28

Sep

Moron Etiquette

moron1

In a flurry of pre-Halloween activity, the morons were out in force today.

Typically they clog up the roads and by-ways where I live, but they can be found scurrying around retail establishments, as well.

Now what I consider moronic behavior might differ somewhat from others, of course, but let me provide a typical example.

Depending on the amount of foot traffic involved, entering and exiting the double-glass doors featured at the entrance of many stores can be challenging, especially if you’ve got your hands full of crap junk.

I always try to defer to that little old lady making her way outside, even if it’s not completely clear who really has the right of way.  It’s the gentlemanly, proper thing to do, after all.  I don’t really expect any sort of thank you, but a nod or a quick smile is appreciated.

What I don’t understand is when I’m met with complete and utter obliviousness when I clearly am helping one of these morons folks out.

Of course, that happened today.  Though I had the right of way and was holding some stuff, I duly made way for an older lady and graciously held the door for her.

Nothing.  Nada.

In fact, I thought I whiffed the ever-so-faint sense of entitlement as she walked by.

If I cared any more about it, I might have gotten a tad mad.  But I really didn’t, cause I see it so often.

Thus, she qualifies as a moron in my book.  Maybe not a full-blown Class A Moron, but she’s not that far down the classification list.

Then we have the example of the driving morons.

You’ve seen them.  They’re the ones cutting in and out of traffic, and even though you happen to be exceeding the speed limit by at least ten miles per hour, it’s not good enough for them.  They tail-gate you, try to stare you down, and ultimately zip out and floor it around you for at least fifteen yards until they ride the next guy’s bumper.

My reaction?

It’s probably not the right or righteous thing to do, but if I see this kind of thing going on behind me via my rear view mirror, I will sometimes try to accelerate just enough to make it impossible for them to keep doing the same thing when they pull level with me.

The key to this particular strategy is to feign distraction or at least indifference.  Glance out the side window.  Adjust the radio.

Just never make eye contact and speed up ever so slightly so that it’s practically imperceptible.

Of course, this type of thing is only effective for a few seconds before the pace of the cars around me opens gaps and the guy can pick up again where he left off previously.

And it’s always guys.  Never any women.

I’ll have to think about that some more, I suppose.

Anyway, this delaying tactic provides only momentary mental relief for me, and I have to be sure it doesn’t transition into some kind of road rage affair, for either him or me.

The fact of the matter is that I’m so worn out from commuting these days, I rarely get upset at anything or anyone anymore on the roads.

So as the moron guns his ride off into the horizon, I typically try to busy myself finding some tunes on the radio that are vaguely familiar.  It’s a life.

Finally, I was confronted with a different type of entitled moronic behavior late this afternoon, but with an altogether different result.

As I approached a traffic light just a few blocks from my house, the light turned green and I had no need to brake.  I simply continued to accelerate through the intersection, and not particularly fast, at that.

I could see on my right that someone in a Lexus SUV did not appear to be slowing down for their red light.  This vehicle had all the earmarks of rolling through the light in order to make a right turn immediately in front of me.

Sure enough, that’s exactly what happened.  Though I was already in the intersection, she (yes, it was a she) ran the light to make her turn.

But there was a difference with this moron.

She knew she had committed a moving violation sin, and she waved to me and made motions of apology.

What a bummer!  I had already begun concocting a string of vitriol, which was to be accompanied by vigorous hand and arm gestures.

Her demeanor completely threw me off my intended diatribe course.

Instead, I simply shrugged my shoulders, nodded, and carried on my merry way.

If you’re going to be a moron, I suppose that’s the best way to carry it off.

– Dad

11 years ago Short URL Comments

Family/Humor/The Daily Trip

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23

Sep

Driving in LA

This past weekend, I helped a friend move into her apartment in LA. I was mentally unprepared for the concentration and sheer determination it took to complete this task. When we loaded up my (Dad’s) truck, I played a dangerous game of furniture Tetris but managed to stuff four chairs, a desk, and two mattresses in the bed of the pick-up. Then I did some magical knots with bungee cords and secured everything down to a reasonable level of stability.

After the road trips to and from Philly, I felt pretty confident in my packing and bungee-ing ability. And, as far as I know, I didn’t kill anybody with errant, flying furniture so mission accomplished on that front.

However, there were various problems with this driving situation despite the successes.

My two other pals each filled her car with what wouldn’t fit in the truck. We planned a route with the lowest amount of ominous red chunks of traffic and since I could not really see to either side of me or out the back window, we decided on a caravan formation where I would be in the middle.

I don’t know if you’ve tried to keep three cars together on the 405, but it is nigh impossible. And futile. And frustrating. And anxiety-inducing.


Seriously though, even going at disgustingly slow speed, it was hard to annoy other drivers enough to leave our little line of cars. I’m pretty sure most drivers didn’t want to drive behind me anyway because I probably looked like a traffic accident waiting to happen but people loved to cut me off in the front. Which is their right as an American citizen. As an American, it is your right – nay – your duty to annoy and harass other drivers as you feel fit.

I think the most terrifying aspect of the entire ordeal was merging because I was relying on other people’s instincts to move out of the way and sheer luck. I basically kept a pleading look on my face the entire time I was on the road and hoped people understood that I couldn’t see anything. I also put my blinker on and looked to the sides for a full thirty seconds before I took the dive into another lane.

But, let’s be real, nobody cares or cared. They were just trying to go on their merry way and far away from what probably looked to them like a roving furniture store.

 

Alas, I did make it to the apartment in one piece. But not before panicking multiple times and having to give myself a pep talk. You can do this. You’re amazing. You’re in a truck, people respect you. Look how high you are compared to everyone else. You are elevated to the status of Queen and nobody – NOBODY – will take your throne. You will guide your people with a gentle hand but a harsh word. You are the Supreme Ruler of All the Land. 

Unrelated: all of LA hates me.

– Daughter

11 years ago Short URL Comments

Road Trip

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25

Jul

CA Road Trip, Part II

Day 2.

My friends and I left our friend’s house in the afternoon. Despite agreements otherwise to wake up at 9am, we woke up at 8am (I COULD HAVE USED THAT EXTRA HOUR WE AGREED ON, LADIES) on the dot and bustled around. Just kidding! All the other girls got up but I rolled around in bed for a while complaining about my lack of sleep before slowly – ever so slowly – inching my way to the bathroom to transform my face from Scary Alien Face to Normal Human Face.

I always feel like a banana slug in the mornings. And when I feel like a banana slug, I don’t want to move. I just want to sit and stew in my own filth. However, obligations lit the necessary fire under my butt to get me going; we had to pick up a friend from the airport.

Both my friend and I ended up getting to the airport very early and I spent my time and money filling up on StarButts drinks I didn’t need and shouldn’t have consumed. The acid from the copious amounts of coffee I was consuming probably burned multiple holes throughout my digestive tract, but it did its job: I was awake still. Awake and in need of a fire department to put out the burning in my intestines and esophagus.

