I've decided to leave AOL. This does not mean I'll be leaving blogging!
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Saturday, February 24, 2007
Friday, February 23, 2007
Victimization 101
Studies have shown that people are attracted to a field for a reason. I read somewhere that over 80% of psychologists have their own mental health issues. I wouldn't doubt it. I have found that people in mental health typically have one of two views of the world: either they are the victim or the advocate.
Today we had a planned water main shut down at work. We notified staff ahead of time and chose the time of day when there were the least amount of clients scheduled. Two of my teams typically take Friday's off so that also was a bonus. This is a building where it looks really great from the outside but since my tenure we have had multiple power outages, heat failure, and leaks. The staff have worked through it all.
Once the email about the planned water shut off went out you would have thought I announced the sky was falling. Doctors showed up in my office telling me it was a health hazard. Supervisors told me it was "demoralizing" because by expecting staff to work without facilities sends the larger message that the organization doesn't care about their employees. Are you freaking kidding me?? It is a two hour planned event. Two hours. What was even worse was the people who were complaining weren't even scheduled to work on Friday.
We have had the first floor of the building under construction due to failing foundation for over a year. The water main issue is actually progress forward. I did due diligence and followed things up with admin then wrote a detailed email citing that we only had 4 clients scheduled (which is a whole 'nother issue due to the low volume) and that they should not take this personally. Really, I don't spend my nights awake thinking, "How do I make so and so's life a living hell?" I didn't write that specifically, but it was a more diplomatic way of saying thank you for sharing your concerns but get-over-it, grow some kahunas, and choose your perception. You could choose to see this as a negative or you could see this as a positive that construction is moving forward!!! I also stated that if people had medical problems I would be more than happy to help problem solve things with them. The clients were notified (all 4 of them) and I would provide bottled water, hand sanitizer, port-a-potties, and arrangements with neighboring businesses for those two whole hours!!! I ended the email with, "I choose to assume good intent and expect my team members to do the same." All was quiet on the Western front after that....until this morning.
I got not only a call from our CEO, but OSHA and the State Department of Health. However, this individual did not leave a name because they feared "retribution." What the??? Are you freaking kidding me?? Can you say, passive aggressive? I have since spent the day writing letters to the powers that be, giving a heads up to PR, and working with the facilities director. Of course, everything is in compliance. All I need is for the news media to show up. I seriously wonder if this person thinks they are a huge victim or an advocate? Personally, I believe true advocates will take accountability and leave their name.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Hoosier, Officially
Well, it took me almost 6 months but I finally can say I'm a Hoosier. I'm not certain that is something to be proud of, especially as I watched them cut up my one good drivers license photo on my Utah license. But, at least now I'm legal.
It took me 6 separate trips to this stupid place and multiple website visits just to get this feat accomplished. My first trip was on a Monday while we were still engaged and I was trying to pick up a handbook so I could study. Closed. Closed? On a Monday? Yup. Trip two was to finally get the handbook.
Trip three was to get the actual license. They checked me in nicely, looked over all of my identification and sat me down to take the test. It still baffles me as to why its important to know you cannot park within X amount of feet of a fire hydrant. I get it as to why but I have yet to see even the most OCD person get out of their car with a measuring tape to double check the specific amount of feet. I passed the test and thought I was in like Flynn. Nope. Didn't have my birth certificate or passport. Of course those were back in the safe deposit box in Utah so I had to delay things until my trip home at Christmas.
Safe deposit boxes usually contain things that you do not want to send in the mail or you could have just any random person go get. Nope, it had to be me. Why I didn't think of this before I moved is beyond me. They were quite nice about denying me a license at that point in time. I would imagine it would be an awful job to work at the DMV with everyone screaming at you. I was internally rageful, but held it in as I knew it was not that specific person sitting in front of me's fault for the stupid confusing website instructions.
Trip four was back again on a Monday. I blame me for forgetting this part. By now I'm getting smart and actually decided to transfer my title at the same time. That took some coordination, but I got a letter from the bureau stating that they got it from my lienholder. Trip five was Tuesday morning. I got in line and realized that I forgot my social security card. Back home. Trip six was 20 minutes later with me bringing in everything but the kitchen sink and boy I am glad.
