We got our first significant snowfall recently, and, as usual, people reacted with complete and utter panic. Store shelves were cleared of bread, milk and toilet paper in under an hour. (Hint: Don't rush out and buy the first two, and you won't need the third!)
Having moved here from the northeast, Tim and I always shake our heads in disbelief. A few inches? Don't make us laugh! Let us know when it's really going to snow. After all, we once survived a blizzard. (This is where the screen should get all white and wavy and harp music should play.)
We had driven back home for an Easter visit, and when Tim, Tom and I left on Monday (in Tim's new car), the snow was gently falling. No big deal. We'd seen worse. Yeah. Turns out we hadn't.
Six hours, sixty miles, about sixteen tons of snow and half a basket of Easter candy later, we were zipping along at a speedy five miles per hour, looking for the first exit with a hotel or motel. Anything. The interstate and turnpike were both being closed, and the weatherman on the radio was predicting a bad storm (No! Ya think ?!)
Finally, through the driving snow, we saw it. A sign for a motel just a mile ahead. Yea! Civilization. Well, sort of. The motel itself wasn't actually a mile ahead. The formerly dirt and gravel road that led to the motel was a mile ahead. The motel itself was down this road which now resembled the black diamond run at Camelback Mountain complete with moguls.
As we skidded to a stop in front of the motel, Tim pried his fingers one by one from the steering wheel and mopped up the rivers of sweat pouring down his face. We bundled up in our spring jackets and dashed (well, not so much dashed as plowed) into the office.
Before we could even get a "hello" past our chattering, blue lips, the woman behind the counter informed us that they were full up, and then returned to watching her game show. Okaaay. Um. Sorry to interrupt your busy schedule, but do you know of any other places nearby? Maybe some down the line, but you really don't know. Great. Well, thanks for all your help. No, no. Don't get up. We'll see ourselves out.
So, down the line we crept, in Tim's new car, through a bunch of tiny little towns whose names I couldn't even begin to spell while the snow continued to waft down at a rate of about twenty feet an hour.
Place after place (including one which I'm pretty sure was the model for Hitchcock's Bates Motel), the answer was the same: No room at the inn. (Hellooooo. It's Easter. Didn't these people know that was the Christmas story?)
As we approached the town of Pottsville, desperation began to set in (hey, the candy was running low), and we had expanded out search to include all-night McDonalds and 24-hour laundromats. Just as we were debating whether our igloo should have an eastern or western exposure, we found it. A motel with the last two rooms in all of Pennsylvania (well, eastern PA at least).
Dumping our bags in the rooms, we rushed up to the restaurant for dinner, licking our lips in anticipation of anything that was not shaped like either a bunny or an egg. Apparently, everyone else had the same idea because the dining room was full, there was at least a two hour wait for a table, and they weren't sure exactly what they would have left on the menu at that point.
Not willing to see how low our blood sugar could drop before we passed out, we opted for the bar. Unfortunately, they were not in a much better position. They had Yingling beer and steamed clams (at this point, I would almost have eaten a real bunny). But, since our only other choice was to eat the actual Easter basket (there was a brief moment when I did wonder if it could be any worse than rice cakes), we bellied up to the bar.
To add insult to injury, the next morning, the snow was rapidly melting and about an hour later when we crossed over the Maryland border the grass was green and the trees already blooming.
A few inches of snow? Hah!
Monday, January 28, 2008
Friday, January 25, 2008
Press the Cat
Several years ago, we gave our niece an electronic "learning" toy for Christmas. The machine would instruct you to press a certain color, number, animal, etc., then reward you with sounds and lights when you were correct.
Eagerly, she sat before the board, her little hand poised over it, awaiting the first command.
"Touch the cat," a woman's voice cooed encouragingly.
Her face wreathed with smiles, she pressed the correct picture and we all waited expectantly for the cat to "meow".
"Touch the cat," the voice ordered again.
A slightly doubtful frown marred her brow, but she stuck to her guns and pressed the same picture.
"Touch the cat." Press. "Touch the cat." Press. Her lower lip began to tremble.
"Touch the cat, touch the cat, touch the cat," the voice sadistically taunted her.
Frustrated beyond bearing, she pounded one last time on the cat and then burst into tears.
After using the self-checkout at the grocery store yesterday, I know how she felt.
Generally, my goal is to get in and out of the store as quickly as possible. I grab a basket, take out my list and head off down the first aisle like I'm a contestant on a game show. No standing in long checkout lines for me and having the laundry detergent put on top of my eggs. Uh-uh. Self-checkout is the only way to go. Fast, fast, fast.
Until yesterday, that is, when I got the machine clearly built by the same people who had designed that toy.
It started out innocently enough. I touched the screen to activate it, choose English (in retrospect, maybe I would have had better luck if I'd selected Spanish), and swiped my card.
Running the first item over the scanner, I heard the "blip" and placed it in the bag.
"Please remove the last item from your bag and try again," the disembodied voice directed me.
Hmm. Maybe I was too fast. Okay. I ran it over the scanner again.Once again, it "blipped" and then told me to remove the item. Not so okay this time.
The girl at the monitoring station called over, "It does that sometimes." She pressed a few buttons on her computer. "Go ahead and put it in your bag." Hmmp.
