Dream Weaver

It was the best of nights; it was the worst of nights.  Saving the best for last, let's delve into what makes a bad night.

It begins by watching a psychological thriller with Deirdre who had her wisdom teeth removed the day before.  She propped herself up on the love seat in front of the fireplace and filled her iPad screen with the movie.  Sitting in the chair next to her, it was hard not to watch and soon the plot pulled me in.  Afterwards, the scenes kept replaying in my mind waiting for the fire to die down and for Deirdre, now tucked into her bed, to drift off to sleep.

Finally getting to sleep myself, it didn't take long for the images and plot twists to wake me.  After a bad dream, a person tries to think of something, anything, else.  Alas, my mind raced to the financial paperwork waiting for me on my desk at work. 

Time ticked by at an unknown speed.  But it felt like eons before sleep came again. 

Jackpot!  Karma can be a bitch sometimes but not then.  She doted on me with such a wonderful dreamscape. 

Dazzling city lights, skyscrapers, uptown-quality street scenes.  Like a modern-day, post-Woody Allen, opening to "Manhattan".  Less of the naval gazing vibe and more of the astonishment vibe.  A party in a modern, glass-walled penthouse restaurant.  Delicious food.  Direct phone line and immediate access to clothing stores and hair stylists.  Mixing and mingling with the swells.  Talking trade secrets with the chef.  But time to leave the party for another restaurant in a sanitized ethnic part of town.

The car was a white convertible, waiting at the front door.  Mr. Gaelic slid into the driver's seat as I sat next to him in the passenger seat.  My hand rubbed his thigh as we pulled away.  No more than a half block and it started to rain.  He quickly pushed the button to close the roof and the rain lightly fell on the canvas top and covered the windshield.  As the light turned green, we started through the intersection to new adventures and another restaurant with another party. 

But, alas...  I awoke before we had made it another full block. 

Even though the exhaustion of originally not sleeping well still lingered, the contentment remained.  Who knows where dreams come from?  But however this one was produced for me, whatever my thoughts and actions were the night before, the nighttime visions were enough to replace the earlier nightmare with serenity and gratification.

[Title taken from this.]

The Only Thinking Girl in America

"Any customer can have a car painted any color that he wants as long as it is black." ~ Henry Ford.

If only it was that easy!  Now a trip to the grocery store leaves me mentally exhausted.  There is whole milk, 2%, 1%, skim, organic, grass-fed, soy, almond, goat, unpasteurized.  The cereal aisle alone takes twenty minutes alone sometimes just to find the three different brands and flavors that my family eats.  It would be so much easier if there was only the equivalent of a black car in the cereal aisle.  "Any customer can have whatever cereal he wants as long as it is corn flakes."  Just think of the time that would save!

When Finola asked me what I thought of the SOPA legislation, I realized that even though I work on Capitol Hill I don't know enough about it to have formed an opinion on it one way or the other.  Finola informed me that it would hurt smaller artists and some websites.  Playing devil's advocate, my rebuttal was about intellectual property and copyrights.  I knew enough to know that the recording industry and the motion pictures association support SOPA.  It took Finola's reminder that SOPA stands for Stop Online Piracy Act for me to know what S-O-P-A means.

It would be so easy to just accept what people told me rather than learning about both sides of the issue.  It's more than just having an inquisitive spirit.  It's also having the ability to reason for myself.  It's the time and effort to seek out as much knowledge on issues as I can before making a decision.  There would be more time available for important decisions if there weren't so many other decision distractions.

I still don't know enough about to SOPA to have a fully formed opinion.  And I'm not ready to adopt one position over another just because someone says I should.  Not even if that someone is Mr. Gaelic.  My independence is one of the things that attracted him to me in the first place.  But that's a blog for another time.

What really depresses me is that I don't see that quest for information and knowledge very often in today's society.  Or at least the level that I would expect from a first-world country.  Am I the only thinking girl in America?

[Title taken from this.]

(Excuse My French but) FML

Original plans for today:  Go to court to contest a traffic ticket where the officer gave me a ticket for running a yellow light that changed as I was halfway under it.

