Archive for August, 2010
The Flat Tire
When you’re in your 40s, your metabolism slows, your hearing goes, knees ache, your back goes out more than you do, disappointments can fill a pretty big trunk, and “hangovers hurt more than they used to.” But. There are certain benefits.
For example, my 20-something-year-old ear could never have recognized the creaky-rubby-subtly strange sound that a flat tire makes. As I backed out of the garage today, I knew without looking. But I looked. Yep, that slow leak I have been nursing since June turned into a fast leak overnight.
Completely. Utterly. Pancakely. Flat.
Annoying, yes. But, I was able to do a quick forage through my garage to find an industrial-strength extension cord and an air compressor. I had none of those things in my 20s—including the garage.
Again, in my 20s, I would have thought, “Eh, I’m taking it in to get inspected tomorrow, might as well just put in some air and head to the mall to go clothes shopping as planned.” But you know and I know, I would have ended up stranded, either in the mall parking lot or, worse, on the way to work in the morning. (I already need to be three places at once at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow. Sitting on the side of the road waiting for a tow truck isn’t one of them.)
So, it’s Sunday. My only choice? Pep Boys.
I’ve gone there before. I know it doesn’t have the best reputation for car work, and I know it’s the expensive choice. But, it’s Sunday and, yeah, I do know better than to procrastinate on this, so I dropped off the car and walked to the mall from there.
Tangent. As I walked, I thought, “Huh, I just gave my car to a total stranger who didn’t give me a receipt of any kind. I mean, you get a sticker for your luggage, you get a little pink itemized list from the dry cleaner, you even get a little ticket if you check a hat. But. I just gave some kid, who is way too young to have his own garage or an ear for flat rubber, my car. Along with my keys, my address, and my garage door opener. Huh.”
Anyhoo, about an hour later, I walked back into Pep Boys. Had to wait in line behind a guy who was well into a not-so-happy discussion (with the kid who had taken my keys) about the work they’d done on his car.
Not boding well.
About 10 minutes further into that discussion, another employee stepped up to the register to help. I told him what kind of car. He tap-tap-tapped on a keyboard and shook his head. I gave him my name. Tap-tap-tap. Again, nothing. He said, “You got an oil change, right?” I explained no, a tire repair. Tap-tap-tap. Nope. I said, haltingly, “It’s not where I parked it? So? I assume? It’s done?” Uh-oh.
But, then, he turned away from the computer, took a look around, and voila, came up with my keys. (Well, you know, I didn’t really think they’d gone joy-riding or had sent someone to ransack my house, but, still, I was a wee bit relieved.) He handed the keys to me along with an envelope and said, “Okay, you’re all set.”
I don’t know a lot about fixing cars but I have had years of experiences that have taught me the chances of fiasco, the multiplying frustrations of a lemon, and the potential for rude, often chauvenistic, frequently duplicitous, snickering-snarling gremlin antics of the average unknown grease monkey. I stood there, credit card in hand, arm extended, and he was turning to the next person in line. And I didn’t know what to think.
“Uh, excuse me, but, I haven’t paid yet.”
“Nope. You’re all set.”
Arm still extended. Brain scrambling. Vocabulary stunted.“But . . . Wha-? Huh? ”
Apparently other-kid had proactively finagled some paperwork in my absence and signed me up for some kind of rewards program, which made me eligible to get the work done for free. He did what? The program is huh? The repair was free?
Free? Really? You’re sure? I can, just, uh, go? Really? (I still don’t understand it, but, yes, really.)
And I thought finding pants that fit in under an hour was the most amazing part of my day.
Pleasant surprises are like a mini life preserver. Had any of your own recently?
Dear Nancy Pelosi,
Dear Nancy Pelosi.
I oppose the Mosque. Let me help you investigate me.
I am a proud member of the human race who remembers the brutal heartbreak of September 11.
I am a candid person who isn’t afraid to state aloud that Muslim Extremists are an enemy to America and all that we stand for as a county and an affront to every person who lived and died in defense of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.
I am proud. I am not embarrassed to be an American. I appreciate my home, my job, my right to vote. I think the United States of America is the bee’s knees. I love this country.