After retrieving my friend from the airport, we drove to the hotel. In one of the fastest changes in history, I whipped on my bathing suit and jumped into the pool. I was gross from the car and going into the pool seemed ideal after being stuck in an enclosed space all day. Sadly, the pool was more of a puddle. That must be how Shamu feels – a whale in a small puddle. I feel you, Shamu. Nonetheless, I made the most of it by splashing around and yelling loudly at my friends. Much like Shamu does (?).

Pretty sure I scared the other people who were at the pool away. There were about 5 or 6 people in the pool when I got there but ten minutes later, I was alone with my friends – who both chose to not wear their suits and judge coldly from the safety of land.

They attempted to take photos of me when I repeatedly beached myself and made whale noises but alas, I was too quick for their slow reaction times. Who knew whales were capable of such stealth? Shamu, you feel me?

So, after a certain amount of time of being a beached whale, we returned to the hotel room where we decided to go to downtown Sacramento to eat dinner.

I expected the Capitol of California to be a bustling hub of activity with politicians arguing in the streets and the CA Republic flag flying proudly from every building. What I did not expect was a total ghost town where I was convinced – CONVINCED – that there was some sort of underground level where all the cool people went. It probably worked out for the best that there was no underground meeting of cool people because I wouldn’t know what to do with myself in such a situation except dance or twerk.

Anyway, we went back to the hotel and lounged before falling asleep. Slightly more bored and disappointed for having visited our Capitol and without so much as one CA-themed song playing in our heads.

– Daughter

11 years ago Short URL Comments

Road Trip

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24

Jul

CA Road Trip, Part I

In case you haven’t noticed, a lot of my posts lately have been in a series format. Apparently, I am constantly going on trips to everywhere. (This is news to me? Yes.) I drove to Sacramento this past weekend for a friend’s wedding. I totally thought it was in San Francisco and went out of my way to tell people it was there, but it wasn’t. I was simply confused. When I get stressed out by travel plans I usually get confused. It must be the panic that seeps into my common sense and colors everything I do with a tint of insanity and confusion. My dad will never let me live this down but I don’t really feel that bad about my major geography mistake because, well, I know I will be watching my dad with the utmost vigilance waiting for him to make an error of some kind. (I won’t be waiting for too long.)

So, the road trip. I can tell you this, you do not know if you are friends with somebody until you travel with him or her. I was apprehensive going on this car trip because I was worried my two friends and I would start off as pals but end up with a Capulet-Montague feud on our hands. Luckily, we are all still friends and going strong!  Nobody died!

Part of our getting-along success was due to our creation of a safe word. This safe word was to be used when any of us were verging on an argument or other heated interaction. It was “seabass”. Of course, it was completely abused:

Friend 1: “So, I was talking to so-and-so the other day and…”

Me: “SEEEEEEEABASS!!!!!!!!!!!”

We took a route that was supposed to take around 8 hours. However, a friend – who, ironically, was asleep during the “scenic” part – advised us to go up a certain way along the coast because it was prettier than the direct route. Well, yes, she had that part right – it was gorgeous. The trees and mountains juxtaposed with the coastline was a beautiful sight to see. It made me feel like I was in a music video. The kind of music video that ends with a car careening off a narrow mountain road into the rocks and sea below. Sort of like an updated ending to the original Grimm brothers retelling of The Little Mermaid where Ariel falls into the sea and dies instead of the Disneyfied version where she bags the man and a nice gang of servants and a cool house. I digress.

I could have lived without the hairpin turns and the motorcyclists weaving in and out of lanes like it was their job though on this scenic route. I hate motorcyclists. Conditionally, that is. I hate the ones that are a few inches from crashing into you just because they want to get wherever they are going NOW – no, not even now – YESTERDAY.  Who goes into the oncoming lane around a blind curve to get ahead of me? MOTORCYCLISTS. Who almost rams into me after deciding they didn’t want to pass me yet? MOTORCYCLISTS. Who killed JFK? MOTORCYCLISTS.

My artistic re-interpretation of the scenic route. Not shown: almost driving off cliffs and kamikaze motorcyclists.

Anyway, we stopped here and there along the way and played lots of throwback CDs. We didn’t notice somehow that 11 hours had elapsed when we finally arrived at a friend’s house for the night. I don’t know how we added on those three extra hours. It must have been driving up and down the mountain roads at 10 mph. But that still doesn’t explain how it took that much time. My theory is that we passed through some sort of other dimension and when we came back into our dimension, time had passed. I watched a show on PBS about it – I can’t explain it to you plebeians though – it’s all very complex and science-y.

The 11 hours went by pretty fast, I have to say. A lot of it was taken up by dancing and blasting music. These were my go-to moves:

Everybody else on the road:

There were many parts of Day 1 where my friends and I made casual educational references that sort of made me proud. For example, we noticed that the terrifying bridges we crossed were all built in the early 30’s (not super confidence-inspiring driving over bridges that are 80 years old, however) which maybe were Public Works projects during the Great Depression (?). And, as we passed through the Salinas Valley, I remembered that East of Eden was set there. I pat myself on the back when I remembered that one – you done good, California education system! I haz a smart. I just don’t know California geography. Whatever.

– Daughter

 

11 years ago Short URL Comments

Humor/Road Trip

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19

May

Road Trip Diaries: Homeward Bound, Part V

Dad’s Version of Events:

Dante’s Inferno had nothing on us today.

I have seen The Apocalypse, and its name is Southwestern Texas. We awoke this morning to a cool breeze in Dallas, which lulled me into thinking the heat and humidity we drove into yesterday had broken.

Cruelly, that was not the case.

Not only did it turn out to be as miserably hot again today as it was on Saturday, a gale force wind worthy of The Perfect Storm reared its ugly head – in our faces. All day.

It was intimidating.

But let me return to the heat. How hot was it? I noticed several cars driving in the opposite direction (with the wind) with those heat-reflecting shields partially deployed in their windshields.

I imagined the associated conversation thusly:

“Good, God, the sun is burning my eyes through the windshield. Dear, please grab that aluminum foil heat reflector thing and pop it up on your side, would you?”

“Isn’t that going to affect your view? I mean, don’t you need to see out the front of the car?”

“Nah, it’s the passenger side. Not much happens over there and, besides, you’ll warn me if something’s about to explode or run into us.”

Yep. Something like that.

And I’ve never, ever seen people deploy their shield while driving. Parked; of course. Driving? Come on.

I am happy to reveal that I did not witness such behavior on our side of the Interstate but, then again, Daughter’s crap sh belongings pretty much obscured my vision anywhere to the back or side of us.

And the wind. My God, the wind!