Actual events for today:  Alarm goes off.  "What time is it?"  "6:30."  "Okay . . . crap!  I was supposed to meet C at 7:00!"

Skip shower. Pull hair into a bun.  Dress and run out of the house with Mr. Gaelic to drop him off at the subway.  Tap the ears to make sure the earrings are there which reminds Mr. G to check for his phone, billfold, belt.  "Forgot the belt!  Let me out here and I'll take the bus."

Arrive at meeting place.  No C.  "Didn't she call last week to cancel?  I can't remember.  I think she did."  Get back in car and drive home.

Log onto office computer from home and check email.  Deirdre calls and needs me to bring her literature binder to school by 11:00.  Find binder in her room and place it next to my purse.  Okay, traffic court is at 9:30.  "I should take it before court."

Look out window at Baby, next-door-neighbor's dog, and dog from around the corner playing in yard.  Baby is a 140-pound, eight-year-old Great Pyrenees.  Go to front door to say hello to neighbor from around the corner.  "Baby is limping?  Did you know she's limping?"  "I just saw her and she was fine."  Sure enough, Baby is barely able to walk.

Call the vet to get an appointment as soon as possible.  "We have 10:30 and 11:15."  "Uh, I have a 9:30 meeting and I'm not sure when I'll be out.  Do you have anything later?"  "1:00."  "I'll take it."

The clock says 8:50.  Not enough time to get to the high school and back to the courthouse by 9:30.  But she needs the binder by 11:00.  And, oh dear!  Deirdre is driving the truck today.  Baby can't ride in the car.  There's not enough room for her.  And the gas gauge says 11 miles to empty.

Drive to the courthouse and find two-hour on-street parking.  Walk into anteroom and realize I'm the only Anglo there.  How many other cases will be called before mine?  How many will need interpreters?  No time for this! 

Find the cashier's window and pay the fine.  There goes my clean driving record!  And it was yellow when I when through it! 

On way to car, see friend from church whom I haven't seen in months.  Talk briefly.  Once in car again realize Deirdre's binder is still on the kitchen counter.  Lack of breakfast is catching up with me.  Need coffee!

Call Mr. G for moral support.  He offers to help me get Baby to the vet.  Stop by house to shower, fix hair, change clothes, and retrieve binder.  Drive to high school to leave binder.  Gas gauge down to 3 miles to empty.  Pull into gas station and, while filling up, watch verbal fight between female driver trying to pull to pump and male cabbie blocking the lane.  Station manager intervenes.  "Please don't let me get caught as an eye-witness to an assault."  No time for that.

Swing by Mickey D's for drive-thru latte.  The Starbucks across the parking lot requires getting out of car and standing in long line.  No time for that.  Mr. G calls to say he'll be at home subway station in 15 minutes.  Stop by house to check office emails.  Back in car to pick up Mr. G.  On way to high school with Mr. G's truck keys, boss calls for explanation of what meetings were moved and canceled on today's calendar.  He doesn't follow my explanation and hangs up.  Mr. G repeats back to me what he heard and it's exactly right.

Deposit Mr. G next to truck.  He offers to stop at Mickey D's for lunch.  "May I have a sweet tea as well?"  Back at house, type email to boss with minute detail of which meetings were moved and canceled.  Mr. G arrives, takes his burger upstairs to eat as he changes clothes.  Wolf down my burger standing over kitchen sink.

Together, lift Baby into back of truck.  Mr. G helps me get her inside the vet's office then steps out for conference call on his cell.  Vet tells me that she tore the left ACL.  She tore the right ACL two years ago.  As he tells me this, both of us sitting in the floor with Baby, he looks like he's about to cry.  Reading his mind, ponder whether the high cost of the surgery offsets Baby's age for such a gentle giant of a dog.  Immediately ask about surgery rather than any other option.