"Sales tax? I don't see when you purchased the car. Do you have a statement of salestax?" The tightly blond bad permed 20 year old with Wet N' Wild pink lip gloss smacked her gum at me. I wickedly pulled out last years statement from my folder o' tricks. Yup, they never put this on the website, but I was prepared.
"Huh. Ok, what about proof of insurance?" This was an easy one. The dual was on.
"And I'll need proof of your residence here through the mail." I handed her a phone bill.
"This won't count. Its not from a government agency." She smiled. Not to be defeated, I produced the letter from that DMV branch stating that my title was in.
"Will this do?" I sweetly asked knowing that I had just claimed my victory. She slowly, at a snails pace, hand pecked my information into the keyboard. Hey, if she sped it up it just meant she had another angry customer to serve.
As my reward, I got to go stand over by the blue backdrop and wait for them to say, "One, two" Click/flash "three." I think they teach them how to do this just to get the hideous photos.
I walked out of there with a new license and license plate in hand. My theory was that it was the State's advantage to keep as much confusion up around the process so they could screen potential residents for their persistence, problem solving, and gusto. But then I went to Wendy's for lunch.
Wouldn't you know the only white person there was the manager, which is a sad statement of our country, but that is only an observation. This woman flew about in a mad frenzied rage appearing very busy doing menial tasks. It was very important that the trays were all stacked up by the garbage. Then she would fly back through the kitchen screaming, "coming through!" Somehow she then remembered she forgot step two in bringing the trays back to where the food was, so she flew back to get them. The employees are watching her mumbling under their breath as they go about their tasks. She then informed everyone she would be taking orders.
Now I've seen this process go very smoothly at other Wendy's. An employee will come out with a carbon pad, take your order, and then either hand them to the line cooks or call them in on their headset. Seems this woman couldn't quite get the concept. She was taking our orders down on a regular pad of paper, tearing off thepaper and handing it to the customer. There was no communication with the line cooks or calling it in, eventhough her headset was hanging around her neck. She took her job very seriously, but unfortunately her customers and employees did not. The snickering continued. I began to wonder if this person passed the DMV test. At that time, one of my fellow Wendy's patrons turned to me and said, "This is prime example of why we do not work in fast food."
That afternoon I took my car in. I asked for them to do a quick check on a couple of things but to also put my new plate on my car. As I drove out I noticed I only had one of my old Utah plates on my passenger seat. Where was the other one? Still on my car. On the front I'm a Utah girl and the back I'm Indiana. Again, did these people pass the DMV test?
It took me 6 separate trips to this stupid place and multiple website visits just to get this feat accomplished. My first trip was on a Monday while we were still engaged and I was trying to pick up a handbook so I could study. Closed. Closed? On a Monday? Yup. Trip two was to finally get the handbook.
Trip three was to get the actual license. They checked me in nicely, looked over all of my identification and sat me down to take the test. It still baffles me as to why its important to know you cannot park within X amount of feet of a fire hydrant. I get it as to why but I have yet to see even the most OCD person get out of their car with a measuring tape to double check the specific amount of feet. I passed the test and thought I was in like Flynn. Nope. Didn't have my birth certificate or passport. Of course those were back in the safe deposit box in Utah so I had to delay things until my trip home at Christmas.
Safe deposit boxes usually contain things that you do not want to send in the mail or you could have just any random person go get. Nope, it had to be me. Why I didn't think of this before I moved is beyond me. They were quite nice about denying me a license at that point in time. I would imagine it would be an awful job to work at the DMV with everyone screaming at you. I was internally rageful, but held it in as I knew it was not that specific person sitting in front of me's fault for the stupid confusing website instructions.
Trip four was back again on a Monday. I blame me for forgetting this part. By now I'm getting smart and actually decided to transfer my title at the same time. That took some coordination, but I got a letter from the bureau stating that they got it from my lienholder. Trip five was Tuesday morning. I got in line and realized that I forgot my social security card. Back home. Trip six was 20 minutes later with me bringing in everything but the kitchen sink and boy I am glad.
"Sales tax? I don't see when you purchased the car. Do you have a statement of salestax?" The tightly blond bad permed 20 year old with Wet N' Wild pink lip gloss smacked her gum at me. I wickedly pulled out last years statement from my folder o' tricks. Yup, they never put this on the website, but I was prepared.