Big rigs were weaving all over the place. Dust devils danced through the landscape around us. And occasionally a gust threatened to blow open one of our doors.

Well, not really on that last point, but it sure seemed like it, at times.

Prior to this leg of the journey, my trusty pickup was averaging almost 22 mpg. But today it plummeted to 17.5 mpg. Ladies and Gentlemen, that’s a head wind.

Out in the middle of nowhere, between the garden spots of Odessa and El Paso, there were actually two bicyclists laboring along the shoulder of the Interstate. They were clearly in the middle of some masochistic bike “adventure,” since they were festooned with sleeping bags and panniers. As we sped by them, I estimated they were tootling along at about 1.73 mph, with 24 miles to the next town of any significance. I thought it was illegal to bicycle on an Interstate Highway, so if there are any law enforcement officials reading this post, please note the location of these two cyclists.

Even though it’s been about six hours since we passed them, I figure they are still out there and have maybe managed to cover all of two miles in that time.

I’m telling you it was windy.

There were two essential highlights today. The first involved passing through an immigration checkpoint. When we realized what lay ahead of us on the road, it sparked a flurry of inappropriate comments from me to Daughter, such as:

“Be sure to turn the Spanish language radio station off when we roll the window down.”

“Remember to say ‘thank you’ instead of ‘gracias’ to the Border Patrol officer.”

Things like that.

The second highlight and, perhaps, the Tenth Festivus Miracle of the year was that Daughter was almost bright-eyed and bushy tailed for much of the drive, until she “hit the wall” later in the day and asked me why I wasn’t tired.

(Note to self: When traveling with Daughter, plan on a minimum of three coffee breaks before noon if there is any expectation of consciousness from her after 3:00 p.m.)

And tomorrow? If Allah and the Dust Devils are willing, we should roll up in front of our Home Sweet Home at some point in the afternoon, assuming:

1) We leave the hotel before 9:30 a.m.

2) The Tarpaulin Gods accept our sacrifice of Hampton Inn Shampoo and Conditioner.

3) We don’t get pulled over for an expired State of California license plate.

4) There are enough foo-foo coffee joints between New Mexico and California to keep us both focused and jazzed.

If all those things come true, we have a chance. If not, well, Hope Springs Eternal and Tomorrow is Another Day.

Or is that Tomorrow Never Dies?

I get it confused sometimes if I haven’t had any coffee.

– Dad

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Daughter’s Version of Events:

Miles and miles of.. nothing.

Miles and miles of… nothing.

I got up early for reeealsies today: 7am. Essentially the crack of dawn in my world. But I got up. My dad was probably pleasantly surprised that he didn’t have to drag me out of bed. Oh wait, nevermind. That’s never happened because I am the one always awake first on this road trip.

We made our way to Starbucks in the morning before hitting the road as per usual. I prefer local coffee places but my father has developed a taste for large corporate coffee with no personality. He loves to make fun of me for getting a soy latte which he terms “foo-foo” but I’m not the one who is constantly asking, “So, where’s the nearest Starbucks?” He is an addict.

I don’t love the coffee there but it’s drinkable and sometimes delicious if I use the powers of my imaaaagination. I like to call it Starbutts because it’s just immature enough to annoy my father. I don’t think I’ve actually said it out loud to him and to be honest, he probably wouldn’t notice if I did because he can’t hear most of the things I say.

Anyway, today I may or may not have angered the barista at Starbutts by asking if my drink was coming because it took longer than usual. I mentally berated myself because I was being the customer I always hated when I was working there. Sorry, hapless barista! I was just grumpy because the sun was waaaaay too close to the horizon for my liking.

After successfully acquiring coffee (I pray it was free of spit), we got back on the road and I fell asleep almost immediately. But then my turn behind the wheel came all too soon. It was incredibly windy so my usual multi-tasking was a no-no. I put my DJing, Starbucks-finding, and e-mail-checking to the side in order to keep the truck from blowing off the road. My Dad doesn’t know how to use my iPhone so I had to find Starbucks on my phone only at stoplights or slower portions of the road. Safety first!!!

Speaking of safety, my dad has avoided sleeping when I’ve driven the past four days because he doesn’t trust me or something. However, I happen to be a fantastic driver. I am the Danica Patrick of this road trip. And my dad is… he’s like the Ricky Bobby.

Well, anyway, today he stole my FaceTent(tm) and actually slept. Because of this, I had to rely on myself for two hours’ of entertainment. I sang songs with questionable content and  used the opportunity of him sleeping to push the speed limit a bit. Not a lot but enough to feel like I was James Bond or something. Going three miles over the speed limit is definitely equivalent to how James Bond feels.

Dad, stealing my idea.

Dad, stealing my idea.

As the day wore on, I got more and more tired. My eyes started to dry up and when I went to rub them, I accidentally got sunscreen in them. So, they ended up being dry and also burned with the intensity of one thousand suns (ironic considering it was, you know, sunscreen that caused this). I decided the best way to resolve my temporary blindness was to pour bottled water directly into my eyes while in the car. Surprisingly, it sort of worked and I was able to both see and blink without excruciating pain – success!!!

Not that there was much to see...

Not that there was much to see…

Tomorrow is hopefully the last day of driving. 9 or 10 hours of driving left! My dad is already asking if there’s a Starbutts around here.

– Daughter

11 years ago Short URL Comments

Fail/Family/Humor/Road Trip

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17

May

Road Trip Diaries: Homeward Bound, Part III

Daughter’s Version of the Events (and the only version because Dad has gone to bed):

How being in the car makes me feel.

This morning, I got up before my Dad who seems to have absorbed the Southern pace of living: slow as molasses. Slower than Paula Deen trying to finish a marathon. Slower than a Southerner “driving.” Slower than a Southerner saying anything. I’m technically originally from the South so I’m allowed to make fun of it. When you are born in a Southern state, you get a set of rules along with your birth certificate that grants you permission to make fun of the South. And then, the barn hands hospital workers hand you a stick of butter and you deep fry the stork that brought you into the world.

But I digress.

Today, we left Little Rock, Arkansas behind. Of course, the trip started with trouble. The tarp covering all of my belongings was flapping around like an angry goose so we had to stop and adjust. The first time, I insisted that my Dad tie the tarp down tighter but he said, “No, let’s just go.” Well, lo and behold, not more than thirty seconds later on the interstate we were on the verge of losing the tarp again. Part of the problem is that the string my dad picked up is approximately the same thickness as dental floss. It turns out that dental floss is a less than perfect tie-down material.

My dad added another string, screwed around with the tarp, and then decided that his efforts were good enough. I was not convinced and took matters into my own hands, tying knots to secure more things as my dad sat inside the cab, leisurely sipping coffee.

After a shorter length of driving (5 hours) we made it to my aunt’s house in Texas. However, my father tested my patience by withholding navigational information purely to irritate me. I think he thinks he is somehow preparing me for the “real world” by refusing to communicate directions.