Mr. G helps me get Baby into truck again.  At home, Baby refuses our help and attempts to jump out of back of truck.  In jumping, she knocks the tailgate open against the side of my head.  Fall into car parked behind us, then to curb.  Mr. G doesn't know who to help first, Baby or me.  Give Baby pain medicine.  She whimpers as she sleeps.  Want to cuddle her but she needs rest.

Decide to work from home rest of day as does Mr. G.  At some point temperature drops.  Mr. G builds fire.  Heat up leftover spaghetti.  Wonder if had lunch.  Don't remember.  Then see cup from Mickey D's.

Want to send text to Finola saying, "FML."  Will recount story and she'll understand.

Into Each Drive Some Rain Must Fall?

Is this just a phenomena in my town?  Or do people everywhere not know how to drive in the rain and the dark at the same time?

It took me 45 minutes to go 14 blocks.  Fourteen!  My house is a mere six miles from my office.  The commute was an hour and fifteen minutes. 

During Snowmageddon, some people sat in their cars on the roads until the wee hours of the night.  On 9-11 (yes, THE 9-11), Mr. Gaelic arrived home six hours after leaving his office.  Which is also six miles from home.  Granted, those were two extraordinary traffic events.

But still!  It's just a little rain, people!  And darkness happens every single day!  That's what wipers and headlights are for.  There were no fender benders on the drive home.  My guess is it was just volume and people driving at much slower speeds.  I shouldn't complain.  On the bright side, I made it home safe and sound.

[Title taken from this.]

A Wuss in Chic Clothing

If ever there was a day when this gal needed some Shania Twain, it was today.  My horrid habit of eating the ice from my drinks caused a filling to crack.  The dentist said it was in need of a crown.  My first crown.  No one told me exactly what to expect.

The appointment was just after the dentist's office opened.  The idea was to go straight from there to my office.  My nice pashmina protected my arms and shoulders from the chill in his office while the heating ramped up. 

Barely after reclining in the chair, he stuck a huge needle in my gum.  "Little sting."  Little sting, my ass.  Those needles weren't that big before.  When did they get so big? 

But the anesthesia worked.  My lip and tongue tingled until they felt as large as a lemon.  By that time, the tingling had subsided and there was no feeling.  That's when the worst of the whole procedure began. 

It's that smell.  Like burning flesh.  Like hair caught in a candle.  And it doesn't stop.  Because he just keeps on and on and on until my tooth is ready for the temporary crown.

Woah, woah, woah.  Temporary?  You mean I have to come back for more?  Heaven help me.

And THEN... the anesthesia wears off.  Can someone just hit me over the head with a bat and knock me out until morning?  Somehow, miraculously, the end of the workday arrived. 

On the drive home, the day was cooling into evening.  But, hey!  If I can stand the pain in my mouth, I sure as hell can stand a little chill.  The convertible top went down, the seat heater went on, and the pashmina wrapped around my head and shoulders to keep my hair from tangling in the wind.  Throw on some shades and I'm ready for my closeup, dahling.

The Gaelic Dating Game

"Pick a number between one and six then read your email," I text Mr. Gaelic.

"Four," he texts back.

Our date this weekend will be an early morning outing to watch the planes land while drinking coffee and reading to each other.  He then gets to pick six books and I pick the number.

"Five," is my reply text.

We'll be reading Without Feathers by Woody Allen.  Maybe there will be a cold snap by this weekend and we'll have to cuddle under a blanket on the hood of the car and drink our coffees from an old glass vacuum aluminum Thermos bottle.

What are your "date night" plans this weekend?  (Doesn't everyone have date night once a week?)

[Title taken from this.]

Just the Jokes, Ma'am

How do you know there's an elephant in your refrigerator?

Elephant footprints in your butter.

How do you know there are two elephants in your refrigerator?

Two sets of footprints.

How do you put a giraffe in your refrigerator?

Take out the elephants and put the giraffe in.

How do you get four elephants in a compact car?

Two in front and two in the rear.

How do you know there are four elephants in your refrigerator?

There's a compact car parked out front and a giraffe standing in your kitchen.

[Now back to your regular daily life.]

