I cannot take naps. They do evil things to my brain.
"It's not forever," I explained to Paul. "It's not noise or mold. It's the sun. When it's summer, I can't sleep. In the winter, the angle of the planet lets me sleep, because it's darker and not lighter, and my brain likes that. Winter is to sleep the way summer is to awake-ness."
I didn't even know what the heck I was saying. When Paul nodded and backed slowly away...it made sense. I would have backed away too. But I was stuck. My brain was inside me, and that meant I was stuck with it and its crazy analogies.
Paul was just trying to be nice. Paul is always nice. That's why when I get angry with him, I feel like I'm Satan, except human and a girl. When someone is nice to you all the time, and you aren't always a nice person, you tend to feel like you're evil and horrible in comparison.
Paul, thinking that my problems with insomnia were caused by external things (noise, allergies, and the like), had offered to switch rooms with me so I could have his much-quieter bedroom. But noise is not why I can't sleep, unless you count Dad's morning I-Just-Got-Gutted-By-a-Fillet-Knife Yawn, which would wake anyone up no matter how well they slept. Evisceration is loud.
What I was trying to do was explain that I go through spells of sleeplessness, but they pass if I'm patient. Somehow, I don't think my meaning was coming across, with my semi-paganistic ramblings.
I had come home so tired, Mom told me to go to my room and sleep. This was because I fell asleep with my head on my purse while sitting at the kitchen table.
But, as I mentioned, naps don't go well for me.
When I woke up, my brain had become soup. Everything I said was, essentially, Word Salad. Did I feel any better? No. Of course not.
If anything, I felt worse. For one thing, no one could understand me. Not even me.
But, to make matters worse, I'd had a terrible nightmare, something so bad it was beyond imagining, and it was all Dad's fault because his dream self was so disturbed and clearly evil.
Let me try to describe it for you.
Michael Flatley.
Dogs of the Dance.
Dream Dad, spurred on by his love for Irish music and his adoration of our dog, Darcy, had decided to, as a Christmas present for the family, take us all to see Michael Flatley's new musical masterwork, Dogs of the Dance*.
Think Lord of the Dance, except instead of people, there were dogs, all of them in traditional Irish costume.
Even if Dream Me had been able to handle the absolute torture of sitting through dogs dancing to Irish music, it became apparent to me from my seat in the theater that the dogs were looking mistreated. Apparently, the humane society had not been present during rehearsals, because those poor dogs looked hungry and sad. I wanted to rescue them. But before I could, Mom was waking me up, so the dogs were abandoned in the horror of my nightmare.
Poor dogs.
It was a bad dream.
I spent the rest of the evening trying to stay awake for a few more hours in order to improve my mood so I wouldn't fall asleep and be plagued by more nightmares involving dogs dancing to Celtic music.
No more naps for me.
Sadly, I can't let this go, because I want to know where Michael Flatley came from. I get the Irish music. Dad plays the Irish whistle. I even understand dreaming about dogs. I love dogs. But why Michael Flatley? WHY?
The only thing I can think of is that Maureen Johnson's Riverdance story emerged from my brain after a year of percolating in my subconscious. But who can be sure?
I'm a little afraid to sleep again.
*Let me make this clear: The REAL Michael Flatley is, to my knowledge, not planning any Irish dancing with dogs at any point in the future. It will not be coming to Broadway or to anywhere, because having dogs dance like Michael Flatley is a horrible, horrible idea and probably impossible.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
The Brown Driving Mocs
I love my brown driving mocs.
I found them at Target years ago, for, if I remember correctly, around $20. They reminded me of the J. Crew driving mocs I could never afford (unless I sold off some major organs), and I snatched them up and ran to the check-out like I was being pursued by rabid shoe-eating demons.
Women's Merona Micaela Moccasins from Target. Picture yoinked from Kaboodle, your source for shoes you wish you could still buy. Like these.
That is what they looked like back when they were all new and pretty.
They served me well. I wore them nearly every day for...more years than I probably should have.
See, I have this thing with fashion. I like fun, quirky, different things, and I like classic designs. That's normal, I suppose. The thing that may someday get me drug out to face Stacy and Clinton, though, is my firm belief that if I like it, and I think whatever article of clothing or accessory is cute, fun, and ME, then it is in style and no one can tell me otherwise.
Take that, Fashion Industry.
So when Target stopped selling knock-off driving mocs, and J. Crew stopped selling not-knock-off driving mocs, and all the other places stopped selling any kind of moc, except for that Minnetonka Moccasin place, I still kept right on wearing my brown driving mocs. Because I loved them.
The think with the little mocs was, they weren't made to last a girl five-ish years. Or six...and that's about how long I've had them.
They stretched. They got dirty. I cleaned them, added an insole, and kept wearing them. The insole rubbed my heels funny, so I got those little heel cushion things you stick on the inside of shoes, and that fixed it. They were fine...until the "suede" of the shoe absorbed the adhesive of the stick-on heel cushions, leaving dark marks on the back of each heel. Sticky dark marks.
I was very sad.
Devastated.
Clearly, I needed to replace the little brown driving mocs.
There was only one problem: No one wanted to sell me replacement mocs. No one. Not even Ebay.
I was ready to pay for these mocs, folks. I was ready. I had already planned it out. See, my love for the mocs was so great, I was willing to pay double, triple, or MORE for a new pair, a nicer pair, one that would presumably last me decades into the known future. I would pay for good shoes and then care for them like the children I don't have, with the kind of love a person only gives to their spawn (or their little furry dogs).