Me: “Did we miss the turn?”

Dad: “I don’t know, what would you do if I weren’t here?”

Me: “Well, that isn’t the case, so did we?”

Dad: “Yeah, and now we have to turn around.”

Me: “What? Are you serious?”

Dad: “No, you’re fine. The turn is not for a while.”

Despite the arguments about directions, we got to Texas in one piece. How I leave Texas, however, is another matter.

I went Razor scootering with my cousin who enjoyed the fact that he could bike a million times faster than I could scooter. Unfortunately, I did not wear shoes and when I went careening downhill and applied the brakes with my foot, the metal immediately heated to a molten lava level temperature and burned my foot. And then, after I realized I would be unable to use the brakes with my bare feet, I settled for using my foot to periodically hit the ground while I rolled downhill. So then I got road burn in addition to a metal-induced burn.

My grandparents came to join us for a home-cooked dinner of Chipotle and we spent time catching up while shoveling vaguely Mexican food into our gaping maws. My grandmother’s first words to me were, “Oh, you’ve gained weight!” Ah, yes. Grandparents.

After dinner, I played badminton with my grandpa and cousin until I messed up one too many times and sat myself down. At which point, my dad picked up a dead snake and chased me around with it while I screamed. Naturally.

Can’t choose your family.

– Daughter

 

11 years ago Short URL Comments

Family/Humor/Road Trip

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15

May

Road Trip Diaries: Homeward Bound, Part I

Dad’s Version of the Events:

Let me start by saying that, though late to pick me up at the airport yesterday and forcing me to contort to a space in the truck’s passenger seat better suited to a Capuchin Monkey, Daughter did an exemplary job of preparing for the trip home.  She had already packed 97% of her stuff and had actually loaded most of it in the bed already – with the exception that she allowed for exactly three inches of leg room for both the front seats, she done good.

However, because of said space restrictions, a quick reallocation of physical assets was called for.  The criterion was simple:  If Daughter could afford to lose whatever item or box we were considering, it went back into the bed.  After all, for someone to steal some of the junk we’re hauling home, they clearly must be one step away from impending homelessness.

And, Presto!  We suddenly had room to stretch.

The Next Big Idea concerned the weather forecast and protecting her crap junk belongings in the back from the elements.

“We need one of those covering things,” said Daughter.

“A tarp.  It’s called a tarp.”

“But it’s 10:00 p.m.  What’s open at his hour?”*

(*Not the verbatim dialogue, but pretty close to it.)

Target, of course.

I’ll spare you the details of finding the Target, finding the tarp, and finding rope/twine/string – “We don’t sell no string anymore at Target, sir.”

But we did manage to source everything, and after a mostly sleepless night, we started out tired and fatigued this morning at the crack of dawn about 9:30 a.m.

We managed all of five minutes down the Interstate before making our first stop to adjust and secure the tarp.

Sufficiently satisfied, we began again and racked up another ten minutes before pulling over again to screw around with reconfigure the tarp.

Clearly, we are better suited to interpreting spurious GPS displays than we are tying down anything.  After all, I was given a choice between sports and Cub Scouts, and because I chose the former, I’m still paying the price in the “Life Skills Department, subtitle, Tying Knots.”

Our dilemma called for some real innovative thinking.  I decided to put my suitcase on top of the tarp and tie it down instead.  The only risk was that if anything went wrong, instead of losing a five dollar tarp, I would lose all my most valuable possessions in the bag.

“Dad.  Isn’t your suitcase going to fly off the back?”

“Nope.  And if it does, then the Universe needed it more than me.”

Whatever, it worked.

We wound up travelling nearly six hundred miles today, and I witnessed Daughter taking only one fitful nap.

I call that a success.

As an aside, many years ago when we first moved to Southern California, I asked a colleague at work about his experiences with the State’s law enforcement personnel on our local freeways.  He compared the likelihood of being pulled over akin to being that one unlucky wildebeest in a herd of thousands, singled out and dragged down by a constabulary pride of lions.

I took that story as a license to be prudent, diligent, and speedy, when safe to do so.  My last conversation with a policeman was sometime in the 1990s, and did not result in a ticket, so I guess the strategy worked.

I am happy to report that on the first day of our Father-Daughter (or is it Daughter-Father?) return journey to the Best Coast, we were not targeted by the pride.  However, I experienced a smidgen of Schadenfreude when I witnessed an older couple in a Cadillac SUV (New York plates) talking to the Virginia State Police on two separate occasions not more than twenty minutes apart.

I would think they would have gotten the message the first time.

As for us, when you’re rocking down the Interstate on cruise control, with a zombie-like passenger who looks ready to pass out at any moment throughout the day, while constantly focused on a petulant tarp out back that is billowing so much you think there were zombies underneath trying to escape, exceeding the speed limit doesn’t even enter into the equation — finding the next foo-foo coffee place does, but we don’t need to speed to get there.

– Dad

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Daughter’s Version of the Events:

Well, I woke up at 7am like my dad demanded only to twiddle my thumbs for an hour while I waited for him to wake up. Eventually, I had to wake him up and he immediately said he didn’t sleep and that’s why he didn’t wake up at 7. Ah, well, neither did I. I guess I’m just, you know, DEDICATED and RESPONSIBLE.

Anyway, after briefly stuffing last minute items into the truck bed, I drove my dad to my favorite coffee shop one last time. He complained about the price, of course. (Am I surprised? No. This is somebody who brags about finding pennies like they’re buried treasure and he is Long John Silver.) I found it ironic that he complained about the prices considering he is a very regular patron of a small, independently-owned coffee shop. You may have heard of it… Starbucks. However, he didn’t see things my way and continued to grumble about the high price of the coffee. I helpfully reminded him that he could not put a price on my happiness.

What do all these shapes and lines mean??

After that brief breakfast, we hit the road. The GPS died despite numerous attempts at revival. CPR just wasn’t enough to save our TomTom. One less navigational tool is honestly probably better for us, anyway. Now, with the GPS out of the picture (R.I.P.), there are less contradicting directions. This is the sort of thing that happens when we have too many navigational tools:

Dad: “What highway should we take?”

Me: “Well, the GPS says to take the 83. The AAA map says to take the 77. My phone GPS says that this road doesn’t exist.”

Of course, our trip had a snafu or four. We had to pull over multiple times because the tarp covering the mountain of belongings in the truck bed kept flying up like a magnificent sail. Well, it’d be more magnificent if it wasn’t in danger of flying off and then landing on someone’s windshield and causing a fiery crash worthy of a Michael Bay film.

Sidenote/humanity-affirming moment of the day: because we were in the South, a guy stopped on the freeway when we were struggling with the tarp and in his deep Southern drawl, asked if we needed help. I forget that people care about other people in some places!! I’ve been in Philly too long, clearly.

