"Wheeling" and Dealing

This weekend, while most people were nesting indoors from torrid rains, I was selling cars. Two of them, in fact; one was my '99 Rav4 that was Blue-Booked at $2100 and needed $2500 worth of repairs. Pretty much a no-brainer. Buh-bye.

But getting rid of the other car was more difficult. It was my mother's 2004 Corolla and the car that I inherited when she passed away. Despite being a fine little car with great gas mileage, I've never been comfortable claiming it as "mine." Every time I sat behind the wheel, I'd look at the passenger side and expect to see Mom's smiling face. I'd remember our Sunday afternoons tootling off for yet another lunch at Alberto's, family dinner at Jenny's, or movie matinee. And I'd feel that now-familiar ache and miss my best friend--my mother--for the umpteenth time.

How could I enjoy this car, given how it came to be mine?

So I sold it.

But before doing so, I asked the buyer if I could keep the personalized license plates. Bearing my mother's maiden name, de Roux, the plates brought back a more pleasant memory: the day she phoned me, roaring with evil delight.

Seemed she had just gotten off the phone with her older brother who was angry. Boy, was he ANGRY. Seemed he'd submitted a request for personalized license plates and had been denied by DMV. Seemed somebody else had already claimed the name. His name.

"Who else in this country has my name?" he seethed to Mom."de Roux is French! It's not a common name like Smith or Jones, for gawd's sake. Who is the sonofabitch that stole my name?"

To which, barely containing her laughter, she replied, "Uh, that would be me."

The car is now gone and with it, another remnant of mom. But the license plate will hang in my garage--a reminder of her wicked glee the day she trumped her brother.

Letter to Toyota

Dear Toyota~

Yeah, you've had some really lousy PR lately, what with malfunctioning brakes and stuck gas pedals. Those drivers, picky, picky, picky. But hey, at least you're in a position to ramp up the one thing within your immediate control: customer service. Right?
Which is why I am just slightly dismayed at the treatment I received yesterday at your Dublin Toyota dealership. Now, I realize that I'm just a purdy lil' thang without two brain cells to bang together, but I'm pretty darned sure that English is my first language. And, unless I was suddenly overcome by The Spirit and speaking in tongues, English is what I using when attempting to communicate with your sales force.
"I'm here to test drive and check prices only," I told Scott. "I'm buying a used car next month and if you're straight with me today, I will return and buy that car from you." And I meant it.

But apparently Scott learned everything he knows about selling cars from endless viewings of the aptly named movie, "Suckers." Immediately he steered me to a brand new Rav4, insisting that old cars are nothing but trouble and I had to try this beaut because the color looked great on me.
Really. I'm going to spend $23,000 on a car because the color compliments my skin tone?
"How is it a babe like you isn't married," Scott asked upon learning that I was checking out cars all by my big-girl self and without benefit of a male escort. "And hey, you've got beautiful hair. No seriously, I mean it."
Why sir, you're making me blush! I was so darned flattered by Scott's genuine sincerity, I could almost overlook his reptilian behavior.
"Almost" being the operative word.
Finally, he showed me a used Rav4 with more mileage than Amtrak. When I balked, he accused me of having "issues" with old things. "What's wrong with a little mileage?" he argued. "You just buy the extended warranty!"
"Well then, Scott, if old things are so swell, why wouldn't I just keep my current Rav4?" I asked. He looked befuddled. Then he disappeared and returned with the Big Guns: the General Manager.
"What's it gonna take for you to buy a car today?" he asked me. To which I looked him square in the eye and replied that he could be Jesus Christ Himself, announcing that the Second Coming was contingent upon me buying a car today and a sale still wouldn't happen.
My, how attitudes changed. I left the dealership with a raging migraine and I'm pretty darned sure Scott had one, too.
But I do have to say one thing: when it comes to strong arm tactics, Neanderthal attitudes and repugnant dispositions, Dublin Toyota is sticking by their motto and "doin' it right."
Plus, they think I'm pretty! Because really, would a car salesman lie?