Stoopid State Law

There are some pretty silly or downright stupid laws on the books. 

One college town has an ordinance against public drunkenness.  However, you can't be arrested for public drunkenness if you're wearing a morning suit.  My law school exploited that loophole by all of us renting tails for Homecoming while the third years provided trashcans full of fuzzy navels and two other drinks that for the life of me I can't remember what they were. 

My state has a stupid loophole on the books.  When I wanted to ride a motorcycle alongside Mr. Gaelic rather than sitting behind him, I took a class at the local community college.  It was a full day of classroom instruction followed by a written test.  Only if we passed the written test were we allowed out in the roped-off parking lot for the practical instruction.  For someone who had never driven a motorcycle it was fantastic, starting from the basics of how to turn it on.  The DMV driving test was the practical test given by the instructors.  We still had to go to the DMV for the written test.

The loophole in the law that I find stupid is that scooter riders don't have to take any special classes or pass any special tests before they can hop on a scooter.  Granted scooters don't have the horsepower of motorcycles.  But they still need to understand certain things about a motorized two-wheeled vehicle.

I think the law is stupid because, on a recent damp drizzly morning, we were following a scooter rider downhill on a major street.  It was early enough that the only traffic on the street was the scooter in front of us and our big SUV.  I saw the light changing to yellow and knew the scooter was going too fast to stop.  Sure enough, when he hit the brakes he braked with only the back brakes and started fishtailing.  He recovered but knew he couldn't stop and continued on through the intersection.  Thank goodness that the car which was stopped at the cross street didn't immediately start moving when the light turned green for them.  The scooter would have been toast.

Even a motorcyclist with a 250cc bike must pass the written and practical test.  Yet scooter riders are exempt, even though scooters are getting bigger and bigger, some maxi-scooter even up to 800cc's. 

Some things I just don't understand.

Observations from the Road, Part Deux

When I told an old friend that I must learn to tolerate I-95, he quipped that the I-95 corridor is intolerable.  He's right.  But here are my recent observations to help along the way to tolerance.

• If you notice the beautiful stars as you drive along, look again.  They're airplanes.  The light pollution makes seeing stars impossible.
• If you fondly remember the Burger King onion rings from when you were a kid, don't order them at the service areas.  There's more breading on the onion rings than actual onion in the rings.
• Speaking of fast food, McDonald's appears to be the crème de la crème of fast food.  At least it's consistent in its awfulness.
• If you're travelling non-stop between Washington, DC, and Boston, Mass, you're going to hit rush hour at some point during your drive.  Books-on-tape or shuffle mode on the iPod helps with the slow traffic.
• If you have a fender bender because some doofus didn't stop in time to avoid smashing into your rear bumper, for God's sake, do NOT get out of your car.  (I observed this happen in the middle lane.  At night!)
• Connecticut State Troopers drive black Ford Taurus unmarked cars.  And they can haul ass.
• Speaking of hauling ass, there are two type of motorcyclists on I-95.  Cruisers who wear half-helmets and jean jackets but generally follow the speed limits; and squids who wear tinted-visor full face helmets and leather jackets but delight in going in the triple digits or popping wheelies at 80 miles per hour.
• To cut down on the stress associated with I-95, opt for the Merritt and Cross Parkways in Connecticut if at all possible.
• If you happen to find yourself in New York City and need to head northeast towards Boston and points in between, do NOT take the Cross Bronx Expressway.  Head west on 57th to the Hudson Parkway and follow it north.  You won't believe you're still in New York City.  In fact at points you'll swear you're in upstate New York.
• There is no good food to be found at any of the service areas anywhere along the I-95 corridor.  This may sound radical.  But . . . Print out a coupon for discount parking (Icon parking has good specials) in New York City, drive into the city, and eat a decent meal while you wait for the traffic to let up.  I know this is contrary to my last blog about the I-95 corridor when I said to avoid New York City at all costs.  (So I must be a radical because driving in New York City traffic doesn't bother me.)
• Not all Starbucks are created equal.  The one on East Putnam Avenue in Riverside, CT, may not be the easiest on-off or even have a drive-thru, but it's a pleasant break if you can figure out how to get into the parking lot of the strip center.  Hint: from the I-95 off-ramp, go straight through the traffic light and bear right into the parking lot.  The Starbucks is towards the far end of the strip center.
• Most non-service center Starbucks have the best restrooms because most of them have seat protectors in the restrooms.
• Not all GPS's are created equal.  Make sure your Bitching Betty has the most up-to-date maps loaded or else you might be in the left lanes when you should be in the right lanes. 
• If there's no blinking yellow light for your EZ-Pass lane and you planned to use your EZ-Pass because you don't have any cash, you're SOL.  Because it wasn't an EZ-Pass lane after all, but a Cash-Only lane.
• Toll booth attendants have no sense of humor.  If you ever find one who does, be nice to him or her.
• When you're at the last service center in New Jersey to fill up with the cheap gas, go for the lane with no cars.  People either don't realize the hoses are long enough to reach to the other side of their cars or they don't want the hoses draped over their vehicles even if it means not waiting in line for gas.
• Believe it or not, there are lots of deer within grazing range of the guard rails.  There was one nibbling on the grass just on the other side of the guard rail in Massachusetts while 18-wheelers and sports cars went roaring past her.  Be careful.  Especially in southern New Jersey at night.  There were herds of them.  Let's talk about re-introducing the grey wolf to southern New Jersey to help control the deer population.  But that's a blog for another day.

