctor who'll greet me before he suggests splints, metal plates, cortisone shots, or amputation. A nice "hello" and a smile always make me feel better...
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Do You Follow Me? (Richmond, VA)
I don't have many (admitted) followers -- you 12 wonderful people know who you are -- on this blog (which I just typed as "flog"), and you guys (if you are even reading this) are not very vocal. What I mean to write is that you don't talk or write back much, if ever.
So, I'm feeling somewhat amazed that, although they don't list themselves as followers, I seem to have developed a somewhat dedicated group of Korean readers. They comment on virtually every entry I post, and although my Google translations of their reactions are at best, thought-provoking and perhaps even philosophical, and at worst, utterly nonsensical, I am pleased and proud to know that someones, somewhere out in cyberspace, are responding to my prose.
I mention this to my son and add that, for some mysterious reason, the Korean comments have disappeared -- leaving only my responses to them. He bursts the bubble of my disillusions. "Mom, that's just spam," he tells me, eyes rolling at my unbelievable naivete.
Now, what you need to know is that my son, as is true of others of his age and generation, as well as of most people alive today, is completely at ease with every possible form of technology, even those that are yet to be invented.
I, on the other hand, am an anachronism. I am still afraid of breaking my laptop or PC every time I turn them on. Computer languages, when I made the mistake of trying to study one (COBOL????) years ago, were Geek to me. To this day, "byte" conjures up a misspelled word referring to snacking or dental problems. "Bit" means little to me, whether or not it refers to computers. I don't understand the concepts behind the internet, the ether net, or how or if any network works.
If you think all this is strange and pathetic, I'm going to make my lack of knowledge and skills even more apparent by admitting the following: I've never learned how to use the DVD player or VCR; now I can't even remember how to operate the TV. (Excuse/rationalization: I'm rarely home and would rather read than watch television or movies when I am. Give me a good book or allow me to go to sleep.)
Given my total lack of technological savvy, I suspect that someone, perhaps the Head of Acquisitions for Ripley's Believe It or Not Museum, will some day request and taxiderm my body -- after or before I die. He or she will, no doubt, post several signs around me in the exhibition, in which I will be posed, brow-furrowed, shoulders shrugging, elbows bent, arms ending in upturned palms. The signs will read: LAST PERSON ON EARTH TO NEVER GET TECHNOLOGY; DOESN'T KNOW HOW TO TEXT; STILL USES A CAMERA WITH FILM; NOT ON FACEBOOK; and ??????????.
Whether or not you visit my shell in the museum, please try to understand that I find the very idea of blogging incredibly intimidating, the thought of sharing my outermost thoughts (surely you don't believe that I would tell you everything when I might not even know you, whether or not you live in Korea) challenging, strange, and scary. If you're really out there, please let me know. Preferably, in English.
So, I'm feeling somewhat amazed that, although they don't list themselves as followers, I seem to have developed a somewhat dedicated group of Korean readers. They comment on virtually every entry I post, and although my Google translations of their reactions are at best, thought-provoking and perhaps even philosophical, and at worst, utterly nonsensical, I am pleased and proud to know that someones, somewhere out in cyberspace, are responding to my prose.
I mention this to my son and add that, for some mysterious reason, the Korean comments have disappeared -- leaving only my responses to them. He bursts the bubble of my disillusions. "Mom, that's just spam," he tells me, eyes rolling at my unbelievable naivete.
Now, what you need to know is that my son, as is true of others of his age and generation, as well as of most people alive today, is completely at ease with every possible form of technology, even those that are yet to be invented.
I, on the other hand, am an anachronism. I am still afraid of breaking my laptop or PC every time I turn them on. Computer languages, when I made the mistake of trying to study one (COBOL????) years ago, were Geek to me. To this day, "byte" conjures up a misspelled word referring to snacking or dental problems. "Bit" means little to me, whether or not it refers to computers. I don't understand the concepts behind the internet, the ether net, or how or if any network works.