But no one was selling the adorable driving mocs. They were only selling bizarre, animal print ballet flats.
What was up with those? I am glad they are gone now.
The next year (because yes, we're talking years, here), I searched again. This time, I discovered that the flats had become solid colored, but still of the ballet variety. I gave up and bought a pair of those. They hurt.
So at the start of summer, with only the same, boring, solid-colored flats to be seen, I gave up and bought a nice black pair that didn't hurt my feet, thinking that they would be good enough to fill the yawning hole in my heart left behind by the driving mocs.
Nope.
But then, just after I'd given up hope, I found them.
Frye Reagan Campus Driver in Saddle, via Zappos.
These are not exactly identical to my Target mocs, but they are very similar. In fact, I like these MORE.
So if you catch me admiring or petting my shoes in public...now you know why.
I found them at Target years ago, for, if I remember correctly, around $20. They reminded me of the J. Crew driving mocs I could never afford (unless I sold off some major organs), and I snatched them up and ran to the check-out like I was being pursued by rabid shoe-eating demons.
Women's Merona Micaela Moccasins from Target. Picture yoinked from Kaboodle, your source for shoes you wish you could still buy. Like these.
That is what they looked like back when they were all new and pretty.
They served me well. I wore them nearly every day for...more years than I probably should have.
See, I have this thing with fashion. I like fun, quirky, different things, and I like classic designs. That's normal, I suppose. The thing that may someday get me drug out to face Stacy and Clinton, though, is my firm belief that if I like it, and I think whatever article of clothing or accessory is cute, fun, and ME, then it is in style and no one can tell me otherwise.
Take that, Fashion Industry.
So when Target stopped selling knock-off driving mocs, and J. Crew stopped selling not-knock-off driving mocs, and all the other places stopped selling any kind of moc, except for that Minnetonka Moccasin place, I still kept right on wearing my brown driving mocs. Because I loved them.
The think with the little mocs was, they weren't made to last a girl five-ish years. Or six...and that's about how long I've had them.
They stretched. They got dirty. I cleaned them, added an insole, and kept wearing them. The insole rubbed my heels funny, so I got those little heel cushion things you stick on the inside of shoes, and that fixed it. They were fine...until the "suede" of the shoe absorbed the adhesive of the stick-on heel cushions, leaving dark marks on the back of each heel. Sticky dark marks.
I was very sad.
Devastated.
Clearly, I needed to replace the little brown driving mocs.
There was only one problem: No one wanted to sell me replacement mocs. No one. Not even Ebay.
I was ready to pay for these mocs, folks. I was ready. I had already planned it out. See, my love for the mocs was so great, I was willing to pay double, triple, or MORE for a new pair, a nicer pair, one that would presumably last me decades into the known future. I would pay for good shoes and then care for them like the children I don't have, with the kind of love a person only gives to their spawn (or their little furry dogs).
But no one was selling the adorable driving mocs. They were only selling bizarre, animal print ballet flats.
What was up with those? I am glad they are gone now.
The next year (because yes, we're talking years, here), I searched again. This time, I discovered that the flats had become solid colored, but still of the ballet variety. I gave up and bought a pair of those. They hurt.
So at the start of summer, with only the same, boring, solid-colored flats to be seen, I gave up and bought a nice black pair that didn't hurt my feet, thinking that they would be good enough to fill the yawning hole in my heart left behind by the driving mocs.
Nope.
But then, just after I'd given up hope, I found them.
These are not exactly identical to my Target mocs, but they are very similar. In fact, I like these MORE.
So if you catch me admiring or petting my shoes in public...now you know why.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Poor Mom Can't Drive
Mom still has no driver's license.
First, it was because she had her car's brakes die. Then my car lost its brakes. Then Mom had a week of migraines. Then it was the week of my vacation. Last week.
Mom and I went up north to stay with my grandpa, where we planned on eating tons of awesome food (especially my current favorite sandwich place, Penn Station). When you live in the middle of nowhere, you plan your vacations around where you get to eat (And shop).
I drove us the 2.5 hours north. Then I drove us around while we ran errands for Grandpa.
The next day, when Dad called to announce he was having chest pains*, I drove Mom to get dinner out to distract her.
The day after that, I drove us back home, and then, the next day, to pick Dad up from Parkview. Then I drove us to Biaggi's, where we celebrated Dad's return to the land of the healthy by eating things covered in cream sauce.
During all that, Mom realized how...impractical it was to not have a driver's license. So we resolved to renew it on Monday. That was the plan. Nothing could interrupt the plan.
Except for maybe this.
And this.
Do you see it?
Here's a hint. We went on a Monday.
Which means the hour we spent sitting, stuck in traffic was all for nothing.
*Dad is totally fine. He had a HEART SPASM, which he claims I've been giving him for years, so this one is no different from any other day of the week except for the fact that we got this one on an EKG.
First, it was because she had her car's brakes die. Then my car lost its brakes. Then Mom had a week of migraines. Then it was the week of my vacation. Last week.
Mom and I went up north to stay with my grandpa, where we planned on eating tons of awesome food (especially my current favorite sandwich place, Penn Station). When you live in the middle of nowhere, you plan your vacations around where you get to eat (And shop).
I drove us the 2.5 hours north. Then I drove us around while we ran errands for Grandpa.
The next day, when Dad called to announce he was having chest pains*, I drove Mom to get dinner out to distract her.
The day after that, I drove us back home, and then, the next day, to pick Dad up from Parkview. Then I drove us to Biaggi's, where we celebrated Dad's return to the land of the healthy by eating things covered in cream sauce.
