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.

Making Headlines and Taking Names

Oh yeah.  Indiana is again soaring and I mean soaring in the limelight.  Last week I heard our police department made the laughing stock at the Las Vegas National Gang Convention. (As in, are you freaking kidding me??? Your idiot govenor actually agreed to take thousands of California inmates in order to create jobs???  How desparate are you??? You do realize these gang members will now be your problem when they are released, right?) 

Today "Armed and Famous" debuted on CBS right before the President's address (really, a whole night worth picking up a book and not watching TV at all...save the electricity.)    If you haven't heard, this is a reality show that has only really stellar "A" list stars.  They have been sworn in as Muncie, Indiana's police force.  These individuals have firearms.  You should be scared.  This has all debuted simultaneously as Indianapolis's mayor just released his "safety first" campaign. 

Muncie, Indiana.  Really, quite the hot spot of crime.  What?  A broken headlight?  A traffic violation?  Perhaps a DUI if we're lucky.  Ooh, high drama for primetime.  Remember, this is a state where teeth are optional (and see exhibit A of the second/third/and other arrests on the show.) 

And the stars of the show are:  LaToya Jackson (yup, the freaky plastic surgery Jackson...oh wait, that's Michael.), Erik Estrada (as in Chips), a midget (of course you need to have a midget to make it a show...isn't that what all of the circus's wanted back in the 1920's?  He also has a Napoleon syndrome with a delusional sex drive)  a WWF female wrestler (sex appeal perhaps?  dumb blonde?) and of course you've gotta love Jack Osbourne (who happens to be a dead-on marksman...freaky!) 

Most of the individuals arrested by Erik are just commenting how handsome he is and calls him "Ponch."  Good times, good times.  This is the most action Muncie, Indiana has had since the medical center opened up the OBGYN wing.

Proof of Premature Insanity

For years I have lived under the assumption that I am feminist, hear me roar.  I also believe that you can tell a lot by just looking at what books people have in their houses.  This theory was later supported when I watched an amateur detective reality show On Demand for the Discovery channel. 

On my bookshelves I have a few Gloria Steinem's literary accomplishments, Transforming a Rape Culture, The Bitch in the House (a collection of essays), and Bitch by Elizabeth Wurtzel.  Do you see the theme emerging?  I also have a wide variety of therapy text books, a few of my very favorite novels, the complete works of Shakespeare, a collection of children's books, and some other spiritural/self-help selections.  One of my best friends noted that he would hate to be next to me with one of my Bitch books and his sister (a specialist in anti-terrorism) on an airplane. 

When I got back to Utah for Christmas my mother made the comment that I must be ready for a child.  I felt a little dumb founded at first until I looked at the evidence.

1)  I brought Edgar.  It actually was cheaper for us to fly the dog than to board him, so that could be explained.  We first thought about putting him in the cabin with us.  So after trying to get him to sit still so we could measure the dog and a Petco search I arrived home with a very cute (but not Paris Hiltonesque) carryon.  Edgar became accustomed to it and we were very happy.  When I called the airline to confirm his passanger status, they told me that it was a no go.  There apparently is a rule that only 2 dogs are allowed in the cabin at a time and he would have to go cargo.  I vowed I would find those bastards that thought their fido was more cabin worthy than my Edgar.  I then began to fret about Edgar in cargo.  Would he be warm?  Would he get lost?  Would he be scared?  J pointed out that a few hours in a box would be better than days in a small kennel (aka box). 

2)  Edgar sent my parents "Dear Santa Paws" letters.  Ok, in all fairness I did the first one in jest after a few glasses of port the same night we set up the Christmas tree.  J was the one who created Edgar's own email account (Edgar-dog@comcast.net).  And HE was the one who did the second letter (although I did help with the content.) 

3)  Edgar arrived in a very cute red turtleneck sweater.  (See the cold argument from point 1.)  It is winter and I didn't think too much about it to be honest.  My brother and I used to dress Henry, our first Scottie, up in old tee shirts and little boys whitey-tightys (with the tail out the hole) and parade him around the neighborhood on walks.  Henry felt fancy.  Edgar's sweater was a definite step up.  The vet initially cleared him up to 32 degrees.  When we checked into the airport here in Indy, we had a very concrete thinker airline employee "helping" us.

"It says its 28 degrees in Salt Lake right now."  She informed us and then just stared.

"Uh huh."  I said, failing to meet her logic.  "Outside its 28.  He'll be in the plane."

"28 degrees."  She repeated Rainman style.  "This says 32." Pointing to the health certificate.

"We had no formal discussion.  Its winter.  Its cold.  I'm certain he'll be fine.  You can call the vet."  J could hear the irritation in my voice and began to rub my back.

"28 degrees is different from 32."  She repeated showing her brainiac skills.  I wasn't about to point out that it was 28 at 5:00 PM and it would drop by the time we actually got to Salt Lake so she would then have to take that into consideration.  Edgar in the meantime is panting away furiously as the damn sweater is making him hot.

She ended up calling the vet and then putting her on the phone with me.  I wasn't the one who had a problem and needed her to clear things up.  However, I was the one talking with her.  Thank God, Dr. Cara seemed dumbfounded as much as I was.  J later pointed out that the airlilne representative was just doing her job.  Whatever.

One of those bastards with some stupid maltese checked in ahead of us as the carry on.  The sinile man kept telling me about a dog, "you know, the kind that General Patton had," was the meanest sons-of-bitches he ever saw in his neighborhood and by the way, what kind of dog do I have?

3)  Edgar's crate was decorated.  See point #1's argument about getting lost on the airline.  I read online that if you can make the crate look rediculous, it will stand out and will be less likely to get lost.  I spent a worthy $30 at the craft store and drank some home brew listening to Christmas carols getting it ready the night before.

However, what really remained was some crazy looking lady with her pampered pooch in a red sweater and rediculously decorated crate who wrote letters in colored marker with her left hand on behalf of her dog to a fictitious character derived from another fictitious character who chimney dives.  What looked out of place was me holding a feminist book.  Was this foreshadowing?  Was I going to be one of those moms who come to soccer games in matching jerseys and healthy snacks like oranges for the whole team?  Was I going to become a master of doing my daughter's hair in fancy braids when all I can do to my own hair is a ponytail?  Maybe it was just projection on my parent's behalves?  They were the ones who had the letters posted to the fridge much like a grand childs. 

Standing in the airport watching the various looks of "oh how cute" to sheer horror as I held Edgar, it dawned on me.  I just looked at J and said, "Oh my God, I'm turning into one of those ladies.  But I'm not old enough to be one of those crazy old ladies."

He said, "Hon, you aren't turning into one, you already are one of those ladies, you are just a bit premature with your craziness."