If you think all this is strange and pathetic, I'm going to make my lack of knowledge and skills even more apparent by admitting the following: I've never learned how to use the DVD player or VCR; now I can't even remember how to operate the TV. (Excuse/rationalization: I'm rarely home and would rather read than watch television or movies when I am. Give me a good book or allow me to go to sleep.)
Given my total lack of technological savvy, I suspect that someone, perhaps the Head of Acquisitions for Ripley's Believe It or Not Museum, will some day request and taxiderm my body -- after or before I die. He or she will, no doubt, post several signs around me in the exhibition, in which I will be posed, brow-furrowed, shoulders shrugging, elbows bent, arms ending in upturned palms. The signs will read: LAST PERSON ON EARTH TO NEVER GET TECHNOLOGY; DOESN'T KNOW HOW TO TEXT; STILL USES A CAMERA WITH FILM; NOT ON FACEBOOK; and ??????????.
Whether or not you visit my shell in the museum, please try to understand that I find the very idea of blogging incredibly intimidating, the thought of sharing my outermost thoughts (surely you don't believe that I would tell you everything when I might not even know you, whether or not you live in Korea) challenging, strange, and scary. If you're really out there, please let me know. Preferably, in English.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
On Hold (Richmond, VA)
Before taking off for Mexico, I've got to put my gym membership on hold for two months. I stop by the desk and ask if I can inform them right then and there. "No," I'm told. "You've got to call the number of (let's just call the company:) MotionSick. They handle that for us."
I spend half an hour on the phone the next day, waiting to speak to a MotionSick representative. When I finally do reach a human being, he informs me that I have to communicate directly with the gym. "They told me to call you," I tell him. "They gave me this little card with the company name and number on it yesterday."
"Well, they just changed their procedures and, as of today, we no longer handle holds."
I call the gym and am told to call "Laura" (let's call her that because that's her actual name), the general manager, who'll be back in a bit. I call her four times. The last time, I leave a detailed message: "I want to put my membership on hold for July and August," I say. I know that I have to do so a month in advance, so I'm adamant about the message reaching her, even if I don't.
Laura's message is on my answering machine when I arrive home. "Call me!" she chirps.
I call her. She's unavailable. I leave a message.
Laura returns my call.
"I'll be out of town for a month and a half," I tell her, "so I'd like to put my membership on hold for two months."
"We'll need to see proof of your new residence," she replies.
"I'm not moving to a new residence; I'm going on vacation," I tell her.
"We'll need proof of your hotel reservation," she says.
"I don't have any hotel reservations. I'm not even sure where I'll be when, but I'll be staying with friends and traveling around the country," I say. "I've been doing this every year since I joined the gym, and I've never been asked for anything like this before."
"It's a new policy. Plus you have to pay $25.00."
"What???? I've never heard of this and haven't received anything in writing about it. There was nothing in the contract I recently signed..."
"It's not in the contract and we didn't notify anyone."
"This is ridiculous!" I am shouting now.
My husband, overhearing my rising voice and growing frustration, is saying, "Tell them you're canceling your membership!"
"Well, we need proof of your being out of the country," Laura says.
"I don't have an address, but I can bring a copy of my electronic plane ticket," I suggest.
"We can't accept that. We need proof of where you're staying," she chirps.
"I DON'T KNOW WHERE I'LL BE STAYING," I shout.
I ask to speak to the gym's owner. She is not available. "I'll discuss this with her," Laura says. Just what I need!
I wait a day and don't hear anything, so I call (let's call her) Naomi (because that's her name). I want to request a meeting, but the person who answers the phone says that Naomi is unavailable. I can leave a message, she tells me, "or you can speak to Laura."
I'm still waiting for a call back.
I spend half an hour on the phone the next day, waiting to speak to a MotionSick representative. When I finally do reach a human being, he informs me that I have to communicate directly with the gym. "They told me to call you," I tell him. "They gave me this little card with the company name and number on it yesterday."
"Well, they just changed their procedures and, as of today, we no longer handle holds."