During all that, Mom realized how...impractical it was to not have a driver's license. So we resolved to renew it on Monday. That was the plan. Nothing could interrupt the plan.
Except for maybe this.
And this.
Do you see it?
Here's a hint. We went on a Monday.
Which means the hour we spent sitting, stuck in traffic was all for nothing.
*Dad is totally fine. He had a HEART SPASM, which he claims I've been giving him for years, so this one is no different from any other day of the week except for the fact that we got this one on an EKG.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Making Cake
Once upon a time, Rachael brought cake to knit night. Raspberry buttermilk cake. She said she brought it for everyone, but I think we all know, deep down, that she really brought it for me, so I could gobble it down like a pig, then beg for the recipe so I could eat the cake at home, thereby hiding the shame that comes from eating an entire cake by myself.
I realized this Monday that I'd purchased buttermilk for another recipe, which meant I had buttermilk LEFT OVER, and in my life, that means I get to make that cake again. This time, I would throw in some of the blueberries we have frozen. I took out a cup and thawed them.
Then I measured out the flower. Then the sugar, then I grabbed an egg, the buttermilk, and I reached for the butter.
We had no butter.
Well, we had a little tiny butter lump, sitting on a butter dish, fused to the dish by the butter Mom had melted when trying to get the butter soft enough to spread.
I could not make my cake.
I really wanted that cake.
Maybe if my urge to bake came at, say, mid-afternoon instead of at 7:00 p.m. when the convenience store has already closed, I would have been able to leap into the car to go GET the butter, but I was screwed. There was no butter to be had unless I went to an actual grocery store, and, as I've complained before, the nearest one of THOSE is 30 minutes from my house.
I really wanted cake. IMMEDIATELY.
Then I remembered: The heavy cream!
As some of my fellow country-folk will remember, back in the fourth grade, butter-making was kind of a THING. See, in fourth grade, if you live in Indiana, you learn Indiana history (as opposed to New Jersey history or Oregon history). And learning about Indiana history means herding together a group of ten year-olds, dressing them like pilgrims, and making them SQUARE DANCE. We also learned things like where the Indiana capitol USED to be (who cares?) and teachers try to convince us that, even though Lincoln was totally from Illinois, he was secretly from Indiana, since he lived here for like two weeks or something. After that there are funnel cakes, and you can go home and hurl your bonnet across the room, confident in the knowledge that, no matter how tasty, you will never be forced to pull taffy again.
At any rate, in the fourth grade, somebody had the brilliant idea to teach us how to churn our own butter, something they accomplished by handing out glass jars filled with cream and a single marble. They then forced us to shake the jar around until the marble made the cream turn to butter.
How well did that work, you ask? NOT WELL AT ALL. Imagine getting a group of kids, forcing them to dance, then promising them taffy and a funnel cake, if only the butter could be churned first. Then imagine ten kids, shaking glass jars around vigorously, and, fuelled by hatred (they did have to square dance), imagine the children leaping, running around the table, and jumping up and down rather than continue the shaking, because NOTHING WAS HAPPENING.
Cut to Laura, age 22, sitting in the backseat of a car with her parents. You see, it was Christmas time, and Paul couldn't leave home for whatever reason (probably so he could cling to whatever shreds of dignity he still had left), and we were all headed to Connor Prairie.
If you're not from Indiana, you likely have not heard of Connor Prairie. It is a refurbished farm from way-back-when, and locals are hired to dress up and pretend to be from 100 years ago. Basically, a museum, only the exhibits work and are operated by people acting like they have no idea what a cell phone is, even if they likely have one stored on their person, perhaps under their corset.
It's actually pretty fun.
The church had given us a trip there as our family Christmas present. They thought since Dad secretly believes he would have been a tough-guy mountain-man who trudged through the wilds with a flintlock rifle and killed wolves with a club and a hunting knife, he'd get a kick out of seeing what life was really like back then. And we all got to go along. The church is so sweet to us.
So we drove to Connor Prairie and met up with our guide, a 60-something man who was just snarky enough for me to like him. We spent the evening, along with a few other families, cooking a meal the way meals were made in ages past, then eating our handiwork. I spent my time quoting literature back and forth with our guide in a rather epic verbal-sparring match. It was fun.
The second we walked into the kitchen, they'd handed Mom a butter churn and sent her to the corner. My job had been to shred cabbage. It took like five minutes. Probably less, because, well, I can use a knife. Then I went to help Mom.
To say that the entire group was waiting for Mom to finish churning the butter would be an understatement. No matter what she did, NOTHING HAPPENED.
"Do you think the cream is defective?" She asked. "Maybe it's bad cream."
We decided to take turns.
"The fire is too hot," I said. "It's making the fat in the cream stay liquid instead of becoming solid!"
"The room is too cold," Mom said. "It's making the heavy cream whipped instead of separating it!"
It must have taken 45 minutes to churn that flipping butter. Eventually, the cook took pity on us and grabbed the churn. She had butter in 30 seconds. I think maybe she used magic.
After that, she showed me how to press the remaining liquid--the buttermilk--out of the butter, so it would be ready for consumption. She also showed me how to mold it into a pretty shape.
And after that, I decided butter-making was pretty darn cool.
So when I discovered we were out of butter and spied the heavy cream, I thought, "We are in business."
I broke out the electric mixer. Butter-making is much easier with an electric mixer, I have learned. I dumped the cream into a bowl. Then I cranked that mixer up high.