Birthdays - the Real Mother's Day

On this day several years ago, I had a beautiful bouquet of flowers delivered to my mom at Macy's, where she worked in retail sales. When she received the unexpected gift she immediately phoned me, delighted but confused.
"It's your birthday!" she exclaimed."Why are you sending ME flowers?"
Maybe because on this day many moons ago, mom's the one who went through all the work. Starting with labor, her life was newly dedicated to child rearing, counseling, teaching, worrying, investing, praising, sacrificing, reprimanding, developing, nurturing and loving. Always loving. Heck, the very fact that she tolerated my manic, prepubescent "Osmond Brothers" years should have earned the woman a Nobel Peace Prize.
But me? On this day many moons ago, all I did was get born. Pop my wrinkled, cone-shaped head out, wail and go with the flow. Really, how difficult was that? A very passive act, if you think about it.
"I wouldn't be having a birthday if it weren't for you," I replied. "I just wanted to say thanks for giving me such a great life."
A great life, thanks to a great mom. On this day especially, oh, how I miss her.

Showdown at the Coffee Corral

The scene? A Starbucks parking lot at 6:45 am on a damp foggy morning. The players? Me in my Corolla facing a woman in her Explorer. The dilemma? A lone parking space. We had each pulled up to it at the same time, so it was really all about being nice.
Except on this cold-for-California 35-degree morning, I was feeling sleepy, cranky, and anything but nice. Still, I waved for her to take the spot. She didn't move. I waved again and when she didn't acknowledge my gesture, I figured okay, fine, and swung into the space with a clear conscience. There were other, albeit further, spaces for her to choose from, and I didn't have all day hanging around trying to be "nice." Besides, I wanted my damn coffee.
Like I said, cranky.
Inside the shop I was soon lost in my own comatose thoughts and didn't notice that the driver of the Explorer was behind me in line.That is, until a Starbucks clerks said, "Cute shoes!" Since we were the only two customers in the store and I was wearing what my best friend refers to as "those ugly man-shoes" (hey, in my defense they're incredibly comfortable), I knew the compliment wasn't directed towards me. Slyly, I peeked at her shoes.
"Oh my gawd," I gushed before I could stop myself. "Those are the cutest shoes I've ever seen!" Black, hot pink and yellow plaid, they were peep-toe Mary-Jane stilletos on a 3-inch heel. And indeed, the cutest shoes I had ever seen. I'd fall and break my neck before I could even begin to stand upright in a pair of shoes like those, but I could certainly admire them.

"On sale, $10 at Burlington Coat Factory!" she gushed back with delight. "Seriously, can you believe it?"
And as I waited for my venti soy latte and she her grande peppermint mocha, we jabbered about how a good pair of shoes could make even sweatpants look stylish, how much we loved a good sale, and by the way, you should check out Aerosoles because their shoes are comfortable, yet stylish and affordable.
Etcetera, etcetera.By the time our coffees arrived, we were chatting like old friends. As we walked towards the exit, I held the door for her. "After you," I offered. "No," she insisted, "after you!" When she drove off in her Explorer, she gave me one last friendly wave, which I readily returned.
Suddenly I felt a little less cranky and a little more nice, warmed by the unexpected exchange on this damp, foggy morning. And all because of a pair of shoes.

Adios 2010

"New Year's Eve, where auld acquaintences be forgot. Unless, of course, those tests come back positive."

~Jay Leno
Here's hoping for a new and improved year, with all things positive (well, almost all things) in 2011.
Happy New Year, friends!