Anyway, my dad and I took turns driving today but Dad ended up taking on the bulk of the driving because my eyes were drying up into raisins. I tried to bring back FaceTent ™ but without a heavy black coat to mask out the sun, it was futile. Other materials let in sunlight and therefore, blind you even with your eyes closed.

All in all, it was a successful day. Well, besides the barista putting a boy’s name on my Starbucks cup instead of my actual girl name. And my dad yelling at me to find a Starbucks faster on my phone that had no signal. And when my dad yelled at me for not being able to see a semi I almost merged into. And when my dad told me I was driving too fast. And when my dad told me that I am now in charge of making sure my sister is an upstanding citizen. (HEAR THAT, SIS? I know you read it, little one.) But yeah, besides all that, it was a good day.

Nope, that's not my name.

Nope, that’s not my name.

Who are you trying to convince, Bristol?

Who are you trying to convince, Bristol, TN?

I bet you didn't know there were castles in Tennessee.

I bet you didn’t know there were castles in Tennessee.

– Daughter

 

 

11 years ago Short URL 3 Comments

Family/Humor/Road Trip

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14

May

Pre-Road Trip Thoughts

Tomorrow morning my dad and I will begin a 2800 mile journey back across the United States to get back to California. DEJA VU.

I have been stuffing my belongings into the truck with care and lovingly cleaning everything like the tone-deaf, Americanized Mary Poppins I truly am. Except, not. It’s been like a reverse episode of Hoarders in my apartment the last few days. The answer to “what should I do with this?” is always “GIVE IT AWAY!!!” or “toss it.” I prefer to think of throwing things away as making an offering to Oscar the Grouch (not to be confused with my father, who responds to the same name). It makes me feel better when I associate a muppet’s identity with the action of throwing away because it assuages my guilt of contributing to a giant, ugly landfill where some poor seagull will probably get killed by mutated quinoa that I threw out because it went bad. And we all know that when quinoa goes bad, it goes bad fast. Murderously so.

Anyway, today I picked up my dad from the airport but not before first getting lost in the back country of PA. And getting honked at. Getting honked at always makes me feel like I’m a cat or dog getting sprayed in the face with a water spritzer. Except it’s completely different. But the feelings – the feelings – are the same – shame and embarrassment. Because of the honking, my anxiety went through the roof and I gripped the steering wheel like I was Lindsay Lohan on her last bottle of Adderall the rest of the way.

Luckily, my dad was there to make me feel better. JUST KIDDING. He called from the airport curb and so I told him I was almost there. He responded with an audible, exasperated sigh and replied, “You’re just like your mother.” And then I said, “Cool, Dad. Be there soon. I’m driving, can’t talk.” When I finally retrieved Mr. GrumpyPants (Dad), he proceeded to eye the truck with great suspicion and weariness. Then, he sat in the passenger seat and assumed the position of a hunchback. But not for funzies, as I first assumed. In my enthusiasm for packing up the truck, I seemed to have only left about three inches of leg room on the passenger side. Whoops. Well, I was just trying to encourage my dad to be flexible, but literally, you know? It’s important to be flexible, after all. In response to the yoga position that the seat forced him into, my dad said, “No, this isn’t going to work.” Luckily, I had food with me to distract him. I have learned that the best way to deal with my dad is to make sure he is full and chewing on either gum (ugh, he pops it, kill me) or eating food. That way, he can’t make mean comments about my driving, packing and general life-ing abilities (which are amazing, I assure you).

Stay tuned for the SEQUEL to Road Trip Diaries: A Father-Daughter Epic tomorrow!!

– Daughter

11 years ago Short URL 3 Comments

Family/Humor

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20

Mar

They Didn’t Teach Me This in Driver’s Ed.

I was out in Philly, driving around, pretending I knew where I was going. The usual. However, this time, things went terribly wrong and I almost died. Not to be dramatic or anything.

Here I am, in my truck, trying to figure out how to get to a grocery store parking lot that I could see but failed to actually find an entrance. It was one of those optical illusion parking lots. Or a mirage. Or a mirage of an optical illusion. Regardless of what it was, I could not get to it.

My roommate suggested I follow the cop driving in front of us, surely the cops knew their way around! Indeed they did. I followed them down to an underground police station parking lot. Internally panicking, I executed a three-point turn and  screeched drove quietly away.

Upon exiting the parking garage, I took a right as per my roommate’s suggestion. I thought to myself as I drove along the road: My, this road is awful narrow… they should do something about that. 

Of course, it was a one-way street and I was driving the wrong way down it. Luckily, there were no other cars except for a car that was about to turn down the street. That is, until they saw me whereupon they honked and made unhappy faces. There was also probably swearing.

In driver’s ed, they teach you defensive driving techniques. I was told to always assume everybody else on the road is an idiot. But what if the idiot is you? How can you defend yourself  against yourself? That, my friends, should be added to the driver’s education curriculum.

– Daughter

 

 

11 years ago Short URL 1 Comment

College/Embarrassing Stories/Fail/Humor

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14

Mar

Being PC in an Amish Town

Today, I drove with my aunt, uncle, and cousin into central PA. There were many desolate landscapes to peer at whilst ruminating on one’s mortality and ultimate demise. Nothing quite like a Northeastern winter to bring you incandescent happiness.

We drove through a small farming community populated in part by Amish. It was my lucky day! The Amish are pretty much the original hipsters. Straw hats? Check. Vintage style clothing? Check. Beards? Check.

Just because you’re in a place with Amish people, however, does not mean you can act like you’re in some sort of human petting  zoo.

I was very aware of this and I did my best not to act like their community was some sort of wildlife exhibit. A couple of Amish boys saw me gawking politely staring at them and gave me a peace sign. I’m not sure that was an Amish-approved gesture but it was a Daughter-approved gesture. I felt like we really connected. Then again, maybe that was an Amish way of making fun of me.

I managed to get this horribly blurry photo of a horse and Amish buggy. It’s a terrible picture  because I was trying to be respectful. It was my fear that the mere sight of an Apple product like my iPhone would induce a craving in these people, a craving that could only be sated by a re-introduction into modern society where the Apple God would be venerated above all others. And I don’t want to single-handedly destroy a centuries-old community. I just can’t have that sort of thing on my conscience or record if I am going to accomplish my goal of becoming the next pope.

– Daughter

 

11 years ago Short URL 1 Comment

College/Fail/Family/Humor

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12

Mar

City People

It’s spring break! Yay!

Sunshine and sand?

Nope. Try rain and gray and grumpiness.