Mental Post-It Note

Note to self:  If one of your hometown friends is a politician in the minority party and is arrested on trumped up charges, do not under any circumstances comment on his Facebook status, picture, or link.  The updates from subsequent comments will flood your email inbox faster than the winner at the Daytona 500 and with more mail than Santa Claus gets in any given December.

I Can Name That Band in One Line

"She came in through the bathroom window," he sings.  "Name that band."

"The Beatles."

"Oh, you're good."

Some of them are easier than others.  But his encyclopedic knowledge of music is frightening.  If it's classical, opera, gospel, old-time country, or rock, he knows it.  Add in some reggae and lots of R&B.  Rap, new stuff, or pop country, not so much.

And he likes quizzing me on which band or song has a particular line that he'll sing.  Sometimes I feel like Shrevie's wife Beth in "Diner".  Although he didn't quiz me on the flip-sides before we got married.

Sometimes I can stump him.  Like with Skylark's Wildflower.  And when that happens, oh it feels so good.

His penchant for musical quizzes has broadened to the girls as well.  For children born after "Smells Like Teen Spirit", they have quite a grasp on classic rock.  I'm not sure how this knowledge will benefit them in the real world unless they grow up to be DJs or writers for Rolling Stone. 

But it's a lovely parlor game to play when we're in the car.  When I'm working on the tenth edition of my resume, not so much.

It Was Nine Years Ago Today

Remember where you were exactly nine years ago today, the tenth of September 2001?  Me either.  But I remember the feeling.

It was an innocence much like growing up in the 1970s in the rural South.  A time when, subconsciously, you knew that there was something going on in the world but you weren't sure what. 

My father insisted that I stop playing in the backyard to watch breaking news of some airplane landing on an airstrip in a distant country, a man walking down the steps, and kneeling on all fours to kiss the ground.  My father pumped gas that cost 37¢ a gallon into our AMC Gremlin and complained when the price shot up.  My father plowed several rows of vegetables at my grandfathers farm and got upset when the collard greens had more holes than greens.

I didn't understand my own innocence until the next day and the years that followed.  I felt like I had been thrust unwillingly into a maturity and adulthood that I didn't want or even know existed.  My former innocence was a flickering memory. 

As in an old cartoon when a character gets hit over the head and forgets everything only to get hit over the head and have his memory restored, it took another large event to return my innocence to me.  During the summer, my neighborhood experienced a weather disaster that left everyone without electricity for 48 hours. 