"Huh. Ok, what about proof of insurance?" This was an easy one. The dual was on.
"And I'll need proof of your residence here through the mail." I handed her a phone bill.
"This won't count. Its not from a government agency." She smiled. Not to be defeated, I produced the letter from that DMV branch stating that my title was in.
"Will this do?" I sweetly asked knowing that I had just claimed my victory. She slowly, at a snails pace, hand pecked my information into the keyboard. Hey, if she sped it up it just meant she had another angry customer to serve.
As my reward, I got to go stand over by the blue backdrop and wait for them to say, "One, two" Click/flash "three." I think they teach them how to do this just to get the hideous photos.
I walked out of there with a new license and license plate in hand. My theory was that it was the State's advantage to keep as much confusion up around the process so they could screen potential residents for their persistence, problem solving, and gusto. But then I went to Wendy's for lunch.
Wouldn't you know the only white person there was the manager, which is a sad statement of our country, but that is only an observation. This woman flew about in a mad frenzied rage appearing very busy doing menial tasks. It was very important that the trays were all stacked up by the garbage. Then she would fly back through the kitchen screaming, "coming through!" Somehow she then remembered she forgot step two in bringing the trays back to where the food was, so she flew back to get them. The employees are watching her mumbling under their breath as they go about their tasks. She then informed everyone she would be taking orders.
Now I've seen this process go very smoothly at other Wendy's. An employee will come out with a carbon pad, take your order, and then either hand them to the line cooks or call them in on their headset. Seems this woman couldn't quite get the concept. She was taking our orders down on a regular pad of paper, tearing off thepaper and handing it to the customer. There was no communication with the line cooks or calling it in, eventhough her headset was hanging around her neck. She took her job very seriously, but unfortunately her customers and employees did not. The snickering continued. I began to wonder if this person passed the DMV test. At that time, one of my fellow Wendy's patrons turned to me and said, "This is prime example of why we do not work in fast food."
That afternoon I took my car in. I asked for them to do a quick check on a couple of things but to also put my new plate on my car. As I drove out I noticed I only had one of my old Utah plates on my passenger seat. Where was the other one? Still on my car. On the front I'm a Utah girl and the back I'm Indiana. Again, did these people pass the DMV test?
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Inspiration Angst
Googling yourself can yield interesting results. For example, I found my agenda item for Utah's Social Work Licensing Board as a public record, family history my uncle researched, and apparently I'm a Tulane board alumni representative. What was the most interesting discovery was a link to a blog/website that listed my name. Thank God I recognized the person.
This individual came into my life by chance. She was a volunteer at a social work agency I worked for and was interested in the field. I offered to have her sit in and assist with my females group for young teens struggling with substance abuse issues. Word spread that I was open to having co-facilitators and I had 4 or 5 these volunteers during my 5 year tenure with the agency. They were bright young women, dedicated to creating change, and incredibly reliable. I always made it a point to include them in the content planning and we always debriefed after the marathon sessions. The females were filled with drama and the groups were like mini soap operas for 90 minutes. Every single one of my volunteers ended up going back to school for their Masters of Social Work.
A couple of them became dear friends and colleagues. We would go to dinner after group to then share our more personal lives. I always looked forward to those Thursday nights.
This morning as I ran the search and came across the link, I found her profile on a social activist website. She listed her favorite books, her passions, her hobbies, and then her teachers/mentors. I was listed there. I couldn't believe it. What an incredible honor. Jeniece was someone who loved working with the homeless, did domestic violence work in Uganda and found her own spiritual path. She does things that I only wish I had the courage to try.
It made me realize how much people of slight chance can have such an incredible impact even without intention. My mentors continue to shape me even if I haven't spoken with them in years. Their voices are internalized.
One of them, Jane Parker, continues to give me inspiration to this day. I remember when I was complaining to her that my career felt stupid, more like common sense, and yet when I gave talks at conferences people wrote down every point I made. Her response was, "Honey, just because its easy for you doesn't make it less valuable for others. It just tells me you are in the right field and you are a natural. Let them pay you for what you are worth." She was also the one who reminded me, "Honey, that's why God invented Tide," when she found yellowing antique lace curtains. She never gave up. Not then. Not now. Not even after she lost the love of her life last year.