Penn's Landing

Penn’s Landing

The redeeming part of this break, however, is that my aunt and little cousin have come to entertain me with their wit and various talents. My aunt’s specialty is educating me on the particulars of literature, art, and history and my cousin’s talent is shaming me for my ignorance in all branches of knowledge. Except my aunt and cousin manage to both teach and shame me in a way that is much less condescending than the way my father does it. (Love you, Dad!)

It is nice to have other people around the apartment besides the cats. Speaking of which, my aunt and cousin were horrified by the smell emanating from my room where they stay. I can’t even smell anything in there at this point. I think this is a bad sign. I must be slowly morphing into some human-animal beast, immune to all animal smells.

Independence Hall

Independence Hall

Anywho, like any good host would, I am pretending that I know my way around this town but really praying to the GPS gods that my navigation voice person does not lead me into a river or through a building. The calming, soothing salve that is the GPS lady’s voice can only go so far in soothing me. Why? City people, that’s why. They are the reason that I cry myself to sleep at night.

City people are a certain breed: tough, intimidating, and individualistic. It’s every man for himself on the streets.

Crosswalk? Oh, you mean, the target range for cars to hit as many pedestrians as you can.

Puddles? Oh, well let’s just speed through this puddle as fast as possible to waterfall it onto passers-by.

Lost people who ask you a question? Let’s stare blankly at them.

Person who needs to merge into your lane? Hahahaha, good luck.

City of Brotherly Love? More like, City of Brotherly – MOVE OUT OF THE WAY OR SO HELP ME GOD.

#whatup

#whatup

– Daughter

 

 

 

11 years ago Short URL Comments

College/Fail/Family/Humor

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04

Feb

What Driving in the Snow Feels Like as a SoCal Native

My life.

My life.

In a word: TERRIFYING.

There was a flash blizzard yesterday (that’s a real thing, right?) and I was unfortunately wandering around on campus at the time and had to trudge barefoot, uphill to my car and then drive to my apartment. I seriously needed a Sherpa to guide me back to the truck. It is a harsh, unforgiving land. I saw others fall behind and yell for help, but I did not look back. You should never look back.

Anyway, I finally made it to the summit of Mt. Everest my truck, which was covered in snow and ice. The ice had crept up the windshield so as to completely obstruct my vision. I briefly admired the crystalline patterns of the ice before crying silently to myself. My side windows were frozen in place but with great difficulty, they rolled down allowing the snow to slide off the windows and into my lap. Success!!

It was still snowing at this point so I turned on the windshield wipers. MISTAKE. The wipers smeared ice all over the windshield thus obscuring my view even further. It was like looking out from a submarine porthole. A FOGGY submarine porthole. No, it was like looking out from a foggy submarine porthole while the Kraken shakes the submarine from the outside. Yes, exactly like that.

I drove at a breakneck speed of 5 miles per hour. Sometimes 6 mph when I was feeling dangerous (I never felt dangerous, FYI). I was preparing to go flying into an embankment because I have watched far too many YouTube videos of cars sliding around on icy roads like Michelle Kwan at the 1998 Winter Olympics to expect otherwise.

Between my expert driving and my clever manipulation of windshield wipers, I got back to the apartment in one piece, if a bit anxiety-ridden. Nothing like the East Coast to make you hate winter.

When SoCal people see snow for the first time:

 

The millionth time you see snow:

– Daughter

11 years ago Short URL 1 Comment

College/Humor

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17

Jan

Road Trip Diaries: A Daughter-Father Epic, Part V

Welllll. We were going to try for Pennsylvania today but the weather replied, “YOU SHALL NOT PASS,” and snowed us right off the road. Not literally, luckily. My dad tapped out when the snow started to get serious – no more Mr. Nice Snow, as they say (?). My dad had been driving the whole day anyway, it was “too dangerous” for me to drive apparently, so he was glad to get off the road. I was glad to get off the road because I was sitting in abject terror for 3/4 of the drive today; semis were flying around the roads like they were in the Ice Capades. The remaining quarter of the time, I was asleep. Not driving is exhausting! I can only be in a state of pure, unadulterated fear for so long before my body poops out and resorts to its only defense: sleep.

Sneeeew.

Sneeeew.

We stopped driving early in the day and spent most of the afternoon lounging around the hotel room like we owned the place (we sorta do, right? Maybe it’s considered more of a timeshare). I was supposed to be picking my classes for next semester during the extra time I had today but sitting and looking at funny pictures on the internet won out instead. Clearly, I have my priorities straight. I’m definitely ready to be a Serious Academic again.

Trying to get an artsy angle… aaaand failing.

The Weather Channel was on for a good five hours straight because it turns out weather is an important factor for travel. (WHAT?!) Unfortunately, the main weather lady was making really inane comments and saying things like, “We’ll have Bob Whatshisface, the resident meteorologist, make sense of all of these pretty colors on the Doppler radar in a second!” First of all, I understand there is a limited amount of information and fluff you can work into Weather Channel programming, but those ‘pretty colors’? Yeah, no. That’s like looking at a tornado and saying that you like that little turny-twisty dance it does. Iago is no joke. Except for that name. That’s a joke. It reminds me of an iguana. And iguanas are not that scary. They need to start giving these storms more threatening names. THOR IS COMING, EXPECT ROAD DELAYS. ZEUS IS COMING, 400 FEET OF SNOW EXPECTED. ACHILLES IS COMING, STOCK UP ON EMERGENCY SUPPLIES. Nope. “Iago is coming, expect a shortage of flies and other insects.”

I want to go swimming.

I want to go swimming.

Dad and I spend a good amount of time prancing around taking photos of the snow. In the midst of prancing, however, I discovered one of my boots had a hole in it because water began to seep into my boots and was immediately absorbed by my fuzzy socks – it was straight of a scene from a paper towel commercial, you guys. I might as well have been wearing sponges in my boots. My actual snow boots are buried in the Hoarders-style mountain of things stuffed into the cab of the truck, unreachable by any mortal. This means I’ll be in my holey boots until I get to PA. Such is life.

FOOD.

FOOD.

But to end things on a positive note, we did eat a delicious meal at a “fancy” restaurant. I say “fancy” with quotation marks because my dad had to put real pants on instead of wearing his shorts. They also had those baby forks and little plates – obviously upscale for us plebes. In my fog of exhaustion, I forgot to put my napkin on my lap and Dad decided to point this out to the waitress in order to embarrass/shame me. Cute, Dad.

– Daughter

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Not only did we drive thirteen hours and lose yet another hour to time zone changes yesterday (what’s the deal with time zones?), I evidently failed to reserve a hotel room correctly while simultaneously texting, driving, and emailing.  How could I screw up something so simple?

So, there I was at the front desk last night, without a confirmation number, but with lots of credit cards.  Thinking fast (or as fast as my mileage-addled brain would allow), I winked at the front desk clerk, and she he magically discovered an available room.

Old School Tactic, Daughter.

But it was almost 11:00 p.m. by then, anyway.