Next item. No "blip" this time. Back and forth over the scanner more slowly. Still no "blip". Laid flat. Nothing. Oh yeah, this was working much better since she pushed those buttons.
"Try again," once more she hit some buttons. Surprise! No "blip". Not even a "bl". Finally, she gave up and just entered the item manually.
Item number three. "Blip." Then, the dreaded voice. "Please place the item on the scanner and wait."
Item number four. Same song, fourth verse.
By now, the girl had come over to me, convinced that this was somehow my fault. Giving me a faintly patronizing smile, she scanned the next item, and... "Please remove the last item from the bag..." It seemed Bride of Hal didn't like her any better than she liked me.
And so it continued with items five, six, seven, and eight. "Please scan item again.", "Remove last item from bag.", "Place item on scanner." (Press the cat, press the cat, press the cat!!!)
By now, my frustration was growing even faster than the line behind me. If I had wanted it to be this long and painful, I would have gotten in line behind the woman with five kids and two carts. Even the manager could not win in the "blip" "Try again.", "blip" "Try again." game. Eventually, even she conceded defeat and entered the remaining items manually.
Not to be outdone though, the computer had the last word. As we all walked away, the smug voice followed us across the front of the store, "Thank you for shopping with us." I believe this is when the manager burst into tears.
Eagerly, she sat before the board, her little hand poised over it, awaiting the first command.
"Touch the cat," a woman's voice cooed encouragingly.
Her face wreathed with smiles, she pressed the correct picture and we all waited expectantly for the cat to "meow".
"Touch the cat," the voice ordered again.
A slightly doubtful frown marred her brow, but she stuck to her guns and pressed the same picture.
"Touch the cat." Press. "Touch the cat." Press. Her lower lip began to tremble.
"Touch the cat, touch the cat, touch the cat," the voice sadistically taunted her.
Frustrated beyond bearing, she pounded one last time on the cat and then burst into tears.
After using the self-checkout at the grocery store yesterday, I know how she felt.
Generally, my goal is to get in and out of the store as quickly as possible. I grab a basket, take out my list and head off down the first aisle like I'm a contestant on a game show. No standing in long checkout lines for me and having the laundry detergent put on top of my eggs. Uh-uh. Self-checkout is the only way to go. Fast, fast, fast.
Until yesterday, that is, when I got the machine clearly built by the same people who had designed that toy.
It started out innocently enough. I touched the screen to activate it, choose English (in retrospect, maybe I would have had better luck if I'd selected Spanish), and swiped my card.
Running the first item over the scanner, I heard the "blip" and placed it in the bag.
"Please remove the last item from your bag and try again," the disembodied voice directed me.
Hmm. Maybe I was too fast. Okay. I ran it over the scanner again.Once again, it "blipped" and then told me to remove the item. Not so okay this time.
The girl at the monitoring station called over, "It does that sometimes." She pressed a few buttons on her computer. "Go ahead and put it in your bag." Hmmp.
Next item. No "blip" this time. Back and forth over the scanner more slowly. Still no "blip". Laid flat. Nothing. Oh yeah, this was working much better since she pushed those buttons.
"Try again," once more she hit some buttons. Surprise! No "blip". Not even a "bl". Finally, she gave up and just entered the item manually.
Item number three. "Blip." Then, the dreaded voice. "Please place the item on the scanner and wait."
Item number four. Same song, fourth verse.
By now, the girl had come over to me, convinced that this was somehow my fault. Giving me a faintly patronizing smile, she scanned the next item, and... "Please remove the last item from the bag..." It seemed Bride of Hal didn't like her any better than she liked me.
And so it continued with items five, six, seven, and eight. "Please scan item again.", "Remove last item from bag.", "Place item on scanner." (Press the cat, press the cat, press the cat!!!)
By now, my frustration was growing even faster than the line behind me. If I had wanted it to be this long and painful, I would have gotten in line behind the woman with five kids and two carts. Even the manager could not win in the "blip" "Try again.", "blip" "Try again." game. Eventually, even she conceded defeat and entered the remaining items manually.
Not to be outdone though, the computer had the last word. As we all walked away, the smug voice followed us across the front of the store, "Thank you for shopping with us." I believe this is when the manager burst into tears.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Hurry Up And Wait
This morning, I engaged in one of my favorite pastimes...sitting around waiting for a workman. He told me that he would be here this morning, and technically, he was. Eleven o'clock is still considered morning. Barely. And I was wondering why he said the job would take two days. Silly me.
Of course, he is only the latest in a long line of people that I apparently have nothing better to do than sit around and wait for.
The handyman we regularly use is fabulous...but also habitually late. Saturday at 8am? More like 10:30 or 11. Wednesday at 3:30? That is code for anytime between four and five. If I'm lucky.
The phone company says Tuesday between 8am and 4pm. They really mean Wednesday at 4:30pm. If they actually show up at all, that is.
Having furniture or an appliance delivered? Well, since they don't load the truck until the night before, the most you get is a 12-16 hour advance warning as to which four-hour block of time will be sucked out of your life the following day.