Another also from graduate school, Lynn Pearlmutter, made a casual observation one day that became a creed for me. It was election time and I had signed up to run for vice president. She said, "In such a woman dominated field dedicated to social justice, isn't it interesting that 90% of leadership positions are held by all the men?" I immediately erased my name and entered the race to be president. I won.
As my life moves forward I realize that very few of my mentors are outside of my profession. I do not have homemaker role models, besides my mother, who even now is the bread winner of the family. That makes me sad. I don't find inspiration in this role and yet to be a mother and wife are two of the greatest roles imaginable. As my biological clock continues ticking I realize that I'm entering a world of angst. Where is the inspiration?
This individual came into my life by chance. She was a volunteer at a social work agency I worked for and was interested in the field. I offered to have her sit in and assist with my females group for young teens struggling with substance abuse issues. Word spread that I was open to having co-facilitators and I had 4 or 5 these volunteers during my 5 year tenure with the agency. They were bright young women, dedicated to creating change, and incredibly reliable. I always made it a point to include them in the content planning and we always debriefed after the marathon sessions. The females were filled with drama and the groups were like mini soap operas for 90 minutes. Every single one of my volunteers ended up going back to school for their Masters of Social Work.
A couple of them became dear friends and colleagues. We would go to dinner after group to then share our more personal lives. I always looked forward to those Thursday nights.
This morning as I ran the search and came across the link, I found her profile on a social activist website. She listed her favorite books, her passions, her hobbies, and then her teachers/mentors. I was listed there. I couldn't believe it. What an incredible honor. Jeniece was someone who loved working with the homeless, did domestic violence work in Uganda and found her own spiritual path. She does things that I only wish I had the courage to try.
It made me realize how much people of slight chance can have such an incredible impact even without intention. My mentors continue to shape me even if I haven't spoken with them in years. Their voices are internalized.
One of them, Jane Parker, continues to give me inspiration to this day. I remember when I was complaining to her that my career felt stupid, more like common sense, and yet when I gave talks at conferences people wrote down every point I made. Her response was, "Honey, just because its easy for you doesn't make it less valuable for others. It just tells me you are in the right field and you are a natural. Let them pay you for what you are worth." She was also the one who reminded me, "Honey, that's why God invented Tide," when she found yellowing antique lace curtains. She never gave up. Not then. Not now. Not even after she lost the love of her life last year.
Another also from graduate school, Lynn Pearlmutter, made a casual observation one day that became a creed for me. It was election time and I had signed up to run for vice president. She said, "In such a woman dominated field dedicated to social justice, isn't it interesting that 90% of leadership positions are held by all the men?" I immediately erased my name and entered the race to be president. I won.
As my life moves forward I realize that very few of my mentors are outside of my profession. I do not have homemaker role models, besides my mother, who even now is the bread winner of the family. That makes me sad. I don't find inspiration in this role and yet to be a mother and wife are two of the greatest roles imaginable. As my biological clock continues ticking I realize that I'm entering a world of angst. Where is the inspiration?
Thursday, February 15, 2007
The Ex Factor
A few weeks ago I sent out links to my wedding album design and photo montages created by our incredible wedding photographer. I didn't think twice as I scrolled through my AOL address book inserting email addresses left, right, and center. Usually I would think that such an act would be incredibly self centered to send out a mass email that essentially screams: look how happy I am and how gorgeous I am!!! At least this is the caddy side of me that would be commenting about any other post-bride's mass email of photos, "Humph, she's just trying to rub it in and relive her day. Move on, honey! Your time has come and gone!"
However, I really wanted to share the excellence of my photographer and my cousin, make up artist to the stars. When he was finished with me I looked like me only kicked up a notch Emeril style. Bam!
At any rate a week or so passed and I was checking my email. I had received several emails from relatives asking about how I was doing in Indy and some from friends who were unable to attend. There was one that stuck out like a sore thumb. Cue stage right to enter the ex factor.
"Hello! Congratulations! I knew that you were engaged, but I didn't know when you were actually getting married. You look so beautiful in your photos and your dress looks amazing. When did you get married? Te-Mika and I married on October 22nd...."
Oh. My. God. There I was sipping my Sunday java with my husband sitting across the table from me. I think my grin on my face was beginning to make me resemble the Cheshire Cat. J noticed.
