Oh My, Omar

One of the reasons we went to Florida last week was to facilitate the transport of my son's Pontiac GTO from our garage in Naples to his garage in Frisco, Texas.  After doing his usual due diligence, Brian came up with a seemingly reputable car transport outfit, and made arrangements with them to pick up the car during the time we would be there. Sounds simple, doesn't it?  We gave them a month advance notice, and a weeks worth of days from which to choose to pick the car up.

But oh no, nothing is simple when you're dealing with Omar.

Omar is the owner of the company that Brian's transport broker awarded the job to.  You see, apparently there's an online broker with whom you contract, and they sub-contract out to an actual car-hauling company who bids on the job.  Lucky us, Omar won the bid for Brian's car. (Not.)

The first problem occurred when Omar called us on the phone two days before we were leaving Michigan and said he'd be by to pick up the car the next day.

"No," my husband said.  "We arranged with the broker that you would pick up the car on Tuesday.  We won't even be in Florida until tomorrow night."

"Oh, but I have to get the car tomorrow," Omar said.  "Can't you get someone else to help?"

"No," my husband said again.  "We arranged specifically for Tuesday because there is NO ONE else to help you."

"But I have to pick it up tomorrow!" Omar insisted.

"No," my husband said again, calmly but firmly.  "You will pick it up on Tuesday.  This is your mistake, and you have to fix it."

Well, he didn't fix it.  He just said he wasn't coming on Tuesday.

After some frantic phone calling back and forth, the broker promised he would have someone else pick up the car within the seven day time period we would be in Florida.  But when six of those seven days had gone by and we had heard nothing, we had just about accepted we'd be leaving the GTO behind for the summer.

Then, late on the evening of the sixth day (my goodness, this is beginning to sound rather Biblical, isn't it?) we get a phone call from  Brian.

"The transport people just called and said they're sitting outside your house and can't get hold of you."

Hmm.  We peered out the front door.

"No transport people here," we said.  Just then, Jim's phone began to ring.

"Hello," he answered.  "What? No, you are NOT outside my house.  I'm standing outside my house and you are not there.  What?  In front of the gate?  On the road outside the community? Alright, I'll bring the car up there.  Hang on."

He hung up and grabbed the car keys from the counter top, quickly shoving his shoes on.   "It's that Omar," he muttered.   "The $&*(#%  parked on the road in front of Island Walk - says he can't get the truck through the gate."

We had surmised that would be a problem, but Omar was supposed to call us ahead of time so we could tell him a safe meeting place. So much for that plan.  I stood in the driveway and watched as Jim roared off in Brian's one-of-a-kind Australian import.

I expected him to be gone maybe 20 or 30 minutes - after all, how long does it take to load a car on a transport trailer?  When 90 minutes had gone by, I began to panic. Just when I was about to go in search of him, he threw open the door.

"Where have you been?" I cried.

"You'll never believe where he was," Jim said, heading for the refrigerator where he immediately downed an 8 ounce bottle of water.  "He was parked in the middle of the road at the intersection of Vanderbilt Beach and Logan.  We've been up there all this time while he went over the car with a fine tooth comb, marking all these spots that he called "scratches."

"What!" I exclaimed.  This car has been garaged for nearly all it's life.  There are NO scratches on it.

"Oh yes, and then he has the nerve to complain that the car is "dirty," as he gets inside without even wiping his hands and puts them all over the steering wheel."

"Well, when will Brian get the car?" I ask innocently.

"HA!" Jim guffaws.  "He said that car will be going to Miami where it will be offloaded and sit in a lot until the end of next week when somebody else will pick it up and take it to Dallas."

"WHAT!"  I screamed. ( If you hadn't already guessed, we are very protective of our cars in this family.)

"Yep."  Jim said, shaking his head and reaching into the refrigerator to replace the water bottle with a beer.

Well, friends, that little adventure occurred almost 10 days ago.  As of tonight, my son's car is still out there somewhere...according to Omar, it will be delivered "maybe in a few days."

Lest you think all this is cheap, it's not.  We're talking about paying over $800 for the privilege of being jacked around by Omar and his crew.  Not to mention the wear and tear on one's nervous system.

So let this be a cautionary tale for you.  If you must transport a car from one place to another, do not under any circumstances, contact Omar.

Because, oh my, you'll be in for trouble if you do.

Speaking of Cars

At this juncture in my life, alas, I do not have a one-of-kind car to worry about transporting anywhere.  There was a time when I was rabidly protective of my car - the 1975 Pontiac Trans Am, the 1976 Silver Anniversary Corvette, the luxurious Lincoln Mark VIII's I tooled around in for a few years. The only car of which I've been even remotely possessive of late was my 2007 Saab 9.3 Turbo, which I had to give up when the stupid dealer wouldn't entertain my off-lease purchase offer.  Stupid Saab - and they were on the verge of bankruptcy at the time.

Anyway, unfortunately now I'm in "old lady" car mode.  I drive a 2010 Ford Fusion, which is a nice car of its kind, but is just so amazingly common its pitiful.  I never intended to drive a common car.   It was not in my life plan, back in my salad days when Dream #2 was becoming a race car driver (this was long before Danica Patrick's time).