Even if you beg these people, the best they will do is tell you that you are number six on the list. And that means??? (What it means is that they have no idea when the guy will get there, but some Harvard professor did a study and found that by phrasing it that way, people are momentarily confused and yet hopeful, and by the time they've figured out that number six means precisely nothing, the call has ended, and it's too late to question or complain.)
The only time anyone has ever been even close to on time was years ago when we moved from our first apartment into our second.
The cable guy was scheduled to come between three and six on Saturday to hook us up.
At around 2:30, my friend Barb and I were at our old place loading up the last of my clothes while Tim and Tom were at the new place unpacking God-knows-what.
Impatient to be done with the move, and never imagining the cable guy would actually show up within the stated time-frame, the guys left before we got back (Tim blames the fact that we stopped at the Wendy's drive-thru for burgers, but this was before cell phones and, hey, we hadn't eaten since about 6am, so I refuse to feel guilty.)
Anyway, when Barb and I arrived at 3:03, it was to find a note on the door from the cable guy basically saying, "I was there at 3:01 and you weren't. Good luck getting cable anytime this century..."
Oh no. This was my worst nightmare come true. Tim without cable. One of the basic necessities like oxygen or food. In fact, if he had to choose between cable and food, well, let's just say he'd make Kate Moss look like Tilly the Elephant after a month-long binge. As a matter of fact, we had started the move on Friday afternoon when Tim found out the cable had been turned off at our old place at noon. No way was he staying there for even one minute without cable!!!
Frantically, I rushed into the apartment, and, with trembling fingers, dialed the cable company. Surely, the guy was still in the neighborhood. After all, how far could he have gotten in two minutes? Pretty far. Or at least far enough that he couldn't (wouldn't) come back.
I begged, I pleaded, I said, "Pretty please with cream and sugar on top." I think I may even have promised them my first child, but nothing would move them. The best they could do was Monday.
Two days without cable. I think this was listed in the Geneva Convention as cruel and unusual punishment, wasn't it?
As I was thumbing through the phone book, looking for a hotel room, and heaping curses on the cable company's head, Tim returned.What followed was not pretty, and to this day, Barb has not quite recovered from the whole spectacle.
You know those shows where they take old buildings and implode them? Yeah, well, that was mild compared to Tim's reaction. Of course, being the meek, mild-mannered little mouse that I am, I handled it with grace, patience and aplomb. (think Godzilla vs. King Kong)
Afterwards, we found Tom calmly continuing with the unpacking and having a good laugh, and Barb at the back of a closet with her hands over hear ears practicing for her testimony at the murder trial.
On Monday, the cable guy came between the hours of twelve and three. Which means he showed up at five.
Of course, he is only the latest in a long line of people that I apparently have nothing better to do than sit around and wait for.
The handyman we regularly use is fabulous...but also habitually late. Saturday at 8am? More like 10:30 or 11. Wednesday at 3:30? That is code for anytime between four and five. If I'm lucky.
The phone company says Tuesday between 8am and 4pm. They really mean Wednesday at 4:30pm. If they actually show up at all, that is.
Having furniture or an appliance delivered? Well, since they don't load the truck until the night before, the most you get is a 12-16 hour advance warning as to which four-hour block of time will be sucked out of your life the following day.
Even if you beg these people, the best they will do is tell you that you are number six on the list. And that means??? (What it means is that they have no idea when the guy will get there, but some Harvard professor did a study and found that by phrasing it that way, people are momentarily confused and yet hopeful, and by the time they've figured out that number six means precisely nothing, the call has ended, and it's too late to question or complain.)
The only time anyone has ever been even close to on time was years ago when we moved from our first apartment into our second.
The cable guy was scheduled to come between three and six on Saturday to hook us up.
At around 2:30, my friend Barb and I were at our old place loading up the last of my clothes while Tim and Tom were at the new place unpacking God-knows-what.
Impatient to be done with the move, and never imagining the cable guy would actually show up within the stated time-frame, the guys left before we got back (Tim blames the fact that we stopped at the Wendy's drive-thru for burgers, but this was before cell phones and, hey, we hadn't eaten since about 6am, so I refuse to feel guilty.)
Anyway, when Barb and I arrived at 3:03, it was to find a note on the door from the cable guy basically saying, "I was there at 3:01 and you weren't. Good luck getting cable anytime this century..."
Oh no. This was my worst nightmare come true. Tim without cable. One of the basic necessities like oxygen or food. In fact, if he had to choose between cable and food, well, let's just say he'd make Kate Moss look like Tilly the Elephant after a month-long binge. As a matter of fact, we had started the move on Friday afternoon when Tim found out the cable had been turned off at our old place at noon. No way was he staying there for even one minute without cable!!!
Frantically, I rushed into the apartment, and, with trembling fingers, dialed the cable company. Surely, the guy was still in the neighborhood. After all, how far could he have gotten in two minutes? Pretty far. Or at least far enough that he couldn't (wouldn't) come back.
I begged, I pleaded, I said, "Pretty please with cream and sugar on top." I think I may even have promised them my first child, but nothing would move them. The best they could do was Monday.
Two days without cable. I think this was listed in the Geneva Convention as cruel and unusual punishment, wasn't it?
As I was thumbing through the phone book, looking for a hotel room, and heaping curses on the cable company's head, Tim returned.What followed was not pretty, and to this day, Barb has not quite recovered from the whole spectacle.