It should be noted that, when using a mixer to make butter, a splash guard is...handy. In my case, my laptop served as a splash guard, as did my shirt, the fridge, and the wall. It's also helpful to have your bowl chilled to start with, or so I've been told.
As I churned my butter, I noticed something strange. The mixer was dissolving in my hand. Well, not exactly dissolving, but the casing had come un-cased, and the motor was exposed. So instead of the bowl, I started holding the casing together as well as the handle of the mixer. And if you've ever used an electric mixer, you know how important it is to hold the bowl. Oops.
I needed 1/4 cup of butter. My cream yielded 1/4 cup of butter. Exactly.
After all that, the cake went together rather easily. It finally came out of the oven at 10:30 p.m., but it was good cake. And it had vanished by morning.
Make your own butter.
Make your own cake.
Just try to start a little earlier than I did.
I realized this Monday that I'd purchased buttermilk for another recipe, which meant I had buttermilk LEFT OVER, and in my life, that means I get to make that cake again. This time, I would throw in some of the blueberries we have frozen. I took out a cup and thawed them.
Then I measured out the flower. Then the sugar, then I grabbed an egg, the buttermilk, and I reached for the butter.
We had no butter.
Well, we had a little tiny butter lump, sitting on a butter dish, fused to the dish by the butter Mom had melted when trying to get the butter soft enough to spread.
I could not make my cake.
I really wanted that cake.
Maybe if my urge to bake came at, say, mid-afternoon instead of at 7:00 p.m. when the convenience store has already closed, I would have been able to leap into the car to go GET the butter, but I was screwed. There was no butter to be had unless I went to an actual grocery store, and, as I've complained before, the nearest one of THOSE is 30 minutes from my house.
I really wanted cake. IMMEDIATELY.
Then I remembered: The heavy cream!
As some of my fellow country-folk will remember, back in the fourth grade, butter-making was kind of a THING. See, in fourth grade, if you live in Indiana, you learn Indiana history (as opposed to New Jersey history or Oregon history). And learning about Indiana history means herding together a group of ten year-olds, dressing them like pilgrims, and making them SQUARE DANCE. We also learned things like where the Indiana capitol USED to be (who cares?) and teachers try to convince us that, even though Lincoln was totally from Illinois, he was secretly from Indiana, since he lived here for like two weeks or something. After that there are funnel cakes, and you can go home and hurl your bonnet across the room, confident in the knowledge that, no matter how tasty, you will never be forced to pull taffy again.
At any rate, in the fourth grade, somebody had the brilliant idea to teach us how to churn our own butter, something they accomplished by handing out glass jars filled with cream and a single marble. They then forced us to shake the jar around until the marble made the cream turn to butter.
How well did that work, you ask? NOT WELL AT ALL. Imagine getting a group of kids, forcing them to dance, then promising them taffy and a funnel cake, if only the butter could be churned first. Then imagine ten kids, shaking glass jars around vigorously, and, fuelled by hatred (they did have to square dance), imagine the children leaping, running around the table, and jumping up and down rather than continue the shaking, because NOTHING WAS HAPPENING.
Cut to Laura, age 22, sitting in the backseat of a car with her parents. You see, it was Christmas time, and Paul couldn't leave home for whatever reason (probably so he could cling to whatever shreds of dignity he still had left), and we were all headed to Connor Prairie.
If you're not from Indiana, you likely have not heard of Connor Prairie. It is a refurbished farm from way-back-when, and locals are hired to dress up and pretend to be from 100 years ago. Basically, a museum, only the exhibits work and are operated by people acting like they have no idea what a cell phone is, even if they likely have one stored on their person, perhaps under their corset.
It's actually pretty fun.
The church had given us a trip there as our family Christmas present. They thought since Dad secretly believes he would have been a tough-guy mountain-man who trudged through the wilds with a flintlock rifle and killed wolves with a club and a hunting knife, he'd get a kick out of seeing what life was really like back then. And we all got to go along. The church is so sweet to us.
So we drove to Connor Prairie and met up with our guide, a 60-something man who was just snarky enough for me to like him. We spent the evening, along with a few other families, cooking a meal the way meals were made in ages past, then eating our handiwork. I spent my time quoting literature back and forth with our guide in a rather epic verbal-sparring match. It was fun.
The second we walked into the kitchen, they'd handed Mom a butter churn and sent her to the corner. My job had been to shred cabbage. It took like five minutes. Probably less, because, well, I can use a knife. Then I went to help Mom.
To say that the entire group was waiting for Mom to finish churning the butter would be an understatement. No matter what she did, NOTHING HAPPENED.
"Do you think the cream is defective?" She asked. "Maybe it's bad cream."
We decided to take turns.
"The fire is too hot," I said. "It's making the fat in the cream stay liquid instead of becoming solid!"
"The room is too cold," Mom said. "It's making the heavy cream whipped instead of separating it!"
It must have taken 45 minutes to churn that flipping butter. Eventually, the cook took pity on us and grabbed the churn. She had butter in 30 seconds. I think maybe she used magic.
After that, she showed me how to press the remaining liquid--the buttermilk--out of the butter, so it would be ready for consumption. She also showed me how to mold it into a pretty shape.
And after that, I decided butter-making was pretty darn cool.
So when I discovered we were out of butter and spied the heavy cream, I thought, "We are in business."
I broke out the electric mixer. Butter-making is much easier with an electric mixer, I have learned. I dumped the cream into a bowl. Then I cranked that mixer up high.