I call the gym and am told to call "Laura" (let's call her that because that's her actual name), the general manager, who'll be back in a bit. I call her four times. The last time, I leave a detailed message: "I want to put my membership on hold for July and August," I say. I know that I have to do so a month in advance, so I'm adamant about the message reaching her, even if I don't.
Laura's message is on my answering machine when I arrive home. "Call me!" she chirps.
I call her. She's unavailable. I leave a message.
Laura returns my call.
"I'll be out of town for a month and a half," I tell her, "so I'd like to put my membership on hold for two months."
"We'll need to see proof of your new residence," she replies.
"I'm not moving to a new residence; I'm going on vacation," I tell her.
"We'll need proof of your hotel reservation," she says.
"I don't have any hotel reservations. I'm not even sure where I'll be when, but I'll be staying with friends and traveling around the country," I say. "I've been doing this every year since I joined the gym, and I've never been asked for anything like this before."
"It's a new policy. Plus you have to pay $25.00."
"What???? I've never heard of this and haven't received anything in writing about it. There was nothing in the contract I recently signed..."
"It's not in the contract and we didn't notify anyone."
"This is ridiculous!" I am shouting now.
My husband, overhearing my rising voice and growing frustration, is saying, "Tell them you're canceling your membership!"
"Well, we need proof of your being out of the country," Laura says.
"I don't have an address, but I can bring a copy of my electronic plane ticket," I suggest.
"We can't accept that. We need proof of where you're staying," she chirps.
"I DON'T KNOW WHERE I'LL BE STAYING," I shout.
I ask to speak to the gym's owner. She is not available. "I'll discuss this with her," Laura says. Just what I need!
I wait a day and don't hear anything, so I call (let's call her) Naomi (because that's her name). I want to request a meeting, but the person who answers the phone says that Naomi is unavailable. I can leave a message, she tells me, "or you can speak to Laura."
I'm still waiting for a call back.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Car Talk (Richmond, VA)
Not having a car takes me back to memories of several cars from my past, which I will share with you if you will please keep me in mind when you come across a cheap, dependable vehicle. Or even if you don't...
My Father's Car(s)
My earliest auto-memory is of my dad's car, a huge, dark-colored (black? navy?) thing without air conditioning or seat belts, but roomy enough to transport my brother, grandmother, great aunt, and me in the back seat. I recall the supply of jumbo-sized, paper malted cups that always traveled with us because, as soon as I would enter the vehicle, I'd get carsick. Eventually and inevitably, I would throw up -- almost always on my aunt.
Same or similar automobile, a Plymouth, I think. Trips to the beach. We were like the ubiquitous, tiny circus cars, spilling out a seemingly endless stream of people: my Mom, sporting sunglasses and swaddled in white towels, parked in a lawn chair under an umbrella, a lock of blue-black hair peeking out from under her Chinese straw hat; my father, a Paul Newman look-alike with clear, bright-blue eyes, olive skin, and what remained of his once platinum blond-turned brown hair; my brother, dark skinned, green-eyes lushly lashed, and thick, black waves of hair; our best friends (Chinese), the Chins -- Richard, Marion, and Frances -- and the Braillor (sp?) boys, with their steely gray eyes and white-blond hair; and me, a mop of curly reddish brown curls, blue-gray eyes in a sea of freckles, skin turning lobster-red at the first touch of sun. A swarm of children surrounding my mummy-like mommy, we were always a curiosity for passers by.
"What is the Mother?" we'd hear them ask each other.
The Green Car
A small, olive-colored station wagon with faux-wood panels and a dashboard that had somehow split down the middle. By far one of the most hideous vehicles around, but as with some ultra-ugly dogs, cute in its own way.
One day, my husband and I decide to see a movie matinee and park the green car behind a Chinese restaurant, under the "No Parking after 5:00 p.m." sign. It's mid-afternoon, and we're not worried. But the start-time listed in the newspaper is wrong, and we go home, returning a few hours later. We park and race into the theater.
I don't remember the film we saw but I do recall the surprise I felt when we returned to the lot. No car! It's only 5:30, there are plenty of parking spaces and not so many diners at such an early hour. We enter the restaurant and ask for the manager. "Did you have our car towed?"