As darkness engulfed the individual houses, the neighbors on my block gathered on a centrally located porch lit with candles and glo-sticks for the kids.  One neighbor hauled over their fire pit to the hosting neighbor's front walk.  Everyone brought out their best scotch, tequila, wine, marshmallows, ice cream, and cheese. 

Nine years ago tomorrow, our innocence was attacked because of how we lived.  We were one of the few countries in the world that didn't have armed military patrolling our airports.  We went about our daily lives without our children learning how to duck and cover.  We celebrated our achievements and shared our innovations (the Internet, GPS, heart-valve surgery, Velcro, the light bulb, the assembly line) with the world.  We were a bit cocky and a bit too big from our britches.  But we were happy.  And that happiness really vexed others who weren't happy with their own lives. 

If living well is the best revenge, then reclaiming our national happiness and our former innocence is the ultimate victory.  Some people may accuse me of Pollyannaness or being an ostrich with my head in the sand.  Perhaps.  But in the 1970s, my father, who was active in the local civic theatre, portrayed The Mime in The Fantasticks.  The most memorable song from that play keeps running through my head today.

Try to remember the kind of September

When life was slow and oh, so mellow.

Try to remember the kind of September

When grass was green and grain was yellow.

Try to remember the kind of September

When you were a tender and callow fellow.

Try to remember, and if you remember,

Then follow.

Here a Moo, There a Carrot

Ever noticed how people tend to go green only when it benefits their own bottom line? Think about all the money saved by switching to CFLs, grouping errand runs, replacing old windows, and a myriad of other cost- and environment-saving ideas.

At one of my favorite grocery stores, they give you a credit for each reusable grocery bag you fill up rather than one of theirs. Our parish has a recycling bin next to the trash can (granted this doesn’t save the church any money but it looks responsible). There’s even the Cash for Clunkers program designed to get inefficient cars off the road.

There’s one place that no one goes when talking about climate change – eating meat. Nobody touches the subject. Like it’s a sacred cow or something. But I read something both interesting and disturbing the other day. According to a 2006 United Nations report, raising livestock produces more greenhouse gases than driving cars.

Chew on this for a minute: Consider how much energy is involved in growing the food that is fed to the animals long enough for them to become large enough for slaughter to feed you and me. (Yes, I’m an omnivore. Nothing better than a rare to medium-rare filet.) On top of the energy used to rear animals, there’s also the poop that leaches nitrous oxide into the air and streams. Don’t forget about the methane that they emit.

Carnegie Mellon University found that the average American would do less for the planet by switching to a totally local diet than by going vegetarian one day a week. Just one! That’s like have a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast, some fruit or carrot sticks for a snack, veggie lasagna for lunch, a handful of nuts in the afternoon, a plate of baked beans, corn pudding, and creamed spinach for supper, and some popcorn for a late snack.

When you look at it in terms other than micro economics, you’ll be saving more than money. Meat costs more than vegetables. It also adds more calories to your diet. Save money while cutting calories while helping the environment. All by just going vegetarian once a week.

So if my family eats all veggies once a week, can I keep my gas-guzzling SUV?

Airport Misadventures

My eldest daughter returned yesterday from a three-week exchange trip to Austria. The return flight information was in my Blackberry based on the original information from the American teacher. There was either operator error in inputting the flight number and arrival time or the flight number and arrival time changed from what was in the original parent packet. Either way, waiting at the international arrival gate at the airport for over an hour for other parents to show up was not on my afternoon agenda.

People-watching is a great way to kill the time. There were the Delta attendants sporting the new, and highly controversial, red designer duds. There were the Air Lingus attendants that reflected their country’s demographics of 50% blondes and 50% brunettes. There was the bilingual couple behind me whose conversation easily flowed between French and English. There were even our across-the-street neighbors returning from a family vacation is Scotland. (Sadly, there wasn’t enough space in my vehicle to give them a ride home.) Finally, the American kids and their teacher rounded the turn to be enveloped by hugs and kisses from parents, siblings and friends.

