Suck It Up

I can always tell when it's spring (or fall) because of what's on my floors. Twigs.  Leaves.  Blossoms.  Tiny mud balls.

Anything lying on the ground that will stick to the eight furry feet that run in and out of the house with such spirited abandon.  If I had a dollar for every time I open the door to let a dog out or in ~ suffice it to say, I'd be lying on a beach in the Caribbean instead of blogging about dirty floors.

What I really need to find is a high powered vacuum cleaner with super suction.  I mean, the old Hoover bag model just does not cut it any more.  So I've been doing a little online vacuum cleaner research and internet housewares window shopping.  I know for sure that I don't want one of those bag-less models...I mean, who thinks it's a good idea for all the dirt and crud to just swirl around loose in the canister, and then fly into your face when you try to empty it into the garbage?  Come on.

I'd really like one of those nifty Dyson vacuums, the one advertised by that blonde guy with the cool accent (is he British or Australian?)   But, alas, they are SO expensive - my shabby old floor does not deserve to be swept with such a serious machine.

What I really need is a good deep carpet cleaner, and someone willing to use it about three times a week.

As I mentioned the other day, I'm thinking about tearing up all the carpeting and having the vintage oak wood flooring underneath it refinished.   We had hardwood floors in the house where I was born, and I recall loving the sound of my mother's high-heeled shoes as she tip-tapped from room to room.  (It was the 1950's, people, and my mother dressed like Donna Reed - she really did.)

In my house, however, it would be the sound of those eight tiny feet skit skattering across the wood, hundreds and hundreds of times a day.  Hmmm.

Maybe I should suck it up and leave well enough alone.

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.

Be Daring

Daring is the courage to try out the unknown, to move into unfamiliar spaces. That seems to describe perfectly the conundrums, and the promise, of writing, where each day we seem inevitably to create anew, to step into what’s next.  ~Miriam Peskowitz, The Daring Writer's Guide

I'll admit it - I'm not a daredevil in any way, shape, or form.  I like the safety of predictability and it makes me happiest to work within my comfort zone.  But on the few occasions when I have successfully stepped outside the box, it was thrilling enough to make me think that a pint sized daredevil might lurk within me after all.

My first inclination was to say that I'm not a daring writer, either.  But on reflection, I realize that isn't true.  Putting words on paper, whether they're personal reflections in a blog post, or from the mouths of completely fictional characters, is inherently a daring adventure.   So often, the simple act of writing takes us to unknown places within ourselves, spurs us to further inquiry about the world at large, and opens up a line of communication with people we might otherwise never have known.

So be a daring writer ~ dare to delve deep within your soul, dare to write it down, dare to set it free into the world.

Write on Wednesday: What's the most daring thing you've ever done - as a writer, or in life in general.

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.