"No, we never do that," he assures us.
I turn to my husband. "Somebody stole the green car!"
I cannot believe it. Who would stoop to such a thing? Only the most desperate of desperados. Someone with no conscious, no shame, and no friends.
The manager allows us to use the phone to call the police to report the theft and to call my father-in-law to come and pick us up. As my husband explains the situation in which we have lost ourselves, I realize that someone depraved enough to steal the world's ugliest car will most certainly check out the world's ugliest glove compartment and find the registration.
"The perpetrator (no, I didn't exactly use that word) is probably on the way to our house to rob us," I tell M. "Call Kenny and tell him to keep an eye out for the car." My husband does just that, as visions of our next door neighbor -- a state policeman with a household armory -- waiting in ambush and armed to the teeth and nails and blowing the perp to Kingdom come and gone, play out in my mind.
We walk outside. I am in shock. I pace back and forth on the sidewalk, walking a bit further each time. The police car pulls up, the officer gets out. I watch as M tells our tale of woe and the officer makes notes. I continue walking. When I reach the corner, I turn to walk back and, out of the corner of my eye, I spy the green car -- parked exactly where we'd stationed it on our return trip to the theater.
I run towards the officer and M. "They've abandoned the car!" I yell and point. "Right there!"
The officer gives us a strange look. M. turns an incredible shade of red.
After calling his father, M. and I do not exchange a word or even look at one another on the drive home. Until we get to within a block of our house. It is than that I remember that Kenny will be on the lookout for whomever drives up in the green car.
"We need to park here and you need to tell Kenny what happened," I tell M.
"I'm not going to do that," he says.
"What do you mean? You need to tell him. You're the man!"
"That's exactly why I'm not going to tell him," he says.
Silver Escort
It's been about a week since we've moved into our new house in an old neighborhood. We're getting settled, unpacking, decorating, excited about the big kitchen, the view into downtown, the friendly neighbors.
A friend pops in, and we walk to a nearby cafe for breakfast. "That's odd," I think to myself on the way back. "I thought I parked the car in front of the house."
"Did you move the car?" I ask M. when I go inside.
"It's out front," he says.
I walk back outside, up and down the block. There's no silver Ford Escort on either side of the street. "It's not there!" I cry. All my good feelings about the area we've just moved to vanish. I feel disappointed, betrayed, violated.
We call the police and the insurance company. M. has to drive me to my class that evening. He and our son, R., pick me up two hours later.
"We've got good news and bad news," M. tells me as I climb into his car. Before I can ask, he says, "We found your car! R. and I went for a walk in the neighborhood, and it was two blocks away, across the street from Jefferson Park. We went over, put the Club back on the steering wheel and ran home to get the keys."
"So why didn't you pick me up in it?"
"Because when we got back, it was gone again..."
"How can that be?" I cry.
"We couldn't figure it out," says M, "but then I realized that whoever took the car had to have the keys. I couldn't find mine when I was looking for them, so we'd just taken yours. And when I checked the shorts I was wearing yesterday, I noticed a hole in the pocket...."
I actually feel a lot better knowing that the carnapper had not broken into my hatchback; the keys were probably right there on the ground beside the door, and he was merely accepting the invitation to use the car.
At midnight, the phone wakes us. The police are calling to say they've located the car. They ask me to come get it. "Where is it?" I ask.
"Walk out your door and turn left," the officer instructs.
I see the patrol car, blue lights flashing, and my car half a block away. The officer explains that she'd seen a car pass by with its radio blaring and only one headlight shining. She'd turned her siren on and the driver jumped out and ran away. When she'd radioed in, she was told that it was my stolen car.
The thief never touched the toll change nor removed any objects from the car. He hadn't put on a whole lot of miles, and he even left the keys in the ignition for me. And he'd almost parked the vehicle back where it belonged.