But at least I own my Fusion, after almost two decades of leasing cars.  I'm done with that...I like owning my car, because I can get rid of it when I want to, not when some arbitrary lease agreement tells me I can.   Of course, the only problem with owning a car is that you feel a certain sense of responsibility to take care of it, to make sure it's properly maintained and repaired.  With lease cars, it's not that much of an issue - how much can go wrong in two years?  and do you really care because you'll just be giving it back anyway?

When you own a car, it's more important to find a good automotive repair shop - like a trusted family practitioner, one who knows the basics about the internal workings of your particular model, but can refer you on to a specialist if needed.

Luckily I haven't yet needed this service.  My Fusion is still a veritable infant in terms of car life.

But I hope if/when the time comes that I do, I'll find a mechanic who isn't related to Omar.

On the Border-Line

From the sublime to the ridiculous - yesterday I offered you a lovely poem by Mary Oliver. Today, I offer you this revolting headline from the Huffington Post:

CHICAGO SCHOOL BANS HOME PACKED LUNCHES

Yes indeed, the long arm of school regulation has now reached into your kitchen and grabbed the brown bag PB&J sandwich right out of your child's little hand.

If you haven't got the stomach to read the whole article, here's the gist of it.   The principal of Little Village Academy decided to ban parents from packing their children's lunches when she observed that many of the children were coming to school with "bottles of soda and flaming hot chips."  She deemed it would be better for the children to eat in the school cafeteria rather than suffer the effects of their parents nutritionally poor choices.  "Nutrition wise, it is better for the children to eat at the school," Principal Elsa Carmona said. "It's about the nutrition and the excellent quality food that they are able to serve (in the lunchroom). It's milk versus a Coke."

Aside from the fact that the home packed school lunch is almost a sacred part of any American childhood, I'm downright offended that a school can attempt to force feed children what it decides is right.  What's next?  Will the school choose which pediatrician they should go to?  Will the principal go door to door and make sure that each child is brushing their teeth at night using the correct type of toothpaste?

It's all fine and good for schools to teach children and their families about proper nutrition.  Have all the videos and presentations and worksheets you want.  But do not presume to tell me that I can't pack my child's lunch because it might not meet the school's nutritional standards.

In case you were wondering, Little Village Academy is part of the Chicago Public School system. "While there is no formal policy, principals use common sense judgment based on their individual school environments," CPS spokeswoman Monique Bond told the Tribune. "In this case, this principal is encouraging the healthier choices and attempting to make an impact that extends beyond the classroom."  In looking at the school's website, the demographics of the school appear to be heavily Hispanic, where culturally the favorite foods might be considered higher in fats and carbohydrates.  I wager that after a "healthy" lunch of salad and plain turkey sandwiches, those children probably head for the nearest bodega on the way home for something that tastes really good - like soda and flaming hot chips.

Oh I know, kids need to eat better.  But kids are kids, and the more you "force" them to do what's good for them, the more enticing you make what's bad for them seem to be.

And this habit of intruding official-dom of one sort or another into the private lives of the American people has got to stop.

Or I'll be making a run for the border myself.

Spring Has Sprung

Ah, spring.  At last there are some faint signs of hope.  The tired brown grass has suddenly turned bright green, sprouts of green are poking up through the soil in my flower beds and around the shrubs, and if you look very hard, you can see teeny tiny buds along the scrawny limbs of my cherry tree and Japanese red maple. While I'm happy to see these hopeful portents, I'm less happy at the thought of spring cleaning.  I'll admit it - I'm no fan of housekeeping.  You probably won't find me renting a steam cleaner and going at my carpets and rugs. Best leave that to the top rated carpet cleaning companies, I say.

And as much as I love my two furry rug rats, they are indeed hard on the flooring and furniture.  Between muddy paws and the occasional potty accident which leaves a very unfortunate urine odor,  my household furnishings take quite a beating.  Since between them they only weight about 25 pounds, I can't even imagine what it's like to have a big dog running the house - or two, or even three like some folks I know.

At this point, I'm trying to decide whether to call the carpet cleaners or just have it all ripped off the floor and go au natural, with the addition of some beautiful Turkish rugs.

But you know what?  It's such a nice day, I think I'll just go hang around outside and worry about it tomorrow.

How about you?  What are your biggest spring cleaning challenges?

Come to the Pond

Mornings at Blackwater

~Mary Oliver

For years, every morning, I drank

from Blackwater Pond. It was flavored with oak leaves and also, no doubt,

the feet of ducks.

And always it assuaged me

from the dry bowl of the very far past.

What I want to say is

that the past is the past, and the present is what your life is,

and you are capable

of choosing what that will be,

darling citizen.

So come to the pond,

or the river of your imagination,

or the harbor of your longing,

and put your lips to the world.

And live

your life.

from Red Bird: Poems by Mary Oliver (Boston: Beacon Press, 2008), p.57.

~With a nod to Third Story Window where I read this poem in my blog wanderings this morning.  It fed my soul, so I'm sharing it with you in honor of April and National Poetry Month.

And now I'm going out on this warm afternoon in search of a pond.