To Kill a Mockingbird's Patience

Living 29 miles from work, my morning drive takes about 45 minutes. Hitting the road at 6:30 am before traffic gets too crazy, I listen to talk radio, sip my Starbucks and plan my day. Awake and alert, my morning drive is actually a pleasant time.
Oh, but the drive home is another story. By 4:30 pm I'm tired, frazzled, and dreading the return journey, which varies between 90 minutes to two hours. Made all the more stressful thanks to the ten billion bottlenecked cars that surround me, chauffeured by imbeciles who think nothing of cutting others off, flipping fingers, running red lights, tailgating and honk-honk-honking if you take more than three seconds to hit the gas pedal when the light turns green.
And all to the lovely serenade of cookie-cutter radio stations playing the same songs over and over. How many times, I've wondered, can one suffer through Under Pressure or Listen to the Music without experiencing the same torturous results as waterboarding?
I didn't want to find out, which is why I decided to try audio books. Maybe listening to a good mystery or an old classic would make the drive home a little more bearable. I'd start with "To Kill a Mockingbird," read by Sissy Spacek as the novel's narrator, Scout. I'd never read the book before nor seen the movie. Finally, I would find out what all the accolades were about.
In no time I was hooked, eagerly anticipating the drive home so I could hear more about 8-year old Scout, her older brother Jem, and their moral father, Atticus Finch; the mysterious Boo Radley, the deranged Bob Ewell and the persecuted Tom Robinson. It was a captivating story indeed, a book worthy of praise. All of a sudden, I didn't mind the manic drivers around me. Go on ahead, I'd wave 'em on through. More time for me to enjoy the book!
Finally, two weeks and almost eleven CDs later, I was nearing the end. I couldn't wait!
It was a pitch black night as Scout and Jem crossed an empty field on their way home. The moon was hidden by clouds and they couldn't see as far as the noses on their faces when suddenly...what was that? The children heard a rustling sound behind them, and then footsteps. Something...or someone...was following them in the dark.
Riveted, I turned up the volume.
"Run Scout, run!" Jem cried and we started running blindly in the dark," Sissy Spacek read. "Then I heard Jem fall and cry out in pain! I fell too, and sooommmmmttthhggggg ggtbbb my leg aaanddddd I scccreamrmmmmm and dddddzzzzzzzzzppphhh...."
What the heck? Was Scout having convulsions? And then I realized....oh gawd, no.
The CD was skipping.
I took it out and saw a scratch. Blew on it. Wiped it. Heck, I was desperate. Tried not to think what cooties might be on the disk and licked it. Dried it, said a prayer and stuck it back in the player. "Ooooouuuuccchhhh I criiiieeeed beeffooooreeee passssnngnnnnggggooouutt...."
Aarrgghh! The CD was obviously shot. To learn how the story ended, I'd have to read the book. Which I wouldn't mind purchasing actually, since I'd already decided to add this wonderful novel to my library. Still, the timing of the scratch couldn't have been worse. How did the story end, I wondered? Was Jem killed? And what about Scout? I'd have to wait to find out. Sigh....
And so, reluctantly, I turned on the radio. And what was playing? But of course.
Under Pressure.

Geek Fashion

Oh, the things you can find when you have six hours to kill in an airport. There I was in Toronto Pearson International Airport, on my return trip home from a fabulous two weeks in Paris. Perusing scarves, magazines, souvenir coffee cups and makeshift hockey paraphernalia when I came upon it...just the coolest thing, ever.

The Sock Monkey cap! I tried it on. Admired myself in the mirror. Oh, tres chic! I had to have it. My 19-year old niece, however, was of another opinion.

"Oh Aunt Elly," she groaned, shaking her head. "You are SO never going to find a date wearing that thing."

As if to punctuate her prediction, at that very moment a nice looking guy walked by the shop and glanced at me in my headgear. When we made eye contact, he rolled his eyes, shook his head and smiled, the universal language for, "Lady, you are SO never going to find a date wearing that thing."

Didn't care and didn't matter. I couldn't wait to make my purchase and bring home my coveted cap. Which I did, and which I now wear every frosty night while walking my dogs.

Love me, love my Sock Monkey cap. And if he doesn't? Well, he's probably not my type anyway.