It should be noted that, when using a mixer to make butter, a splash guard is...handy. In my case, my laptop served as a splash guard, as did my shirt, the fridge, and the wall. It's also helpful to have your bowl chilled to start with, or so I've been told.
As I churned my butter, I noticed something strange. The mixer was dissolving in my hand. Well, not exactly dissolving, but the casing had come un-cased, and the motor was exposed. So instead of the bowl, I started holding the casing together as well as the handle of the mixer. And if you've ever used an electric mixer, you know how important it is to hold the bowl. Oops.
I needed 1/4 cup of butter. My cream yielded 1/4 cup of butter. Exactly.
After all that, the cake went together rather easily. It finally came out of the oven at 10:30 p.m., but it was good cake. And it had vanished by morning.
Make your own butter.
Make your own cake.
Just try to start a little earlier than I did.
Friday, July 29, 2011
My Car Is Trying to Kill Me: Part Two
Read the first half of this saga here.
I made the mistake of thinking everything was going to be okay.
My car has what my brother has affectionately termed, "ghetto brakes." The name comes from his former roommate, Jerome, who grew up in what Fort Wayne has that passes for a ghetto. Since I have a friend who was shot in the face just for opening his front door in Fort Wayne*, I'd imagine it sort of does have a bad part of town, and if Jerome says he grew up there, I suppose I believe him. But I will never let him pull my teeth when he becomes a dentist, even if he does think up ingenious solutions to problems. This is because, despite his claims, pouring a cup of water on the floor and stomping on the liquid does not count as washing the carpet. I don't know what the tooth equivalent of that is, and I don't want to find out.
My brakes got their nickname due to the squeaking. Screeching, really. I had them taken apart and reassembled three times before I gave up and accepted the noise as a part of life. According to Expert Opinion, the screech occurred due to dirt and grime that became trapped in the rotors. They would get cleaned out, but the screech would come back a few days later. You would have given up too, if you had to go without your car so much.
Noisy or not, they were good, reliable brakes. They worked well, even if they were so loud I stopped going through drive-thru windows out of shame.
When Mom's brakes went out last Saturday, I got into my car with confidence, knowing that MY brakes were loud but TRUSTWORTHY. My car would never hurt me. My car LOVES me.
That is a lie.
Today I left work to drop off my car payment. See how responsible I am? But after I handed off the check, I noticed a change in the behavior of my brakes. By that, I mean they weren't behaving. At all.
Again, when I pressed the pedal, it swooshed down to the floor of the car with no resistance. The car continued to roll forward determinedly, leaving me grinding my teeth down to nubs from my place in the driver's seat.
"This can't be happening," I said out loud. "It is too much of a coincidence for my car and Mom's car to fail within the same week."
But sure enough, it WAS happening. At the next stop light, which was (mercifully) green, I continued to roll into the intersection. There I waited to make my turn, then made my way into a parking spot at the library. Once there, I applied my emergency brake, put the car in park, and turned it off. Still sitting inside, I started making phone calls.
The first was to my dad, as it is each time a horrible car-related thing happens. Who knows why. It isn't as if he can fix cars or tow them or even offer reassurance, but he changes a mean tire, and his jumper-cable skills are legendary throughout the county.
I reached his voicemail, and the message went something like this:
"Hey Dad. You know how Mom and I have identical cars? Well. We also have identical car problems, because that brake thing that happened to her car is now happening to mine. My car is like death on wheels. It is like one of those Loony-Tune giant snowball things, only in summer instead of winter. I don't know if you want to pick it up and drive it home or have it towed. You can do either. But I wouldn't drive it if I were you. You shouldn't drive it. Just have it towed. Don't drive it. It's deadly. I am not even kidding you. This car will kill you dead. I'm parking it and leaving it. You shouldn't touch it. Anyway. Bye."
Then I hung up the phone and called my car guy. I reached his voicemail.
"Hello!" I shouted into the phone because my car guy is basically deaf, which is why he could not hear the screeching and therefore why the screeching was never repaired. "It's Laura! Kelly's daughter! You fixed my mother's car! But now my car is having the same problem! Can you come tow it?! It is at the library! Call me back if you have questions!"
Except the instant the beep sounded, the voicemail box said, "Goodbye." And I talked for a few seconds and moved the phone from my ear, only to discover the voicemail box thing had hung up on me while I was talking. So it recorded nothing.
I stared at my phone. Then I called home. Mom answered.
"Mom?" I said. "My brakes failed just like yours. And now it is at work. But I will need a ride home at five."
Of course, Mom cannot drive anyone anywhere, including herself, because she let her license expire.
"Paul?" Mom called. "Can you drive Laura home at five?"
There was a mumbled response.
"Paul will come pick you up at five," Mom said.
"Thank you," I told her. Then I hung up. I then sent Dad a text message.
"I called the car guy, but his voicemail box must have been full or something, because it hung up on me. So I didn't reach him. But I will try again. But maybe you should try too. And you can call me back at the work number. But make sure you ask for me so they will transfer you. Also I have a ride home."
It must have been longer than that, because it sent as three text messages and not one.
Moments later, I was calling my car guy again. This time his voicemail let me leave a message. "It's Laura. Can you pick up my car from the library? It's Laura. Kelly's daughter. The pastor. That Kelly." It went on for a while after that, including references to Mom's car, brake lines, towing, and how to properly reach me via the library phone system ("call the library. Ask for Laura and they will transfer you. Or you can ask for the Children's Room. That would work,too. But make sure you don't just talk to the first person who picks up, because they will have no idea what you're talking about...").