I am not an idiot. I am aware that there are well-meaning and good-hearted Muslims in the world and in our country. (Uh, duh.) I am quite capable of comprehending that not not all Muslims practice their religion/way of life in the same way as those who infiltrated our country, abused our freedoms to gain homes and employment–and to learn how to fly airplanes. I have also managed to wrap my brain around the reality that a group of people—who would, if they could, worship at such a mosque—conceived (and celebrated!) a violent and horrible attack on thousands of innocent civilians.
Yes, I am intelligent enough to realize there is a lot of gray among the black and white in the world. But I am not so void of morality to know that there are still some things in this world that are black and white.
I am a well-mannered person who was raised on right and wrong, who was taught compassion and empathy, who knows that there are consequences to my actions and choices, who is cognizant of the effect my actions have on others.
The issue is not political. It is not financial. It is not legal. It is not about religious freedom. It is not about who’s going to win in November.
This is about common decency.
Would we put a military museum next to where the bomb hit in Hiroshima? Erect a Nazi shrine in the middle of Arlington? How about we put this mosque near that scarred wall of the Pentagon?
Forget political correctness. Grow a spine.
If the Mosque builders truly cared about building bridges and making amends—as they claim—why take this on when nearly 70 percent of the people on the other side of that bridge don’t want it? The guy leading the project talks about it one way in front of Americans and another way in front of Muslims. (Hello? You can’t be that naive, can you?) He feigns indignation, saying he began this project by inquiring how people would feel about it, as if, just asking gives you the right to do anything you want—even if the answer you get is obviously, overwhelmingly, a resounding, appalled “No!”
Perhaps. Perhaps, cultural differences make it difficult for you to comprehend how offensive this is. But, you’re in America. You want to be part of it. Try understanding it and adapting to it even one-tenth as much as Americans try to understand and adapt to your way of life.
Ms. Pelosi, your investigation about me would also reveal that I am not a sheep. I don’t care if, to further your own agenda, you call me names or twist my words and deeds. I know what is in my heart.
I know right from wrong. Beneath the ridiculous charade of politics, in a straight line through your maneuverings, more valuable than the millions of dollars changing hands, behind the thick layers of lies (and makeup), the question of whether or not to build a Muslim shrine so near Ground Zero has a very simple answer.
That is my opinion. As an American, I can state this opinion. As an American, I can spend my money to protest. (Might as well spend it on something before all those new taxes that your buddy said my tax bracket wouldn’t see go into effect.) As an American, it is my right to rant a bit on a blog to ease the pain of knowing that such a ridiculous person as yourself holds a place of power in the country I love.
Perhaps, while launching an investigation (on the tax-payers’ dime) into the decent people who oppose this Mosque, you should investigate a little thing called the First Amendment.
God Bless America. In God we trust. E pluribus unum. You bitch.
The Winners’ Circle
Yesterday, I played volleyball for the first time in about two years.
My head was in the game. My heart was in the game. My arms and legs? Not so much. Fifty percent of my serves just barely made it over the net. The other fifty just didn’t. My jumps, or the attempt thereof, weren’t what you’d call vertical. My sets were clumpy, lacking the height and the control that, at one time, I was (I’ll admit it) kinda proud of. Oddly enough, I did actually dive a time or two—apparently due to some sorta spastic kamikaze muscle memory—but the current body is way more rock than roll.
Thud.
In short (and I’ve never felt shorter), I played badly.
Worst of all perhaps, yesterday, I walked out of my house wearing shorts to run around in the heat in front of a large group of people, some with cameras.
It should have been a heart-breaking disaster, a big ol’ mid-life bum out, the final crumbling of the little shred of ego I pretend not to cling to.
But here’s the thing.
I wasn’t stumbling around alone on that court. I was part of a team. We do not wear a uniform. We have no locker room. We have no coach or strategy. We don’t even meet at the same gym on the same day of the week anymore. But we’ve known each other a long time and remain connected by a unique mix of memories, simpatico, respect, abuse, alcohol, silliness, and true affection. You know, we’re friends.
I don’t need trophies. I don’t need prizes. I have no need for any new bragging rights beyond this: Yesterday we sat, as the playoffs continued, in the winners’ circle.