And I already knew we could kiss today’s Early Start goodbye.  And to add further insult, I was asleep before Daughter.

Yep.  It was a long day.

As I anticipated, the Highway Gods exacted their revenge today, even while Daughter “mailed it in” from the passenger seat, the beneficiary of a modified (multi-layer) FaceTent (trademarked).  That’s right, when the first driving shift (mine) was over, the second (mine) then started.  And Daughter started her second nap stint.

To be absolutely fair, I felt the most prudent course of action was for me to handle the load.  The weather absolutely sucked, and got worse from there.  No more desolate landscapes with 80 mph-posted speed limits.  We’re talking 60 mph max, heavy rain turning to snow, and semi tractor-trailer rigs as far as the eye could see (which wasn’t far).

Quite frankly, I don’t like experiencing life in the slow lane, off cruise control, staring at the butt-end of yet another freaking hideously large truck.

And to continue my rant from my last entry, many of these semi guys simply have no shame.  At least that’s the way it appears to me.

Cut in front of a fast-closing vehicle (me) – no problem.  Stay in the left lane forever – no problem.  Unconsciously annoy Daughter – no problem.

You see, they’ve got it all covered.

But I was more worried about the deteriorating weather and becoming stranded, without access to foo-foo coffee and a semi-warm bed.  The sum total of the food stuffs on board was two bananas, an apple, some hotel mints, and half a loaf of gluten-free bread (essentially a bag of cardboard scraps).

After assessing the situation and the possibility would could potentially be somewhat hungry by nightfall (not thirsty – I figured we could melt snow to drink), we pulled off the interstate early (only six hours today) and watched Winter Storm Iago on the Weather Channel, instead of through the front windshield.

Was it the right decision?  I’ll know tomorrow if —  we finally reach our destination (at least a day late) in one piece, before darkness falls, and Daughter spends more time driving than sleeping.

Hope springs eternal.

–  Dad

11 years ago Short URL 3 Comments

Family/Humor/Road Trip

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16

Jan

Road Trip Diaries: A Father-Daughter Epic, Part IV

Before I start this blog post, I want to have a moment of silence to show respect for those we lost during this road trip. They have been with me for many years, close friends I’d even call them. But they have been wounded and killed in this great battle fought on the interstates of America. Rest in peace, we will always remember you, dear cuticles. Seriously, though. My cuticles are dead and dying. This is the winter of their discontent… literally. They are terrible and bleedy. Lotion does not assuage them nor kind words. I have given up trying to heal them and instead, I try not to look at them. Or I sit on my hands.

Mmm, I love the smell of industry in the morning!

Mmm, I love the smell of industry in the morning!

We actually got back on the road today  and palled around with some semi truck drivers! If “palled around” means playing a game of tag with huge tons of metal and the semi is always “it”. STOP TRYING TO TAG US, TRUCK DRIVERS.  There was one semi in particular that really, really irritated me. So much so that I changed nationalities and transformed into an Italian. I did a lot of exasperated hand gesturing. I could be wrong, but I think this means I’m fluent in Italian.

I laugh at you, truckers in traffic. You deserve that misery.

I laugh at you, truckers in traffic. You deserve that misery.

After a successfully-completed quest to get coffee (bad things always happen when we try and find coffee, maybe we should consider switching to tea?), I hit a curb while turning because I can’t see out the right side of the truck and some coffee splashed out of my dad’s cup. No Big Deal, right? WRONG. Obviously, my dad has NEVER EVER so much as run over an errant piece of rubber on the road because he was so disgusted with me. How dare I accidentally run over a curb? HOW DARE I WASTE HIS TIME OFF-ROADING FOR MY OWN AMUSEMENT. He actually asked me: “Have you ever driven a car before?”  And then, later, a semi was drifting into my lane so I moved over and went on the rumble strip for three seconds. Not long, but long enough for my dad to yell at me, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” And I said, “THIS SEMI IS ON TOP OF ME, BRO.” Except I didn’t call him ‘bro’ because that’s weird. Good times. This is what father-daughter bonding is all about.

America.

America.

The most exciting thing that happened today is when we got lost in Tennessee. Despite having a GPS, an iPhone, Google Maps, and old-fashioned paper maps, we got lost because there was an unexpected detour. We apparently drove on a road that didn’t exist in our world, it existed in some other dimension. The same dimension where all your missing socks go  and where I have friends. It was like the Bermuda Triangle of roads. I’m pretty sure I saw a chupacabra out there. My poor iPhone was heating up from its attempt to locate us, but its efforts were in vain. We weren’t in this world, or if we were, we had ripped a hole in the fabric of spacetime because… physics.

We made it back to our dimension, all parts intact but I have a feeling of deju vu… nope, wait, it was just a burp.

– Daughter

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And on the fourth day, God created semi-tractor truck drivers.  But I digress.

Yesterday was an unscheduled rest day, which presupposes one actually rests when given the opportunity.  When I awoke and took stock of the thick blanket of snow outside, it wasn’t hard to quickly make the decision to hang tight for a day with our wonderful relatives in their immaculate mansion.  Please note that, in comparison to our house, most other homes seem like castles to us – but theirs really is.  It is wonderful.

One quick check on Daughter simply confirmed my decision – she was dead to the world.  Two days in cramped confinement with a parent sucks the life out of children, evidently.

So, Daughter made an unconscious, slumbering assessment to replicate what is known back in our household as a “Pajama Day.”

It goes like this.  In the spirit of calling “shotgun,” declaring “Pajama Day” is governed by approximately the same rules.  Yep, all you have to do is say, “Pajama Day,” and, thereby, you eliminate the requirement to become fully attired and fully humanly functional for however long you want.  Technically, Pajama Day could become “days” or even a week, in extreme circumstances.

Also, male members are not allowed to play, even though we completely and thoroughly understand the rules.  Though hurtful, I am all right with the exception.

I knew we were in trouble this morning, however, because Daughter did not sleep well and was more tired than she had been before our rest day.  Makes no sense, I know, but it’s nothing a foo-foo coffee usually can’t set right.

Unfortunately, Daughter’s fatigue manifested itself in many uncharacteristic ways.  During her first driving stint, she inexplicably had no idea how she turned on the windshield wipers, but also couldn’t figure how to turn them off, as well.  Not long after she ran over a curb exiting a gas station.

Her defense?

“I can’t see anything out of the right side of the truck, and stop yelling at me.”

Only one of us had her voice raised by the way, and it sure would have been nice to know you’ve been blind on the right side of the vehicle the past two days, Daughter.

And even though she deployed her now trademarked FaceTent early on, she had little to no patience for the truck drivers hogging the interstate highways.

Daughter using FaceTent (tm)

Daughter using FaceTent ™

I have to admit, a little warning sign went off in my own pea brain when the landscape northeast of Dallas became littered with hundreds of the following road signs:  “Left Lane is for Passing Only.