My Father's Car(s)
My earliest auto-memory is of my dad's car, a huge, dark-colored (black? navy?) thing without air conditioning or seat belts, but roomy enough to transport my brother, grandmother, great aunt, and me in the back seat. I recall the supply of jumbo-sized, paper malted cups that always traveled with us because, as soon as I would enter the vehicle, I'd get carsick. Eventually and inevitably, I would throw up -- almost always on my aunt.
Same or similar automobile, a Plymouth, I think. Trips to the beach. We were like the ubiquitous, tiny circus cars, spilling out a seemingly endless stream of people: my Mom, sporting sunglasses and swaddled in white towels, parked in a lawn chair under an umbrella, a lock of blue-black hair peeking out from under her Chinese straw hat; my father, a Paul Newman look-alike with clear, bright-blue eyes, olive skin, and what remained of his once platinum blond-turned brown hair; my brother, dark skinned, green-eyes lushly lashed, and thick, black waves of hair; our best friends (Chinese), the Chins -- Richard, Marion, and Frances -- and the Braillor (sp?) boys, with their steely gray eyes and white-blond hair; and me, a mop of curly reddish brown curls, blue-gray eyes in a sea of freckles, skin turning lobster-red at the first touch of sun. A swarm of children surrounding my mummy-like mommy, we were always a curiosity for passers by.
"What is the Mother?" we'd hear them ask each other.
The Green Car
A small, olive-colored station wagon with faux-wood panels and a dashboard that had somehow split down the middle. By far one of the most hideous vehicles around, but as with some ultra-ugly dogs, cute in its own way.
One day, my husband and I decide to see a movie matinee and park the green car behind a Chinese restaurant, under the "No Parking after 5:00 p.m." sign. It's mid-afternoon, and we're not worried. But the start-time listed in the newspaper is wrong, and we go home, returning a few hours later. We park and race into the theater.
I don't remember the film we saw but I do recall the surprise I felt when we returned to the lot. No car! It's only 5:30, there are plenty of parking spaces and not so many diners at such an early hour. We enter the restaurant and ask for the manager. "Did you have our car towed?"
"No, we never do that," he assures us.
I turn to my husband. "Somebody stole the green car!"
I cannot believe it. Who would stoop to such a thing? Only the most desperate of desperados. Someone with no conscious, no shame, and no friends.
The manager allows us to use the phone to call the police to report the theft and to call my father-in-law to come and pick us up. As my husband explains the situation in which we have lost ourselves, I realize that someone depraved enough to steal the world's ugliest car will most certainly check out the world's ugliest glove compartment and find the registration.
"The perpetrator (no, I didn't exactly use that word) is probably on the way to our house to rob us," I tell M. "Call Kenny and tell him to keep an eye out for the car." My husband does just that, as visions of our next door neighbor -- a state policeman with a household armory -- waiting in ambush and armed to the teeth and nails and blowing the perp to Kingdom come and gone, play out in my mind.
We walk outside. I am in shock. I pace back and forth on the sidewalk, walking a bit further each time. The police car pulls up, the officer gets out. I watch as M tells our tale of woe and the officer makes notes. I continue walking. When I reach the corner, I turn to walk back and, out of the corner of my eye, I spy the green car -- parked exactly where we'd stationed it on our return trip to the theater.
I run towards the officer and M. "They've abandoned the car!" I yell and point. "Right there!"
The officer gives us a strange look. M. turns an incredible shade of red.
After calling his father, M. and I do not exchange a word or even look at one another on the drive home. Until we get to within a block of our house. It is than that I remember that Kenny will be on the lookout for whomever drives up in the green car.
"We need to park here and you need to tell Kenny what happened," I tell M.
"I'm not going to do that," he says.
"What do you mean? You need to tell him. You're the man!"
"That's exactly why I'm not going to tell him," he says.
Silver Escort
It's been about a week since we've moved into our new house in an old neighborhood. We're getting settled, unpacking, decorating, excited about the big kitchen, the view into downtown, the friendly neighbors.
A friend pops in, and we walk to a nearby cafe for breakfast. "That's odd," I think to myself on the way back. "I thought I parked the car in front of the house."