You know those shows where they take old buildings and implode them? Yeah, well, that was mild compared to Tim's reaction. Of course, being the meek, mild-mannered little mouse that I am, I handled it with grace, patience and aplomb. (think Godzilla vs. King Kong)
Afterwards, we found Tom calmly continuing with the unpacking and having a good laugh, and Barb at the back of a closet with her hands over hear ears practicing for her testimony at the murder trial.
On Monday, the cable guy came between the hours of twelve and three. Which means he showed up at five.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Do Not Wear White After Labor Day
Every Sunday, we have dinner with Tim's twin brother, his wife and their four kids. In the summer, it's cookouts and swimming at our house, in the winter it's their house or our favorite diner.
Last Sunday, Tim, Rose and I were out running errands when Tom called and asked if we wanted to meet them at the ice-skating rink over by Rose's apartment before having dinner. We agreed, and headed right over. Deciding I would just watch, I opted not to stop home and change out of my white cords and good black coat. This was mistakes number one and two.
Since we were fairly close already, we had time to pick up Rose's dog, Murray, and take him with us. Mistake number three.
First, there was the putting on of the skates. I decided to help the six-year old with her brand new, shiny (aka clean) skates (I am not as dumb as I look). Carefully selecting a bench at the far end of the rink, I inspected it for any dirt or grime. Satisfied with its condition, I gingerly sat down to begin lacing her skates. And this is when she plopped her muddy little feet onto my lap.
Attracted by the muffled yelps and flying shoes, Murray decided to investigate. And this is when he plopped his muddy little paws onto my legs.
Great. I now looked like a Dalmatian from the waist down. Well, at least they didn't get the coat. Yet. Not to worry though. Tim and Tom took care of that.
While the skaters were all out working up a sweat, the rest of us were freezing on the sidelines, so the guys walked over to Starbucks and got everyone coffee, tea and hot chocolate.
Already juggling Tim's camera case which is the size of a small backpack, the skate bag filled with shoes, scarves and assorted gloves, someones extra sweater, a toy rifle (can't go skating without the trusty rifle), and my purse (which outweighed everything else), Tim slung his camera around my neck for safe-keeping (Okay, it was official, I had the whole bag-lady thing going).
Upon his return, I also got the privilege of holding his tea (when did I become his personal assistant?) while he ran off to the bathroom (he couldn't have done it before when he was getting the drinks and I had at least one hand free???).
Carefully, I balanced the tea, only sloshing it two or three times onto my shoes and coat as I tried to extricate the band-aid Rose asked for from my purse without putting anything down on the slushy ground (did I not look busy enough?).
When Tim returned, I gave him his tea, camera and hostile stare as I tried to wipe off my coat with a Kleenex.
Deciding discretion was the better part of valor, he retreated to a safe distance and began using the telephoto lens.
Tom was not that smart. When nature called him, he thrust his hot chocolate and camera at me. (So now I was his personal assistant?) At this point, I was already holding two other drinks in a cardboard holder. Unfortunately, his cup was a bit big for the holder and quickly popped up out of its section.
There was nothing I could do as it poured down the front of my coat, ran along the bottle of water in my pocket to create a lovely pool inside which my leather glove began to absorb, and then continue down my pant leg and onto (and into) my shoes.
Lovely. Mud and Chocolate. Good thing I opted out of skating. I might have gotten some ice on the bottom of my cords.
Last Sunday, Tim, Rose and I were out running errands when Tom called and asked if we wanted to meet them at the ice-skating rink over by Rose's apartment before having dinner. We agreed, and headed right over. Deciding I would just watch, I opted not to stop home and change out of my white cords and good black coat. This was mistakes number one and two.
Since we were fairly close already, we had time to pick up Rose's dog, Murray, and take him with us. Mistake number three.
First, there was the putting on of the skates. I decided to help the six-year old with her brand new, shiny (aka clean) skates (I am not as dumb as I look). Carefully selecting a bench at the far end of the rink, I inspected it for any dirt or grime. Satisfied with its condition, I gingerly sat down to begin lacing her skates. And this is when she plopped her muddy little feet onto my lap.
Attracted by the muffled yelps and flying shoes, Murray decided to investigate. And this is when he plopped his muddy little paws onto my legs.
Great. I now looked like a Dalmatian from the waist down. Well, at least they didn't get the coat. Yet. Not to worry though. Tim and Tom took care of that.
While the skaters were all out working up a sweat, the rest of us were freezing on the sidelines, so the guys walked over to Starbucks and got everyone coffee, tea and hot chocolate.
Already juggling Tim's camera case which is the size of a small backpack, the skate bag filled with shoes, scarves and assorted gloves, someones extra sweater, a toy rifle (can't go skating without the trusty rifle), and my purse (which outweighed everything else), Tim slung his camera around my neck for safe-keeping (Okay, it was official, I had the whole bag-lady thing going).
Upon his return, I also got the privilege of holding his tea (when did I become his personal assistant?) while he ran off to the bathroom (he couldn't have done it before when he was getting the drinks and I had at least one hand free???).
Carefully, I balanced the tea, only sloshing it two or three times onto my shoes and coat as I tried to extricate the band-aid Rose asked for from my purse without putting anything down on the slushy ground (did I not look busy enough?).