Let’s think about that, shall we?  If you have to post directions to the multitudes about staying out of the left lane, there clearly must be a problem somewhere.

There was.  And is.

We were blocked, hindered, slowed, and just plain annoyed by the numerous Left Lane Truck Bandits today.  I’m sure they are all really nice people, but, geez, folks, let’s get with the program.

As you might have suspected, Zen-me wrestled with the situation for a few miles, but I eventually made my peace and counted my blessings.

For Daughter, however, it was a continuing struggle, no doubt fueled by her lack of rest during our “Rest Day.”

If we consider the eleven stages of Driving Consciousness, she never made it by Number Four:  Annoyance.

Even if she had, we always have tomorrow.  And if we don’t have tomorrow, there’s still me.

– Dad

QV5RTCKXKQE2

11 years ago Short URL 4 Comments

Family/Humor/Road Trip

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16

Dec

I Have Met My Match, and He is 15 Years Old

gtv

I am a money pig. Feed me!

I dabble in project cars.

Much like “gardening” (in our yard it’s pulling weeds, actually), this hobby provides great therapy for me, as it takes my mind off the stress of work and paying bills — and it’s usually cheaper than what I imagine a shrink psychiatrist probably costs.  Of the thirty or forty some odd vehicles that have passed through my hands over the years, I generally break even or even make a bit (usually a pittance) after the final tally.

And I’m still sane, sort of.

I prefer using the term “investment” when I speak of this automotive pursuit — that lends it an air of legitimacy within the household and generally prevents closer financial scrutiny.  Actually, we have something of a compromise going in our home — I won’t scrutinize the Target bill or squawk about whatever “Real Housewives of  . . . .” episode is airing, if you don’t mind me parking a derelict in the driveway now and again.

It seems to work for the most part.

However, the latest installment of my own “Monster Garage” concerns itself with the relatively recent purchase of an older Alfa Romeo GTV.  Understand that I have owned a succession of Alfa convertibles, but I have always desired a coupe.  In the parlance of cardom, its condition is known as a “driver” — runs okay and looks okay, but needs about $10K to get to the next level.  Probably more, to be honest.  This point becomes important later.

Even better for me, no one currently living at home is capable of driving a manual transmission, and the Alfa has an old school five-speed.

Sidebar driving story:  Daughter, like Son, learned to drive in my old Ford Ranger pick-up, with an automatic transmission.  She then graduated at some point in high school to the consummate SoCal young girl ride of choice — a VW Cabrio.  Of Daughter’s two or three non-childhood meltdown crying episodes I can remember, one was specifically associated with a learner’s permit driving incident during which she almost killed both of us (not really, but it was nearly a wreck).  Of course, I made her stay behind the wheel and get us back to the house afterwards.  After all, developing the ability to see through tears when on the road is an important skill to develop.  Yes, Dad can wield the cruelest cut.

Anyway, before my last business trip, I answered an electronic bulletin board ad for someone looking for exactly the type of Alfa I have sitting in front of the house.  You see, since Daughter has been readmitted back into her Lesbian Cult College, I have been trying to figure out how I can have my cake (cars) and eat it, too (take care of children, shelter family, buy food, fund college tuition, etc.).  My Plan B is to sell the Alfa, and buy another piece of less expensive cake in the future, once Daughter has degree firmly in hand.

Plan A is to have my cake and eat it, too.

So, almost immediately after sending an email to the potentially interested party, I was bombarded with electronic inquiries about the condition of the car, where it was located, how much I wanted, etc.  I was a bit unprepared for the sheer volume of responses, but did my best to accommodate.

All the emails I received were sent from an iPhone.  The prospective buyer seemed somewhat sophisticated.

Since I was dealing with this while on the road, I finally just told the guy where the car was parked so that he could go by himself and check it out.  I didn’t think much more about it until a couple of days later when my wife called and said some kid knocked at the front door and said he was there to look at the Alfa.  The whole time I never mentioned anything to her about any of this, because many of these car folks are Kooks and rarely show up, much less with actual legal tender in hand.

But when my wife said “kid,” she really meant it.  She said the tyke she talked to looked like he was about ten years old.  I just figured he was there with his father and, again, kind of dismissed it.  Further emails followed, asking about a test drive, when I would return from my travels, if I could leave the key with someone — that kind of thing.  I just told him to swing by on Sunday, when I would be back in town.

As luck would have it, I was able to return a day early.

While I was on the phone in the front yard early Saturday afternoon, a little kid walked up the sidewalk and approached me.  He was there to see the Alfa, he said.  He’d been emailing me, he said.  He was very interested, he said.

“How old are you?” I said.

“Fifteen.  My Mom’s parked up the street a ways.”

Really?  Shouldn’t you be riding around on a Razor or something, I thought.

This was, indeed, weird.  But I figured, what the he heck, I’ll roll with it.

His mother was standing by the car, and I wasn’t quite sure if I should be talking to her or to Junior.  On the one hand, I didn’t want to discourage a young man (term used very loosely here) who clearly was somewhat knowledgeable about classic cars.  On the other we were talking about laying out about $7K for this particular example.

I asked him how old he was.

Fifteen.  Yep.  That made me feel better.

Whatever.  I explained to Mom that the Alfa wasn’t really a suitable teen car, that it would be finicky and difficult, and in the end would definitely not be trustworthy or reliable.

Turns out, it was just what they were looking for.

I told them I hadn’t actually decided to sell, and they said they would tally everything up and get back to me in a few days.  But they were definitely looking for a project car, and they definitely wanted an Alfa.

You see, “back in the day” when I was fifteen, I could afford any type of “work in progress” car, as long as it was around $100.  That was the reality of my financial world back then.  Heck, if you factor in inflation over thirty years, it’s probably not all that much different now.  So, I contextually I was kind of incredulous I was even having this conversation with a ninth grader.

That was yesterday.

Today, I received an offer.

From the kid.

He wrote he was prepared to give me $6700 cash today, and could come by this afternoon to pick up the car.  Then came the kicker:  “You yourself said you didn’t have the time, energy, or funds to bring it back to its former glory.”

Snap!  And he does.

I replied back that I would let him know something by Tuesday, as I hadn’t yet made up my mind to sell.

Not too long ago this entire affair would have made me somewhat melancholy.  Now, I am merely bemused — at my own circumstances, at the kid’s, and at the reality that, in the end, he’s probably right.

I’m thinking I’ll probably just hold onto the GTV for awhile, since Plan C for Daughter’s tuition is to write a best-selling book on Lesbian Christmas Bingo Dancing.  The world needs something like that, I feel, just like it needs old cars which will never regain their youth.

Like the GTV, I’m a “driver.”  And I’m okay with that.

– Dad

11 years ago Short URL 2 Comments

Humor

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