Then, Dad called back. "I will come and get you," he said.
"No," I replied. "Paul is coming. And anyway, I am not going home until five."
"Oh," Dad said. "I will try to reach the car guy. But he might be in Indy. He goes there practically twice a week for auctions."
"Okay," I said. "I will just leave my car here."
"Good. We shouldn't drive it around like that."
"No," I said.
"But I hate to tell you this," he continued. "You're going to have to leave your car unlocked. And put the keys under the mat."
Now. The library isn't in the most horrible neighborhood on Earth, mostly because this is not a big town or even a small one. It is more a settlement than anything. We are lucky to have a Walmart. Or a zip code. But what we do have is drugs, and lots of them, especially heroin. You would be shocked to find out how much drug activity there is in this area. SHOCKED. Needless to say, if anything of value is left in a vehicle in our parking lot, and, if said vehicle is left unlocked, the thing of value will no longer be there when its owner returns to the car.
The good news would be, if someone stole my car, it would be easy to find. My car would be a block or two down the street, wrapped around a tree or telephone pole, or embedded in a shop window or brick wall.
"Dad," I said. "I can leave my car here. I can leave my keys inside. But I cannot leave my keys in my car if I want to come back and find my car again. Either it will be stolen, or people will get inside it and smoke and drink and maybe do unspeakable things in the backseat."
"Okay," Dad said.
"We can drop the keys off tomorrow. And I will leave a set here inside the building with a note on them."
We hung up. Then he called back, the car guy was going to try to come today, before five. This was good news. Then he called back again to tell me the car guy was on his way. This was better news.
As of now, I have a set of keys in my pocket, ready to be handed off to the car guy the instant he comes for them. Hopefully, I will get my car BACK before I need it for something important, but it has grounded me for the weekend, trapping me at home with Netflix and Star Trek: Voyager instead of allowing me to do what I'd WANTED to do, which was head to Best Buy to use my birthday money to get the radio fixed. Now my birthday money might go toward replacing the brake lines. Yay.
*This was a couple of years ago. He made a full recovery. The motive was robbery. The guys stole a VCR. Really. Not even a DVD player
Birthday cake picture © Will Clayton
I made the mistake of thinking everything was going to be okay.
My car has what my brother has affectionately termed, "ghetto brakes." The name comes from his former roommate, Jerome, who grew up in what Fort Wayne has that passes for a ghetto. Since I have a friend who was shot in the face just for opening his front door in Fort Wayne*, I'd imagine it sort of does have a bad part of town, and if Jerome says he grew up there, I suppose I believe him. But I will never let him pull my teeth when he becomes a dentist, even if he does think up ingenious solutions to problems. This is because, despite his claims, pouring a cup of water on the floor and stomping on the liquid does not count as washing the carpet. I don't know what the tooth equivalent of that is, and I don't want to find out.
My brakes got their nickname due to the squeaking. Screeching, really. I had them taken apart and reassembled three times before I gave up and accepted the noise as a part of life. According to Expert Opinion, the screech occurred due to dirt and grime that became trapped in the rotors. They would get cleaned out, but the screech would come back a few days later. You would have given up too, if you had to go without your car so much.
Noisy or not, they were good, reliable brakes. They worked well, even if they were so loud I stopped going through drive-thru windows out of shame.
When Mom's brakes went out last Saturday, I got into my car with confidence, knowing that MY brakes were loud but TRUSTWORTHY. My car would never hurt me. My car LOVES me.
That is a lie.
Today I left work to drop off my car payment. See how responsible I am? But after I handed off the check, I noticed a change in the behavior of my brakes. By that, I mean they weren't behaving. At all.
Again, when I pressed the pedal, it swooshed down to the floor of the car with no resistance. The car continued to roll forward determinedly, leaving me grinding my teeth down to nubs from my place in the driver's seat.
"This can't be happening," I said out loud. "It is too much of a coincidence for my car and Mom's car to fail within the same week."
But sure enough, it WAS happening. At the next stop light, which was (mercifully) green, I continued to roll into the intersection. There I waited to make my turn, then made my way into a parking spot at the library. Once there, I applied my emergency brake, put the car in park, and turned it off. Still sitting inside, I started making phone calls.
The first was to my dad, as it is each time a horrible car-related thing happens. Who knows why. It isn't as if he can fix cars or tow them or even offer reassurance, but he changes a mean tire, and his jumper-cable skills are legendary throughout the county.
I reached his voicemail, and the message went something like this:
"Hey Dad. You know how Mom and I have identical cars? Well. We also have identical car problems, because that brake thing that happened to her car is now happening to mine. My car is like death on wheels. It is like one of those Loony-Tune giant snowball things, only in summer instead of winter. I don't know if you want to pick it up and drive it home or have it towed. You can do either. But I wouldn't drive it if I were you. You shouldn't drive it. Just have it towed. Don't drive it. It's deadly. I am not even kidding you. This car will kill you dead. I'm parking it and leaving it. You shouldn't touch it. Anyway. Bye."
Then I hung up the phone and called my car guy. I reached his voicemail.
"Hello!" I shouted into the phone because my car guy is basically deaf, which is why he could not hear the screeching and therefore why the screeching was never repaired. "It's Laura! Kelly's daughter! You fixed my mother's car! But now my car is having the same problem! Can you come tow it?! It is at the library! Call me back if you have questions!"