When Tim returned, I gave him his tea, camera and hostile stare as I tried to wipe off my coat with a Kleenex.
Deciding discretion was the better part of valor, he retreated to a safe distance and began using the telephoto lens.
Tom was not that smart. When nature called him, he thrust his hot chocolate and camera at me. (So now I was his personal assistant?) At this point, I was already holding two other drinks in a cardboard holder. Unfortunately, his cup was a bit big for the holder and quickly popped up out of its section.
There was nothing I could do as it poured down the front of my coat, ran along the bottle of water in my pocket to create a lovely pool inside which my leather glove began to absorb, and then continue down my pant leg and onto (and into) my shoes.
Lovely. Mud and Chocolate. Good thing I opted out of skating. I might have gotten some ice on the bottom of my cords.
Friday, January 11, 2008
And Speaking of Driving...
My parents have always had two cars. My dad's, which was really more like his favorite pet--well-fed and well-groomed, and my mom's, the rolling garbage scow (as a musician, she always had at least a dozen music books, a piano, a violin and perhaps a tuba or two cluttering up the back.).
When we all learned to drive, there was not even a question. It was with my mom's car. There was no way my dad was going to risk a ding, dent or scrape on his beloved car. He and he alone drove it.
Those evenings my dad fell asleep on the couch, you could march a band (courtesy of my mom's back seat) through the room and he wouldn't even twitch, but a whispered, "Dad's car is last in the driveway and needs to be moved." would have him snapping up and launching himself like a guided missile out the front door before you even finished the sentence.
Not that he didn't have good reason for this. My mom's car had its fair share of "mishaps". A bump or two in the parking lot didn't faze my mom a bit. She had learned to drive in New York City, where it is definitely considered a contact sport. She also has always been a fast driver.
Actually, they both are. It was a bit like growing up in the Andretti household. If you didn't hit sixty mph by the end of the block, you weren't really trying, and only little old ladies went under eighty or ninety on the highway. Pretty much everyone knew you never wanted either of them to say, "I'll drive" or, worse yet, "Follow me" unless you had your will written and made your peace with God.
One morning on the way to school, my mom stopped to pick up a boy who was hitching a ride (he was a year ahead of me, and we lived in a relatively small town, so...). He had barely closed the door when he was flung back against the seat as she hit warp speed. By the time we arrived, all of four miles later, he was pale and shaking and bolted from the car as though the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels.
I later overheard him telling his friends in a panic-stricken voice about the "crazy driver" he had gotten a ride with, and advising them all not to get in that car. Ever.
My mom merely shrugged off the whole incident with a laugh, while my dad just rolled his eyes and surreptitiously nudged his car keys under a pile of papers.
Therefore, it was no surprise to any of us (except my mom) when, after driving them to Florida in his one month old car, he insisted on being the official "chauffeur".
So far, he has been to the grocery store, the mall, the outlet mall, bookstore, craft store, church, drugstore and housewares store. Or at least the parking lots of all these places.
Basically, he would rather sit, baking in the hot Florida sun for hours, re-reading the newspaper, than allow my mom to literally even drive across the street to the CVS with his car. A fact which ticks her off to no end.
It was on one of their excursions though that the unimaginable happened. While stopping for gas, my dad went inside to pay, and some guy, trying to get closer to the pump, backed into his car and gave it its first ding.
My dad will stop crying any day now. But my mom is still not allowed to drive the car.
When we all learned to drive, there was not even a question. It was with my mom's car. There was no way my dad was going to risk a ding, dent or scrape on his beloved car. He and he alone drove it.
Those evenings my dad fell asleep on the couch, you could march a band (courtesy of my mom's back seat) through the room and he wouldn't even twitch, but a whispered, "Dad's car is last in the driveway and needs to be moved." would have him snapping up and launching himself like a guided missile out the front door before you even finished the sentence.
Not that he didn't have good reason for this. My mom's car had its fair share of "mishaps". A bump or two in the parking lot didn't faze my mom a bit. She had learned to drive in New York City, where it is definitely considered a contact sport. She also has always been a fast driver.
Actually, they both are. It was a bit like growing up in the Andretti household. If you didn't hit sixty mph by the end of the block, you weren't really trying, and only little old ladies went under eighty or ninety on the highway. Pretty much everyone knew you never wanted either of them to say, "I'll drive" or, worse yet, "Follow me" unless you had your will written and made your peace with God.
One morning on the way to school, my mom stopped to pick up a boy who was hitching a ride (he was a year ahead of me, and we lived in a relatively small town, so...). He had barely closed the door when he was flung back against the seat as she hit warp speed. By the time we arrived, all of four miles later, he was pale and shaking and bolted from the car as though the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels.
I later overheard him telling his friends in a panic-stricken voice about the "crazy driver" he had gotten a ride with, and advising them all not to get in that car. Ever.
My mom merely shrugged off the whole incident with a laugh, while my dad just rolled his eyes and surreptitiously nudged his car keys under a pile of papers.
Therefore, it was no surprise to any of us (except my mom) when, after driving them to Florida in his one month old car, he insisted on being the official "chauffeur".