The most important lesson that you will learn from today’s blog is to never, NEVER put your parking ticket next to your cellphone. Similar to what happens when you put your hotel key card near your cellphone, my parking ticket was demagnetized. After several attempts at the in-terminal payment kiosk, it finally dawned on me what had happened.

But when you can’t prepay your parking ticket, you have to wait in line with everyone who’s paying cash. Two lanes out of a dozen or more were Cash Only. Not that bad, only three cars ahead of me. However, when the cashier manually rung me up, the price was bumped up to the next portion of an hour. I looked at the clock in my car. One minute over the hour. One minute! And he made me pay the extra hour!

Lesson learned. Never put anything magnetized near your cellphone.

Are You There, God, Well Leave Me Alone

The gods are conspiring against me. And I feel like I’m living that Rembrandt’s song, you know the one, the Friend’s theme song. “When it hasn’t been your day, your week, your month, or even your year…”

Somehow another of those days rolled around yesterday bringing with it such wondrous experiences as:

Underestimating how long it would take at the grocery store so that the groceries had to sit in the trunk of the car during my noontime doctor’s appointment. At least there wasn’t any ice cream, although there were meat, eggs, butter, milk, etc.

Remembering after unpacking the groceries that I hadn’t eaten lunch and that the piano teacher was coming tonight. Since she really helped out last week on my day trip to New York City, I needed to buy a card.

Realizing after stopping at the bank, the card store, and McDonald’s that the car needed gas.

Misjudging the driveway curb on the way into the gas station so that on closer inspection while gassing up I discovered the front passenger tire was flat with a huge gash from where the curb cut into it.

Finding out that the owner’s manual wasn’t in the glove compartment so I had no way of knowing how to loosen the jack from its housing in the trunk.

Phoning everyone I knew to call for help and finding no one available so that I considered driving home with a pancake tire.

Eating my cold McDonald's lunch in the car while waiting for help. (Already after 3:00 by now.)

Having my husband (finally off his client call) bring the manual and actually help change the tire so that I didn’t have to pay a tow truck.

Seeing that the spare tire was flat and that the gas station where I was didn’t have an air pump.

Driving ever so carefully and slowly across the six-point intersection to a gas station with an air pump so that I could make it home.

Hearing from my second daughter when I was almost home that she wanted a ride home because she cleaned out her locker today.

Arriving home with the need for a good cry, a long soak in the Jacuzzi, a bourbon, or a combination of any or all of the aforementioned.

As one friend told me, this is God’s retribution for leaving my home state. I always knew my home state was God’s country, but this is ridiculous.

Going Brown

Our household wasn't one of the first to jump on the environmental bandwagon. Plastic bags continued to bring the groceries into the kitchen. Incandescent bulbs illuminated the night. Cars made the trips to the grocery store for a forgotten ingredient. Until the economy changed all that.

Grocery stores began offering discounts for every reusable bag used to carry your purchases home. CFLs used less electricity, thereby reducing the monthly power bill. And gas prices soared to new heights making walking to the store or doing without the better options. Until living the Green life changed all that.

Fact Number One: I'm cheap! I was using the plastic and paper-inside-plastic bags as trash bags around the house. Since the kids are responsible for taking out the trash, complaints were rampant when there were no liners to carry out to the big garbage can. It also meant that the person in charge of the monthly cleaning of the interior trash cans (moi) had a harder time getting them clean. And I wasn't about to spend money on trash bags when I could reuse the ones from the grocery store for free.

Fact Number Two: I like bright rooms. Even with second generation CFLs, the quality of the light they give off is far too far behind my adored incandescent bulbs. Even though I spent beaucoup money to switch out all the bulbs in the living room, I hated the way they took so long to warm up. And the light they gave off was too harsh for actual living in the living room. The usurper bulbs have now been replaced.

Fact Number Three: It's not that I'm lazy, just feeling the effects of age. Gas prices went back down. Okay, okay, they're up again from a few months ago. But overall, they're down from last summer. We didn't fork over the money for a Prius. But we did give our very old station wagon to the Salvation Army in favor of a very non-Mom car with better gas mileage. Now driving to the grocery store for a forgotten ingredient or even to Starbucks just because is a treat. Not because I'm no longer in an older model gas-guzzling station wagon, but because I have two teenagers who beg to drive me anywhere to get the experience under their belts.