"Did you move the car?" I ask M. when I go inside.
"It's out front," he says.
I walk back outside, up and down the block. There's no silver Ford Escort on either side of the street. "It's not there!" I cry. All my good feelings about the area we've just moved to vanish. I feel disappointed, betrayed, violated.
We call the police and the insurance company. M. has to drive me to my class that evening. He and our son, R., pick me up two hours later.
"We've got good news and bad news," M. tells me as I climb into his car. Before I can ask, he says, "We found your car! R. and I went for a walk in the neighborhood, and it was two blocks away, across the street from Jefferson Park. We went over, put the Club back on the steering wheel and ran home to get the keys."
"So why didn't you pick me up in it?"
"Because when we got back, it was gone again..."
"How can that be?" I cry.
"We couldn't figure it out," says M, "but then I realized that whoever took the car had to have the keys. I couldn't find mine when I was looking for them, so we'd just taken yours. And when I checked the shorts I was wearing yesterday, I noticed a hole in the pocket...."
I actually feel a lot better knowing that the carnapper had not broken into my hatchback; the keys were probably right there on the ground beside the door, and he was merely accepting the invitation to use the car.
At midnight, the phone wakes us. The police are calling to say they've located the car. They ask me to come get it. "Where is it?" I ask.
"Walk out your door and turn left," the officer instructs.
I see the patrol car, blue lights flashing, and my car half a block away. The officer explains that she'd seen a car pass by with its radio blaring and only one headlight shining. She'd turned her siren on and the driver jumped out and ran away. When she'd radioed in, she was told that it was my stolen car.
The thief never touched the toll change nor removed any objects from the car. He hadn't put on a whole lot of miles, and he even left the keys in the ignition for me. And he'd almost parked the vehicle back where it belonged.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Out of Transmission (Richmond, VA)
I'm doing 60-65 mph on the interstate, on my way to a meeting. There's no more construction along the highways I'm traveling and traffic is moving well. The meeting doesn't start until 10:00 a.m., but at the rate I'm going, I'll arrive early enough to enjoy 30 minutes of coffee and conversation before we launch into business.
I ease over to 8A and slow down to the posted exit speed. Uh-oh. I'm hitting the gas pedal, but I'm just hearing a really loud noise and the car doesn't respond. "Come on, come on," I urge.
The car doesn't listen.
I put on the flashers and try to move over to the right lane. Drivers are beeping but not allowing me to get there, despite the powerful waves of panic emanating from the person trapped inside my barely limping vehicle; the waves are so obvious, so strong,that surely they are powerful enough to penetrate the drivers' thick crania. I guess not. The thick skulls and their accompanying bodies zoom by in their cooperative vehicles. Mine has started to smoke and smell bad. I do not allow smoking anywhere near me, but my car won't listen.
So here I am, parked in the weedy triangle between exit and entrance ramps. There are no signs to tell me where exactly "here" is, but I call AAA and try to calmly describe my situation.
"MY CAR IS DEAD!" I say. Other vehicles whiz by, making it difficult to understand the person with whom I am speaking. "I got off of 395 North at Exit 8A, but I don't know how far I've gone and there are no signs and I'm not sure where I am."
The voice on the line is calm and reassuring. It promises help within half an hour.
When the tow truck finally finds me, its driver confirms my diagnosis. The transmission is shot. "It'll cost you prob'ly between $1500 and $2000 to fix it," he says. "Ya think it's worth it?"
I don't, but I figure he knows more about cars than I do. "It's got about 150,000 miles on it," I tell him. He shakes his head.
He tows my car to the closest station. They tell me that it'll cost about $3,000. I kiss the car goodbye.
Well, I don't actually kiss it because it's pretty dirty. But I do empty out all the bags, books, magazines, dancing shoes, canvas fold-up chairs, oil, windshield washer, radiator and other miscellaneous car-related fluids, coins, fly swatters, toy groceries, a blanket, an emergency kit, and approximately four years' of accumulated, un-identifiables from the seats, glove compartment, floors and trunk.