We sat in a circle of lawn chairs. Relaxed in the shade. Sharing picnic food and cold beer. We slipped out of our volleyball shoes, peeled sweaty socks, unhooked braces, and laughed our freakin’ asses off.
We used to play volleyball multiple nights a week and tournaments on the weekends. My life pretty much revolved around it. It took pretty much all of my free time and, in gear, gas, travel, fees, and entertainment, a significant portion of my income.
There is a part of me that doesn’t miss it: that’d be my right shoulder. (And the feet, knees, and back.)
But, the rest of me? Yeah. Most of me misses it. A lot.
Cheers my friends. See you next year.
Life Preservers 
Buffett Babies?
Tomorrow, in Pittsburgh, the Parrot Heads will congregate at StarLake. I’ve lost count of the concerts, but it’s at least my 22nd time to see Jimmy Buffett. (23 if you count the time I shook his hand and said hello on 6th Street in downtown Pittsburgh, when I happened to see him on my lunch hour.)
I’ve been going with pretty much the same friends all these years. And, I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later. Drum roll and a short one. This year. August 12, 2010. We are about to introduce some of the next generation to the parking lot. For the girls, a few tips.
1. Eat a good, absorbent breakfast.
2. Wear sun screen and a hat–preferably a straw hat with tropical flowers, plastic hamburgers, or even a game of ring toss on it.
3. Bring toilet paper. If you’re going to use the porta-johns, learn to hover. If you’re going to use the woods, you’re going to need superhuman balance by the end of the day and shorts or a skirt that aren’t too complicated. You’re probably going to pee on your shoes.
4. Speaking of shoes, wear comfortable ones. Ones that do not require superhuman balance, ones you can walk around in all day, ones you don’t really care if you trash (or give away).
5. You can’t take any alcohol into the concert. Or can you? 20-some years running, I have carried in a beer. And, one year, two oranges injected with vodka. (The gate attendant not only let me in that year, I think he had a crush on me.)
6. Don’t buy a souvenir T-shirt inside the concert. First, they’re ridiculously expensive and you’ll either forget it on the lawn or have to carry it around all night. It’s illegal to sell knock-off T-shirts in the parking lot, and security keeps an eye out. So, as you’re buying one, keep it low-key.
7. There are two ways to approach the concert: Go all out and build an attraction around your parking space. Or, travel light and go sight-seeing. Either way, get to the parking lot early. (And ignore all the warnings on the radio the day before the concert when they tell you the gates won’t open early.)
8. Lots of beer. Lots of ice.
9. The fun seats are the lawn seats. You’ll want a blanket, not so much to sit on but to mark your territory on the hill. It’s going to get crowded. Most people will be super friendly and loads of fun. However, there are about 2 people per 100 who are lightweight a-holes. They may sit behind you. Remember that puke and pee run downhill.
9b. Don’t be a lightweight a-hole.
9c. We’ll take care of you no matter what.
9d. But don’t be a lightweight a-hole.
10. Hydrate. And, if you have a friend who doesn’t hydrate and makes fun of you for doing so, don’t make too much fun of her when she gets carted off to the hospital. (Love you Nancy.)
11. You will be asked, many times, to “show us your tits.” It’s your call.
12. Bring cheap sunglasses. They will get stepped on, sat on, danced on, and probably conga-lined on.
13. Soon as you park, memorize your parking area. Write it on your arm if you have to. (Brain cells will die this day.)
14. Bring a chair and a koozie.
15. If you show up in jeans, wearing heels, sans Hawaiian accessories, carrying a purse, in a state of extreme sobriety, or worried about working the next morning, we will make fun of you all day. (Also, if you show up appropriately attired and in the right frame of mind, we will probably still make fun of you all day.)
Okay kids. The Big Day starts in about 14 hours, and I’m looking forward to it in a whole new way. You’re about to see humanity at its odd best. Get ready for a silly, whacky, very friendly, free-for-all, life-preserving break-from-reality sort of day.
If we couldn’t laugh, we would go insane.
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August 11, 2010 at 3:02 pm 2 comments