So far, he has been to the grocery store, the mall, the outlet mall, bookstore, craft store, church, drugstore and housewares store. Or at least the parking lots of all these places.
Basically, he would rather sit, baking in the hot Florida sun for hours, re-reading the newspaper, than allow my mom to literally even drive across the street to the CVS with his car. A fact which ticks her off to no end.
It was on one of their excursions though that the unimaginable happened. While stopping for gas, my dad went inside to pay, and some guy, trying to get closer to the pump, backed into his car and gave it its first ding.
My dad will stop crying any day now. But my mom is still not allowed to drive the car.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Driving Directions...Don't Leave Home Without Them
My father has always had a good sense of direction. Give him a map and a destination, and he'll plan a trip Triple A (or, as my mother calls it, AA) could only dream about.
We learned at an early age that if we were careless enough to mention an upcoming trip, he'd run out to the car and produce folding maps for pretty much every state east of the Appalachians.
"Now, here is where we are," he'd say, stabbing at a point with one hand, while simultaneously unfolding three more maps with the other. "You'll want to take 81 south until you come to 83 South, then cut over....Wait a minute," he'd interrupt himself," there is construction at exit 51, so you'll want to get off at exit 49, follow route 13 for 4.5 miles, then get back on 81 here..."
Very soon, the dining room table would resemble Churchill's war room bunker except that my father's plans were slightly more intricate and better mapped out. You knew you were in real trouble when he grabbed the highlighter and headed for the copy machine though. We were always half afraid we'd have to eat the resulting map after memorizing it so it wouldn't fall into enemy hands.
Which is why it surprised us when he got a nav. system last year. Somehow, I thought he would see it as a demotion from 4-star general to foot soldier. Not so. He delights in plugging in random destinations, then playing with the options to see how many different possible routes he can get it to generate. Slow night on TV? Grab the Tom-Tom and head off for a virtual trip to see Aunt Jean in Cape Cod, or maybe nip down to watch the Kentucky Derby.
But it is not just new and exotic destinations he enters. He chortles gleefully as he challenges it to find places he is already familiar with. His eyes take on a special glow as he waits to see if it will direct him to what he already knows is the best route, or if it will offer up a poorer, safer choice clearly meant for someone with less skill and knowledge of each and every alley and secondary road in the greater tri-state area.
He does use it for practical things as well though. For example, he recently used it to plan out the route to Florida two months before they left, scouting out possible overnight stops, comparing the distance of hotels from the exit, their proximity to restaurants and determining, to within a tenth of a mile, exactly how far it would be door to door, stops included.
And, since they've arrived, he uses it in conjunction with the phone book he began carrying around to learn the area. Winn-Dixie? A left, a right and a right. Town Center? Do you want the scenic route or the business route? Same distance, but watch the speed limit on the scenic route. It takes 3.4 minutes longer, or you risk a speeding ticket from the police who constantly patrol that stretch of road.
Coming from the airport when we visited, Tim and I got very specific directions, right down to which lane to be in for the final turn onto their street (the right hand lane of the two left turning lanes after you cross the railroad tracks, because you have to make an immediate right into the development).
For the entire week of our visit, with every new restaurant or activity came the opportunity to play "beat the Tom-Tom". If it wanted to take us on surface streets, my father would hop onto 95 and then pick up the directions from the nearest exit because it was faster. If it wanted to send us on the interstate, he would zoom down the back roads to avoid the traffic tie-ups he was sure we would find at a certain time of day.
All of this was well and fine until the last day when we headed back down to the airport to meet my brother at a nearby restaurant. Since he was just arriving, and we were leaving (we did the family thing in shifts this year), it was decided that Tim and I would drive my parents down in our rental car, and Mike would take them back in his to spend the next week with them.
There was some separation anxiety with the Tom-Tom, but we convinced my father that it was a fairly direct route...95 South (for both of us) to exit 26, then a left at the first light and follow the signs for the restaurant. What could possibly go wrong?
Well, for one thing, my brother apparently missed the exit for 95 when leaving the airport. And, since he was on the phone with my father at the time, we got a blow-by-blow account, until, that is, my father began walking away from us back toward the main road. I'm not sure what he was hoping to accomplish by it, but I suspect he may have been going to send up a flare, or maybe flag down a passing motorist with a nav system and commandeer their vehicle.
He had spent the last month learning a new area, but this was outside of his realm. His worst fears had come to pass. We might never see my brother again. What if he ended up shooting past us and landed in Miami? Or, worse yet, a whole other state, like (gasp) Georgia?!?
"Where are you?" he yelled frantically into the phone for the tenth time.
"Exit 10," my brother replied, equally calm.
"There is no exit 10 on 95. You're on the wrong road," the frustration was building.
"How do I get on 95 from here?" (Gee, maybe use mapquest before you left home?)
"I don't know. I don't have my Tom-Tom!" Oh yeah, much calmer now.
"Then you're not helping me!!" No kidding.
Finally, by some miracle, my brother eventually made it to the restaurant (The rest of us were very concerned. We spent the time watching an iguana eye up some ducks and then went and had a drink at the bar. Hey, there was no reason for everyone to be upset.)
One thing is certain though. By the time we return for our next visit, my father will intimately know the area around the airport, and he'll never leave home without his Tom-Tom again.