"What's up?" He casually asked noticing the extreme affect shift.
How does one explain that you accidentally emailed the guy to ripped out your heart, stomped on it, threw it in the microwave on high to let it wilt like bad roses, put it back in your chest and whispered sweet nothings? The Ex. The one you learned more than your share of karmic life lessons with and swore you earned nothing but good romantic ju ju for decades to come. The one you would casually spit on the ground before announcing his name in public. The-one-who-shall-not-be-named!
"Uhh." I so eloquently began and then tried to sound casual. "Remember when I sent out the email with links to our album last week? I guess I thought my address book was more current than it was. I just got an email back from insert bastard's name here."
J's eyebrow lifted ever so slightly and you could tell he was trying to play it cool too.
"He apparently got married as well and sent me links to his wedding website. Her name is Te-Mika." Te-Mika? What kind of a name is Te-Mika? I began to envision a wedding in the jungle room of Disneyland. This is especially relevant as this Ex and I had had several conversations about how names can label you. Like for instants, on resumes long before you even meet the person which was an important issue for social justice and racism. He was shocked to learn that names like Charone and Sheree were common in Utah, but they belonged to white people. This ex had a history of always dating people with white sounding names.
"Huh. Really?" J responded. By now I was so extremely curious, I was linking to their website.
"Orange? Orange bridesmaids dresses???" I exclaimed embracing the inner caddy female. "Roses. Peach roses." I couldn't help but announce the details I found so anti-my taste. I realized how ugly I was sounding so I added, "She does look beautiful." And she did.
"So, I realize this is a rhetorical question: are you going to be forwarding this link to the girls, the ya ya's?" J asked referring to my friends who saw me through this miserable mess of a break up.
"Absolutely in a heartbeat."
However, I really wanted to share the excellence of my photographer and my cousin, make up artist to the stars. When he was finished with me I looked like me only kicked up a notch Emeril style. Bam!
At any rate a week or so passed and I was checking my email. I had received several emails from relatives asking about how I was doing in Indy and some from friends who were unable to attend. There was one that stuck out like a sore thumb. Cue stage right to enter the ex factor.
"Hello! Congratulations! I knew that you were engaged, but I didn't know when you were actually getting married. You look so beautiful in your photos and your dress looks amazing. When did you get married? Te-Mika and I married on October 22nd...."
Oh. My. God. There I was sipping my Sunday java with my husband sitting across the table from me. I think my grin on my face was beginning to make me resemble the Cheshire Cat. J noticed.
"What's up?" He casually asked noticing the extreme affect shift.
How does one explain that you accidentally emailed the guy to ripped out your heart, stomped on it, threw it in the microwave on high to let it wilt like bad roses, put it back in your chest and whispered sweet nothings? The Ex. The one you learned more than your share of karmic life lessons with and swore you earned nothing but good romantic ju ju for decades to come. The one you would casually spit on the ground before announcing his name in public. The-one-who-shall-not-be-named!
"Uhh." I so eloquently began and then tried to sound casual. "Remember when I sent out the email with links to our album last week? I guess I thought my address book was more current than it was. I just got an email back from insert bastard's name here."
J's eyebrow lifted ever so slightly and you could tell he was trying to play it cool too.
"He apparently got married as well and sent me links to his wedding website. Her name is Te-Mika." Te-Mika? What kind of a name is Te-Mika? I began to envision a wedding in the jungle room of Disneyland. This is especially relevant as this Ex and I had had several conversations about how names can label you. Like for instants, on resumes long before you even meet the person which was an important issue for social justice and racism. He was shocked to learn that names like Charone and Sheree were common in Utah, but they belonged to white people. This ex had a history of always dating people with white sounding names.
"Huh. Really?" J responded. By now I was so extremely curious, I was linking to their website.
"Orange? Orange bridesmaids dresses???" I exclaimed embracing the inner caddy female. "Roses. Peach roses." I couldn't help but announce the details I found so anti-my taste. I realized how ugly I was sounding so I added, "She does look beautiful." And she did.
"So, I realize this is a rhetorical question: are you going to be forwarding this link to the girls, the ya ya's?" J asked referring to my friends who saw me through this miserable mess of a break up.
"Absolutely in a heartbeat."