Except the instant the beep sounded, the voicemail box said, "Goodbye." And I talked for a few seconds and moved the phone from my ear, only to discover the voicemail box thing had hung up on me while I was talking. So it recorded nothing.
I stared at my phone. Then I called home. Mom answered.
"Mom?" I said. "My brakes failed just like yours. And now it is at work. But I will need a ride home at five."
Of course, Mom cannot drive anyone anywhere, including herself, because she let her license expire.
"Paul?" Mom called. "Can you drive Laura home at five?"
There was a mumbled response.
"Paul will come pick you up at five," Mom said.
"Thank you," I told her. Then I hung up. I then sent Dad a text message.
"I called the car guy, but his voicemail box must have been full or something, because it hung up on me. So I didn't reach him. But I will try again. But maybe you should try too. And you can call me back at the work number. But make sure you ask for me so they will transfer you. Also I have a ride home."
It must have been longer than that, because it sent as three text messages and not one.
Moments later, I was calling my car guy again. This time his voicemail let me leave a message. "It's Laura. Can you pick up my car from the library? It's Laura. Kelly's daughter. The pastor. That Kelly." It went on for a while after that, including references to Mom's car, brake lines, towing, and how to properly reach me via the library phone system ("call the library. Ask for Laura and they will transfer you. Or you can ask for the Children's Room. That would work,too. But make sure you don't just talk to the first person who picks up, because they will have no idea what you're talking about...").
Then, Dad called back. "I will come and get you," he said.
"No," I replied. "Paul is coming. And anyway, I am not going home until five."
"Oh," Dad said. "I will try to reach the car guy. But he might be in Indy. He goes there practically twice a week for auctions."
"Okay," I said. "I will just leave my car here."
"Good. We shouldn't drive it around like that."
"No," I said.
"But I hate to tell you this," he continued. "You're going to have to leave your car unlocked. And put the keys under the mat."
Now. The library isn't in the most horrible neighborhood on Earth, mostly because this is not a big town or even a small one. It is more a settlement than anything. We are lucky to have a Walmart. Or a zip code. But what we do have is drugs, and lots of them, especially heroin. You would be shocked to find out how much drug activity there is in this area. SHOCKED. Needless to say, if anything of value is left in a vehicle in our parking lot, and, if said vehicle is left unlocked, the thing of value will no longer be there when its owner returns to the car.
The good news would be, if someone stole my car, it would be easy to find. My car would be a block or two down the street, wrapped around a tree or telephone pole, or embedded in a shop window or brick wall.
"Dad," I said. "I can leave my car here. I can leave my keys inside. But I cannot leave my keys in my car if I want to come back and find my car again. Either it will be stolen, or people will get inside it and smoke and drink and maybe do unspeakable things in the backseat."
"Okay," Dad said.
"We can drop the keys off tomorrow. And I will leave a set here inside the building with a note on them."
We hung up. Then he called back, the car guy was going to try to come today, before five. This was good news. Then he called back again to tell me the car guy was on his way. This was better news.
As of now, I have a set of keys in my pocket, ready to be handed off to the car guy the instant he comes for them. Hopefully, I will get my car BACK before I need it for something important, but it has grounded me for the weekend, trapping me at home with Netflix and Star Trek: Voyager instead of allowing me to do what I'd WANTED to do, which was head to Best Buy to use my birthday money to get the radio fixed. Now my birthday money might go toward replacing the brake lines. Yay.
 |
| Grown-up birthdays are no fun. |
*This was a couple of years ago. He made a full recovery. The motive was robbery. The guys stole a VCR. Really. Not even a DVD player
Birthday cake picture © Will Clayton
My Car Is Trying To Kill Me: Part One
Mom let her driver's license expire, so I was playing chauffeur. This involved me driving to the grocery store, first stopping at what Mom calls her "craft store," which is actually a little gift shop that sells rustic-style decor items, like the giant crocks Mom now uses to hold the potatoes and onions (and no, I do not mean those hideous shoes).
I drove, and I spent most of the time talking about horribly depressing things, which seems to have become my new habit, likely because there are so many depressing things happening to people I know lately.
Mom and I have invented a new driving game, a game that certainly would work nowhere on Earth so well as it does in our part of Indiana. You see, there are these giant metal stars...who knows where they come from. And people take these stars and they mount them on the side of their barn or their house, and then the neighbors see the star and think they had better do the same, so now there are billions of stars all over Indiana, firmly attached to any building that stands still long enough for someone to approach it with an electric drill.
The game we have invented involves those stars. When we see one, we half-heartedly swat each other on the arm and announce, "STAR." It is a rather stupid game. Mostly it is to keep a running tally of the number of these stars, in much the same way as the game "How Many Dresses?" kept that Jennifer Love Hewitt show from being as tediously boring as it was. Her character had clearly suffered a psychotic break, to see dead people all the time like that. I forget the name of the show--Mom and I just called it "How Many Dresses?" (It is worth mentioning that no one WINS these games. They only exist to pass time.)
I think all the stars originated from this crafty store, though, because stars are everywhere inside. They were also playing the most horrific country music of all time that day, this man with an absurdly low voice, singing about how it's the end times RIGHT NOW, and we are about to be raptured at any second.
When Mom and I had finally escaped (with a rug for the kitchen floor), we hopped back in the car to drive across the parking lot to the grocery store, because it was nine billion degrees outside and no way were we walking.
As I drove from one parking space to another, I noticed something was WRONG. Very wrong.
I would press on the brake pedal and push it all the way down to floor. Then we would start slowing down. I discovered this as I pulled into a parking place, so I wasn't SURE there was a problem. It just felt strange, stopping.