We learned at an early age that if we were careless enough to mention an upcoming trip, he'd run out to the car and produce folding maps for pretty much every state east of the Appalachians.
"Now, here is where we are," he'd say, stabbing at a point with one hand, while simultaneously unfolding three more maps with the other. "You'll want to take 81 south until you come to 83 South, then cut over....Wait a minute," he'd interrupt himself," there is construction at exit 51, so you'll want to get off at exit 49, follow route 13 for 4.5 miles, then get back on 81 here..."
Very soon, the dining room table would resemble Churchill's war room bunker except that my father's plans were slightly more intricate and better mapped out. You knew you were in real trouble when he grabbed the highlighter and headed for the copy machine though. We were always half afraid we'd have to eat the resulting map after memorizing it so it wouldn't fall into enemy hands.
Which is why it surprised us when he got a nav. system last year. Somehow, I thought he would see it as a demotion from 4-star general to foot soldier. Not so. He delights in plugging in random destinations, then playing with the options to see how many different possible routes he can get it to generate. Slow night on TV? Grab the Tom-Tom and head off for a virtual trip to see Aunt Jean in Cape Cod, or maybe nip down to watch the Kentucky Derby.
But it is not just new and exotic destinations he enters. He chortles gleefully as he challenges it to find places he is already familiar with. His eyes take on a special glow as he waits to see if it will direct him to what he already knows is the best route, or if it will offer up a poorer, safer choice clearly meant for someone with less skill and knowledge of each and every alley and secondary road in the greater tri-state area.
He does use it for practical things as well though. For example, he recently used it to plan out the route to Florida two months before they left, scouting out possible overnight stops, comparing the distance of hotels from the exit, their proximity to restaurants and determining, to within a tenth of a mile, exactly how far it would be door to door, stops included.
And, since they've arrived, he uses it in conjunction with the phone book he began carrying around to learn the area. Winn-Dixie? A left, a right and a right. Town Center? Do you want the scenic route or the business route? Same distance, but watch the speed limit on the scenic route. It takes 3.4 minutes longer, or you risk a speeding ticket from the police who constantly patrol that stretch of road.
Coming from the airport when we visited, Tim and I got very specific directions, right down to which lane to be in for the final turn onto their street (the right hand lane of the two left turning lanes after you cross the railroad tracks, because you have to make an immediate right into the development).
For the entire week of our visit, with every new restaurant or activity came the opportunity to play "beat the Tom-Tom". If it wanted to take us on surface streets, my father would hop onto 95 and then pick up the directions from the nearest exit because it was faster. If it wanted to send us on the interstate, he would zoom down the back roads to avoid the traffic tie-ups he was sure we would find at a certain time of day.
All of this was well and fine until the last day when we headed back down to the airport to meet my brother at a nearby restaurant. Since he was just arriving, and we were leaving (we did the family thing in shifts this year), it was decided that Tim and I would drive my parents down in our rental car, and Mike would take them back in his to spend the next week with them.
There was some separation anxiety with the Tom-Tom, but we convinced my father that it was a fairly direct route...95 South (for both of us) to exit 26, then a left at the first light and follow the signs for the restaurant. What could possibly go wrong?
Well, for one thing, my brother apparently missed the exit for 95 when leaving the airport. And, since he was on the phone with my father at the time, we got a blow-by-blow account, until, that is, my father began walking away from us back toward the main road. I'm not sure what he was hoping to accomplish by it, but I suspect he may have been going to send up a flare, or maybe flag down a passing motorist with a nav system and commandeer their vehicle.
He had spent the last month learning a new area, but this was outside of his realm. His worst fears had come to pass. We might never see my brother again. What if he ended up shooting past us and landed in Miami? Or, worse yet, a whole other state, like (gasp) Georgia?!?
"Where are you?" he yelled frantically into the phone for the tenth time.
"Exit 10," my brother replied, equally calm.
"There is no exit 10 on 95. You're on the wrong road," the frustration was building.
"How do I get on 95 from here?" (Gee, maybe use mapquest before you left home?)
"I don't know. I don't have my Tom-Tom!" Oh yeah, much calmer now.
"Then you're not helping me!!" No kidding.
Finally, by some miracle, my brother eventually made it to the restaurant (The rest of us were very concerned. We spent the time watching an iguana eye up some ducks and then went and had a drink at the bar. Hey, there was no reason for everyone to be upset.)
One thing is certain though. By the time we return for our next visit, my father will intimately know the area around the airport, and he'll never leave home without his Tom-Tom again.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
No Frills Flying...And the Difference Is???
Last week, we boarded a flight to Florida to spend the holiday with my family. A "no frills" flight.
Hmm. "No frills". What could that mean? Let's see. On "regular" flights, you are jammed in like sardines with no elbow, leg, head, butt or carry-on room, and if the person in front of you reclines their seat, you can kiss your breathing room good-bye as well. Who needs eHarmony to meet that special someone when you can just purchase a coach ticket?
There is no food unless you count those box meals that, based on the freshness of the contents, I'm pretty sure were packaged sometime in the seventies. Oh, and let's not forget the one nasty little bathroom for all two hundred plus economy passengers which, since you can't stand and block the four-inch wide aisle, you have to keep hopping up like a jack-in-the-box and trying to beat everyone else with with a small bladder to the back of the plane every time the door opens. Great. Red-light, green-light at thirty-five thousand feet.