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Bless this Yolk O Lord
"Which eggs are we using?" J asked pointing to our recent addition of two dozen eggs in our fridge due to miscommunication and solo shopping trips.
"Use the ones that expire first." I pulled out the ones that J bought. "Honey, you bought religious eggs."
"What? They were from Trader Joes."
"The have Psalm 118:24 on the inside of the carton."
"They were Dutch eggs. They were farmed in Wisconsin."
"Great. Not only are they religious, but they're Lutheran eggs."
Yup, Catholics have the honey trade down by the monks, but those Lutherans have the corner on the egg market.
"Use the ones that expire first." I pulled out the ones that J bought. "Honey, you bought religious eggs."
"What? They were from Trader Joes."
"The have Psalm 118:24 on the inside of the carton."
"They were Dutch eggs. They were farmed in Wisconsin."
"Great. Not only are they religious, but they're Lutheran eggs."
Yup, Catholics have the honey trade down by the monks, but those Lutherans have the corner on the egg market.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Kirkland Crack
If you haven't noticed yet, my husband is a huge fan of Costco. The man would wear a neon pink tee shirt in public with the slogan "I heart Costco." It is his home away from home. He has been known to fall asleep post call in the massage chairs with drool hanging off of his lip. Once when we were in Hawaii, cranky from the long flight and overwhelmed by traffic, he found the Costco and once in the warehouse, all was right with the world. His panic attack ceased and he was soothed by the mounds of bulk items.
I've often thought more of his grandparent's depression era mind set rubbed off on him. (i.e. If one is good, twelve are better.) If you doubt me, go through your relatives stuff. They are usually hanging onto things like sheets for a twin bed from 1956 because they may come in handy one day even though there are only king sized beds in the house. These are the relatives that won't pass up a good deal even though they don't need the stuff. "Of course we needed the 12 pack of industrial sized WD40. I saved $0.20 per canister!" However, I digress.
I have learned that it caused exquisite glee in this man if I conceed to buying things like large bricks of cheese or Christmas trees. However, what he really gets into is the Kirkland Signature brands. At first, when he cracked open a bottle of the Kirkland Signature champagne one evening I thought it was just plain tacky. Although I have to admit, I've become a convert to some things. Their alcohol truly is quite good and is their milk and their meat. Before long, I was buying things Costco style.
Last week on a chilly Monday morning I went out to start my car. It was running about as smooth as Oscar the Grouch's Jalopy. I ran in to wake my post call husband. In retrospect I really don't know what I was expecting him to do and I then chided myself for even turning to a man when I was a free thinking woman. He looked under the hood and concluded he knew nothing about cars in general. Why he even tried is beyond me. He tried to close the hood and instead injured himself. As he went back to the house shaking his fist and swearing profanities trying to find the first aid kit, I called the dealership. It was determined that I could safely drive it there and they would give me a ride to work. A Black guy named Elvis drove me to work.
Later that afternoon I went to go pick it up.
"Just out of curiosity, where did you last fill up your car?" The service manager asked as the technician brought me the keys.
"Costco." I said and immediately they grimaced. Not a typical grimace, but more like I poured salt and lemon juice onto a wound grimace. The technician even shook his hand like he had just picked up something hot or was indicating that some Latina woman had a hot body.
"It makes me shudder." The technician said. "Shudder." He repeated for effect.
"This is a performance vehicle." The service manager said. "Do you know what that means? That means you only feed it quality gas. BP or Shell only in this area. Long term filling up of Costco or whatever will cause serious carbon build up and shorten the length of your vehicle's life. And lets see, you only have about 21 days on your warranty."
The technician sucked in through his teeth wincing once again. I began to feel like someone just gave my car a diagnosis of lung cancer and I had been the one to buy it the cigarettes.
"I didn't know. I won't do it again. What do I do now?"
"Well, you go out to the corner, turn right, stop at BP and fill up hoping that the gas will mix. These are the only companies that add fuel boosters and cleaners to their gasoline."
"I HOPE?!??!" I repeated.
"Yup." He hands me the keys. "No charge for this one."