When we'd gotten our groceries, I drove the car up toward the store to pick up a tank of propane for the grill. And was the car stopping? Not so much.
I knew the problem was serious when I stood on the brake pedal, only to have the car roll forward several more feet before beginning to slow down.
We did the only thing we could do, given the circumstances. We called Dad and told him to come rescue us.
I don't mean to tell you that Dad can FIX cars...because he can't. What he CAN do is DRIVE a car when you think that driving it will lead to your untimely death. So we stopped at the county's school administration offices and waited for Dad.
And he arrived.
And he added brake fluid.
And nothing happened.
He then drove the car home with Mom as I followed. I had warned him that the car pulled into the opposite lane when the brakes were utilized. What I didn't know was that the brake light on the passenger's side wasn't even bothering to turn on when the pedal was pressed. Basically, half the brakes were not even getting the signal to stop. This was a...problem. To say the least.
So we drove home slowly, Dad jerking to the left each time he applied the brakes, me following with my emergency flasher-dealies going just in case people didn't get the hint from our shockingly slow pace.
The next day, Car Guy came and towed the car away. Mere days later, we were alerted that the car was fixed, and it came home.
Everything was better.
Stop Sign photograph © Kt Ann
 |
| (I wish.) |
I drove, and I spent most of the time talking about horribly depressing things, which seems to have become my new habit, likely because there are so many depressing things happening to people I know lately.
Mom and I have invented a new driving game, a game that certainly would work nowhere on Earth so well as it does in our part of Indiana. You see, there are these giant metal stars...who knows where they come from. And people take these stars and they mount them on the side of their barn or their house, and then the neighbors see the star and think they had better do the same, so now there are billions of stars all over Indiana, firmly attached to any building that stands still long enough for someone to approach it with an electric drill.
The game we have invented involves those stars. When we see one, we half-heartedly swat each other on the arm and announce, "STAR." It is a rather stupid game. Mostly it is to keep a running tally of the number of these stars, in much the same way as the game "How Many Dresses?" kept that Jennifer Love Hewitt show from being as tediously boring as it was. Her character had clearly suffered a psychotic break, to see dead people all the time like that. I forget the name of the show--Mom and I just called it "How Many Dresses?" (It is worth mentioning that no one WINS these games. They only exist to pass time.)
I think all the stars originated from this crafty store, though, because stars are everywhere inside. They were also playing the most horrific country music of all time that day, this man with an absurdly low voice, singing about how it's the end times RIGHT NOW, and we are about to be raptured at any second.
When Mom and I had finally escaped (with a rug for the kitchen floor), we hopped back in the car to drive across the parking lot to the grocery store, because it was nine billion degrees outside and no way were we walking.
As I drove from one parking space to another, I noticed something was WRONG. Very wrong.
I would press on the brake pedal and push it all the way down to floor. Then we would start slowing down. I discovered this as I pulled into a parking place, so I wasn't SURE there was a problem. It just felt strange, stopping.
When we'd gotten our groceries, I drove the car up toward the store to pick up a tank of propane for the grill. And was the car stopping? Not so much.
I knew the problem was serious when I stood on the brake pedal, only to have the car roll forward several more feet before beginning to slow down.
We did the only thing we could do, given the circumstances. We called Dad and told him to come rescue us.
I don't mean to tell you that Dad can FIX cars...because he can't. What he CAN do is DRIVE a car when you think that driving it will lead to your untimely death. So we stopped at the county's school administration offices and waited for Dad.
And he arrived.
And he added brake fluid.
And nothing happened.
He then drove the car home with Mom as I followed. I had warned him that the car pulled into the opposite lane when the brakes were utilized. What I didn't know was that the brake light on the passenger's side wasn't even bothering to turn on when the pedal was pressed. Basically, half the brakes were not even getting the signal to stop. This was a...problem. To say the least.
So we drove home slowly, Dad jerking to the left each time he applied the brakes, me following with my emergency flasher-dealies going just in case people didn't get the hint from our shockingly slow pace.
The next day, Car Guy came and towed the car away. Mere days later, we were alerted that the car was fixed, and it came home.
Everything was better.
Stop Sign photograph © Kt Ann
Friday, July 22, 2011
It's (almost) my birthday. Now what?
Next Wednesday is my birthday, everyone. Yay.
For the first time in my entire life, I feel well, apathetic about my birthday. I have no emotion about it whatsoever. I am not excited, because I have to work that day from 11:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m. (with two special programs during the day), which does away with any possibility of fun. I am not unhappy, because I really don't care how old or young I am. I am nothing.
That's what I find depressing.
Shouldn't birthdays be fun? Shouldn't I be excited about it? I feel like I SHOULD be. But that's not happening. Does this mean my birthday will not be happy?
I feel like a complete downer. Sorry. I promise I will be funny again, when I am less downtrodden by the summer reading program and miserable heat.
For the first time in my entire life, I feel well, apathetic about my birthday. I have no emotion about it whatsoever. I am not excited, because I have to work that day from 11:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m. (with two special programs during the day), which does away with any possibility of fun. I am not unhappy, because I really don't care how old or young I am. I am nothing.
That's what I find depressing.
Shouldn't birthdays be fun? Shouldn't I be excited about it? I feel like I SHOULD be. But that's not happening. Does this mean my birthday will not be happy?
I feel like a complete downer. Sorry. I promise I will be funny again, when I am less downtrodden by the summer reading program and miserable heat.
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