Of course, all of this is made bearable by the sub-arctic temperature at which they keep the cabin. Since there are rarely enough, if any, blankets, I've resigned myself to wearing a parka in July or looking like a smurf.
So which "frills" were we giving up? Seats? Pilots? God forbid, bathrooms???
Nope. Luggage. First up, they hit you with an extra charge per bag at check-in for the "luxury" of taking anything more than what you are actually wearing. Then, since a conveyor belt is a "frill", you have to take your luggage over to a designated area and load it onto a cart that may or may not be headed for the cargo hold. Welcome to Hooterville.
Tickets. They don't have them. The "boarding pass" is a register receipt, the thickness of tissue paper, stapled to a flyer of some kind. Okay.
The gate. No fancy-schmancy electronic sign announcing the flight. No non-fancy-schmancy wooden sign. No sign at all. Late? On time? Who knows? At least we knew we were at the right gate because the woman who had given us our boarding passes showed up to work the gate (which meant she ripped your receipt in half...no wasteful ticket machines here! All that technology stuff is overrated anyway.)
When it came time to make the boarding announcements...you guessed it. She yelled, "Zone One boarding". (Well, okay, they did have a P.A. system--kind of--but Betty Jo, or was it Billy Jo, actually did yell. I swear.)
Boarding the plane, I was relieved to see that they had seats. I did, however, keep a close eye on the cockpit, because if Bobby Jo took the pilot's seat, I was outta there! Fortunately, she did not, but only because she probably had to go load the luggage on, then refuel us before heading off to perform maintenance on their other plane.
Water? Soda? Five dollars, please. I didn't dare purchase any because I was afraid I would have to use the bathroom and I didn't know if it was a flat fee or if they charged by the minute.
And thank goodness we were travelling during the day, so I didn't incur any extra charges for turning on the overhead light.
Despite their Mr. Haneyesque (oh, you wanted oxygen in the cabin? Five dollars please) approach to flying though, I was pleasantly surprised to find that we took off and landed on time. I am, however, going to be looking closely at my credit card statement to find out exactly how much the frill of braking and coming to a complete stop before disembarking cost before booking with them again.
Hmm. "No frills". What could that mean? Let's see. On "regular" flights, you are jammed in like sardines with no elbow, leg, head, butt or carry-on room, and if the person in front of you reclines their seat, you can kiss your breathing room good-bye as well. Who needs eHarmony to meet that special someone when you can just purchase a coach ticket?
There is no food unless you count those box meals that, based on the freshness of the contents, I'm pretty sure were packaged sometime in the seventies. Oh, and let's not forget the one nasty little bathroom for all two hundred plus economy passengers which, since you can't stand and block the four-inch wide aisle, you have to keep hopping up like a jack-in-the-box and trying to beat everyone else with with a small bladder to the back of the plane every time the door opens. Great. Red-light, green-light at thirty-five thousand feet.
Of course, all of this is made bearable by the sub-arctic temperature at which they keep the cabin. Since there are rarely enough, if any, blankets, I've resigned myself to wearing a parka in July or looking like a smurf.
So which "frills" were we giving up? Seats? Pilots? God forbid, bathrooms???
Nope. Luggage. First up, they hit you with an extra charge per bag at check-in for the "luxury" of taking anything more than what you are actually wearing. Then, since a conveyor belt is a "frill", you have to take your luggage over to a designated area and load it onto a cart that may or may not be headed for the cargo hold. Welcome to Hooterville.
Tickets. They don't have them. The "boarding pass" is a register receipt, the thickness of tissue paper, stapled to a flyer of some kind. Okay.
The gate. No fancy-schmancy electronic sign announcing the flight. No non-fancy-schmancy wooden sign. No sign at all. Late? On time? Who knows? At least we knew we were at the right gate because the woman who had given us our boarding passes showed up to work the gate (which meant she ripped your receipt in half...no wasteful ticket machines here! All that technology stuff is overrated anyway.)
When it came time to make the boarding announcements...you guessed it. She yelled, "Zone One boarding". (Well, okay, they did have a P.A. system--kind of--but Betty Jo, or was it Billy Jo, actually did yell. I swear.)
Boarding the plane, I was relieved to see that they had seats. I did, however, keep a close eye on the cockpit, because if Bobby Jo took the pilot's seat, I was outta there! Fortunately, she did not, but only because she probably had to go load the luggage on, then refuel us before heading off to perform maintenance on their other plane.
Water? Soda? Five dollars, please. I didn't dare purchase any because I was afraid I would have to use the bathroom and I didn't know if it was a flat fee or if they charged by the minute.
And thank goodness we were travelling during the day, so I didn't incur any extra charges for turning on the overhead light.
Despite their Mr. Haneyesque (oh, you wanted oxygen in the cabin? Five dollars please) approach to flying though, I was pleasantly surprised to find that we took off and landed on time. I am, however, going to be looking closely at my credit card statement to find out exactly how much the frill of braking and coming to a complete stop before disembarking cost before booking with them again.
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