I left the dealership completely anthropomorphizing my car. I was apologizing to it aloud as I drove it to the gas station promising I'd take better care of it. HOPE??? I was also now getting angry and defensive about my husband's view of the warehouse palace. I came home and told him matter-of-factly what the verdict was without any inflection of my voice. He, however, obviously felt bad and guilty by saying, "I feel like I led you astray." I realized that my anger was unwarranted. He didn't know.
Two days later, it wouldn't even start. I watched as the towing company loaded it onto the truck again feeling sorry for how sad the car looked. SAD??? Its a car, for Christssake! I thought of it all alone in the parking lot waiting to be worked on the next day. I went inside to get Edgar to transfer all of my stupid feelings onto a live animal.
It was finished the next day and they replaced a few things that apparently also shorted out. Its now running like the race horse its supposed to be. But I'll tell you one thing, in this household, while we may still buy the Signature champagne, we leave the pumps alone.
I've often thought more of his grandparent's depression era mind set rubbed off on him. (i.e. If one is good, twelve are better.) If you doubt me, go through your relatives stuff. They are usually hanging onto things like sheets for a twin bed from 1956 because they may come in handy one day even though there are only king sized beds in the house. These are the relatives that won't pass up a good deal even though they don't need the stuff. "Of course we needed the 12 pack of industrial sized WD40. I saved $0.20 per canister!" However, I digress.
I have learned that it caused exquisite glee in this man if I conceed to buying things like large bricks of cheese or Christmas trees. However, what he really gets into is the Kirkland Signature brands. At first, when he cracked open a bottle of the Kirkland Signature champagne one evening I thought it was just plain tacky. Although I have to admit, I've become a convert to some things. Their alcohol truly is quite good and is their milk and their meat. Before long, I was buying things Costco style.
Last week on a chilly Monday morning I went out to start my car. It was running about as smooth as Oscar the Grouch's Jalopy. I ran in to wake my post call husband. In retrospect I really don't know what I was expecting him to do and I then chided myself for even turning to a man when I was a free thinking woman. He looked under the hood and concluded he knew nothing about cars in general. Why he even tried is beyond me. He tried to close the hood and instead injured himself. As he went back to the house shaking his fist and swearing profanities trying to find the first aid kit, I called the dealership. It was determined that I could safely drive it there and they would give me a ride to work. A Black guy named Elvis drove me to work.
Later that afternoon I went to go pick it up.
"Just out of curiosity, where did you last fill up your car?" The service manager asked as the technician brought me the keys.
"Costco." I said and immediately they grimaced. Not a typical grimace, but more like I poured salt and lemon juice onto a wound grimace. The technician even shook his hand like he had just picked up something hot or was indicating that some Latina woman had a hot body.
"It makes me shudder." The technician said. "Shudder." He repeated for effect.
"This is a performance vehicle." The service manager said. "Do you know what that means? That means you only feed it quality gas. BP or Shell only in this area. Long term filling up of Costco or whatever will cause serious carbon build up and shorten the length of your vehicle's life. And lets see, you only have about 21 days on your warranty."
The technician sucked in through his teeth wincing once again. I began to feel like someone just gave my car a diagnosis of lung cancer and I had been the one to buy it the cigarettes.
"I didn't know. I won't do it again. What do I do now?"
"Well, you go out to the corner, turn right, stop at BP and fill up hoping that the gas will mix. These are the only companies that add fuel boosters and cleaners to their gasoline."
"I HOPE?!??!" I repeated.
"Yup." He hands me the keys. "No charge for this one."
I left the dealership completely anthropomorphizing my car. I was apologizing to it aloud as I drove it to the gas station promising I'd take better care of it. HOPE??? I was also now getting angry and defensive about my husband's view of the warehouse palace. I came home and told him matter-of-factly what the verdict was without any inflection of my voice. He, however, obviously felt bad and guilty by saying, "I feel like I led you astray." I realized that my anger was unwarranted. He didn't know.
Two days later, it wouldn't even start. I watched as the towing company loaded it onto the truck again feeling sorry for how sad the car looked. SAD??? Its a car, for Christssake! I thought of it all alone in the parking lot waiting to be worked on the next day. I went inside to get Edgar to transfer all of my stupid feelings onto a live animal.
It was finished the next day and they replaced a few things that apparently also shorted out. Its now running like the race horse its supposed to be. But I'll tell you one thing, in this household, while we may still buy the Signature champagne, we leave the pumps alone.
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