I watch the car formerly known as mine as it is towed away to its final resting place. It will be sold for parts and compacted into an unrecognizable mini-mass. I silently say goodbye, because the car never listened to me before; why would it start now?
I spend most of the day waiting, surrounded by bags and crates and pounds and mounds of stuff, for M. to pick me up.
This is not the first time I've driven a vehicle into the ground and it probably won't be the last. I need a cheap, reliable (mutually exclusive?), and, preferably, cute -- or at least presentable -- replacement ASAP!
If you've got any ideas (or better yet, a car that you'd like to offer me for way, way less than it's worth), please let me know.
I ease over to 8A and slow down to the posted exit speed. Uh-oh. I'm hitting the gas pedal, but I'm just hearing a really loud noise and the car doesn't respond. "Come on, come on," I urge.
The car doesn't listen.
I put on the flashers and try to move over to the right lane. Drivers are beeping but not allowing me to get there, despite the powerful waves of panic emanating from the person trapped inside my barely limping vehicle; the waves are so obvious, so strong,that surely they are powerful enough to penetrate the drivers' thick crania. I guess not. The thick skulls and their accompanying bodies zoom by in their cooperative vehicles. Mine has started to smoke and smell bad. I do not allow smoking anywhere near me, but my car won't listen.
So here I am, parked in the weedy triangle between exit and entrance ramps. There are no signs to tell me where exactly "here" is, but I call AAA and try to calmly describe my situation.
"MY CAR IS DEAD!" I say. Other vehicles whiz by, making it difficult to understand the person with whom I am speaking. "I got off of 395 North at Exit 8A, but I don't know how far I've gone and there are no signs and I'm not sure where I am."
The voice on the line is calm and reassuring. It promises help within half an hour.
When the tow truck finally finds me, its driver confirms my diagnosis. The transmission is shot. "It'll cost you prob'ly between $1500 and $2000 to fix it," he says. "Ya think it's worth it?"
I don't, but I figure he knows more about cars than I do. "It's got about 150,000 miles on it," I tell him. He shakes his head.
He tows my car to the closest station. They tell me that it'll cost about $3,000. I kiss the car goodbye.
Well, I don't actually kiss it because it's pretty dirty. But I do empty out all the bags, books, magazines, dancing shoes, canvas fold-up chairs, oil, windshield washer, radiator and other miscellaneous car-related fluids, coins, fly swatters, toy groceries, a blanket, an emergency kit, and approximately four years' of accumulated, un-identifiables from the seats, glove compartment, floors and trunk.
I watch the car formerly known as mine as it is towed away to its final resting place. It will be sold for parts and compacted into an unrecognizable mini-mass. I silently say goodbye, because the car never listened to me before; why would it start now?
I spend most of the day waiting, surrounded by bags and crates and pounds and mounds of stuff, for M. to pick me up.
This is not the first time I've driven a vehicle into the ground and it probably won't be the last. I need a cheap, reliable (mutually exclusive?), and, preferably, cute -- or at least presentable -- replacement ASAP!
If you've got any ideas (or better yet, a car that you'd like to offer me for way, way less than it's worth), please let me know.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Dealing with Dancers (Richmond, VA)
Thursday night at Club Q. I take the salsa lesson, along with some of the usual suspects and a few newbies: a couple of women who are fast learners; a Latina, who's got the moves down pat and has probably had them since long before her birth; and the Latina's companion, a gringo with no rhythm, lead feet, and a low tolerance for his own ineptitude. We move through the lesson more slowly than usual.
In the women's restroom, where I go to freshen up, hangs a poster announcing that tonight is a 5-DJ-Birthday-Celebration. This is confirmed by the appearance of a ton of equipment, which is being set up on the stage even as I re-freshen. The music starts and dancers begin trickling into the club.
My "old" friend, dancer extraordinaire, and recent college grad Kim is back in town. Tall and strong, he greets me by literally sweeping me off my feet, with a grand reunion hug.