But we're not all Brown again. The computers and chargers still get unplugged when not in use. Curtains and windows are used to control the room temperature as much as the thermostat. And my husband still rides his motorcycle to work (over 60 mpg city!). Like today, the annual Ride to Work Day.

Music to My Wheels

My eldest daughter applied for a week-long pipe organ seminar this summer. Her organ master recommended her for the program since he knows the program director quite well. We had some concern since there are only so many spaces available and we didn't hear about the program until a week before the deadline.

But last night we got an all-but-confirmation email from the director in response to our email letting him know we had mailed her registration form and fee. He said he would look forward to receiving it. Nothing about "Sorry, but the program is filled."

My husband and I sat down with Google Maps and began planning our respective routes to and from New England. He plans to ride her up on his motorcycle so that he can add the New England states to his colored-in map of states that he's ridden in. While I, on the other hand, was mapping out stops on the way back.

Another summer (mini-) road trip! Woo-hoo!

So far on the agenda after leaving the northern New England states are stops in Wellesley, MA; South Hadley, MA; Northampton, MA; Poughkeepsie, NY; New York City; and Bryn Mawr, PA. Yep, six of the Seven Sisters. One can dream, can't she?

As American as Apple Pie

Did you hear about the 5.0 tremor recently? Contrary to popular opinion and the scientific world, the epicenter was somewhere in southern Appalachia. And it all happened because of me.

Didn't know I could cause the earth to move? Okay, we're not discussing THAT. So get your minds out of the gutter. Yep, my actions caused a massive tremor.

From six feet under.

That was my father rolling in his grave.

All of my life, my father bought good ol' Dee-troit steel. He was a brand-loyal GM follower. When it came time for me to buy my first car, it was all he could do to acknowledge the fact that the car was German. He was a life-long supporter of all things union. And while my first car's company may have been the brainchild of Hitler, at least it was European built using European workers. Heaven help me if the words Honda or Toyota passed my lips.

Booking a rental car at the airport closest to my old hometown proved a comedy of errors. Upon arrival, there were no more mid-size sedans available. So the rental company gave me a convertible instead. In between visits to the hospital to care for my father, that car took me up the mountain to visit family, down the valley to do genealogy research, and along the river for good barbecue. After my father passed away, his sub-compact car became mine.

Driving it reminded me too much of him, and of just accepting things without any say in the matter. So on the spur of the moment, I showed up at my local dealership with the title to the sub-compact and the checkbook in hand. Cash, no better way to buy a car!

So it's not a Chevy like the car I drove during high school and college. I'm not even sure how much, if any, of it is manufactured or assembled in America. But I do know that when the sun comes out and to top goes down, the music on the radio is pure American Rock 'n' Roll.

Mulligan Goo

I'm taking a do-over on today. Complete with crawling back into bed with the covers over my head. Let's recap the day so far:

• It's raining.
• While on the phone, I walked out to get in the car not remembering that I was on the land line not my cell phone. I promised my husband I'd call him back on the cell phone when I was in the car.
• At ballet on the first plié, my tights ripped in the crotch seam.
• On the second plié, my knee popped and I ended up wearing a knee brace during the rest of class.
• After class in checking my email on the Blackberry, my lech of an archery coach wants me to deliver his Girl Scout cookies tomorrow morning.
• I finally remembered to call my husband back while running errands.
• On the way home, I drove right past the pharmacy and forgot to drop off my daughter's prescription.
• As I was changing from my ballet outfit back to my civvies, the cat pushed the door open right when I was buck naked and the three guys working on the gardening next door got a cheap thrill.

Methinks I should stop while I'm behind.

God Help Us

Make sure your car insurance is up to date and your will has been written and signed. My second daughter got her learner’s permit over the weekend. God help us all.