The music booms so loudly that Kim winces and cups his ears. I happen to have an extra pair of earplugs in my bag, so I gift them to him. With our earplugs blocking all sound (with the exception of the blaring music), we resort to lip-reading and sign language. We eventually give up all attempts to communicate, as lip-reading and signing are difficult to do while one is twirling or being twirled around the dance floor.
Kim dances with me several times. A natural salsero, he is even more adept than I remember and has progressed way beyond my ability to follow his intricate moves. I remain on my feet, but just barely.
I dance with others throughout the evening. At one point, Kim approaches holding his ear -- which is still, incidentally, attached to his head. He has, it is obvious, lost one of the little green earplugs, which are prone to popping out of one's ears and under someone's shoe while one is executing complex turns.
"Wait," I tell him. "I think I've got an extra."
I locate my bag, which I'd stashed under my jacket and street shoes, and take it to an area where there is enough light to allow me to scrounge around for the earplug. After about 30 seconds, I fish out the spongy item -- and with a flourish and a triumphant "TA-DA!" -- I hand it to my friend. Kim is so grateful that he hoists me into the air again.
Upon consummating this transaction, I realize that, in the midst of this shadowy, bouncer-filled club, a-swirl with dancers and drinkers; with police stationed outside and with plain-clothes officers (no doubt) stationed inside, preparing themselves for multiple and sundry trespasses of local, state, and national laws; it is only then that I realize that the little scene in which I was the principal player could easily be misconstrued, misinterpreted, and mistaken for a drug deal.
Several moments fraught with fear and paranoia ensue and pass. When I am neither detained for questioning nor hauled off to the police station nor revealed on TV news as a woman of a certain age dealing earplugs, I return to the core of why I am at Club Q on Thursday evening at 10:45 p.m. I am no dealer but I am addicted -- to dancing.
In the women's restroom, where I go to freshen up, hangs a poster announcing that tonight is a 5-DJ-Birthday-Celebration. This is confirmed by the appearance of a ton of equipment, which is being set up on the stage even as I re-freshen. The music starts and dancers begin trickling into the club.
My "old" friend, dancer extraordinaire, and recent college grad Kim is back in town. Tall and strong, he greets me by literally sweeping me off my feet, with a grand reunion hug.
The music booms so loudly that Kim winces and cups his ears. I happen to have an extra pair of earplugs in my bag, so I gift them to him. With our earplugs blocking all sound (with the exception of the blaring music), we resort to lip-reading and sign language. We eventually give up all attempts to communicate, as lip-reading and signing are difficult to do while one is twirling or being twirled around the dance floor.
Kim dances with me several times. A natural salsero, he is even more adept than I remember and has progressed way beyond my ability to follow his intricate moves. I remain on my feet, but just barely.
I dance with others throughout the evening. At one point, Kim approaches holding his ear -- which is still, incidentally, attached to his head. He has, it is obvious, lost one of the little green earplugs, which are prone to popping out of one's ears and under someone's shoe while one is executing complex turns.
"Wait," I tell him. "I think I've got an extra."
I locate my bag, which I'd stashed under my jacket and street shoes, and take it to an area where there is enough light to allow me to scrounge around for the earplug. After about 30 seconds, I fish out the spongy item -- and with a flourish and a triumphant "TA-DA!" -- I hand it to my friend. Kim is so grateful that he hoists me into the air again.
Upon consummating this transaction, I realize that, in the midst of this shadowy, bouncer-filled club, a-swirl with dancers and drinkers; with police stationed outside and with plain-clothes officers (no doubt) stationed inside, preparing themselves for multiple and sundry trespasses of local, state, and national laws; it is only then that I realize that the little scene in which I was the principal player could easily be misconstrued, misinterpreted, and mistaken for a drug deal.
Several moments fraught with fear and paranoia ensue and pass. When I am neither detained for questioning nor hauled off to the police station nor revealed on TV news as a woman of a certain age dealing earplugs, I return to the core of why I am at Club Q on Thursday evening at 10:45 p.m. I am no dealer but I am addicted -- to dancing.
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