Buggy Bumpers

I was walking to my car when I saw it.

A bumper sticker on an otherwise very sensible vehicle said: "I [heart] my grand dogs."

At first I thought, "How interesting." Here's a person who is so consumed with the lives of his or her children that she's also adopted their pets as "family." Enough so to tell the world behind her.

But let me flip this and suggest that, just maybe, this person is in fact beaming with pride for the puppies of her dogs. Grand dogs.

Also a really good name for a band.

Paradise and dashboard lights.

I think the first time I felt like I was cheating on her was a couple of months ago, when I went home for an unexpected long weekend.

My Subaru, a 1994 gem we found used, and the only car I've driven for ten years since, had an expired inspection sticker. Not wanting to risk being pulled over, I rented a car for the five hour drive.

They were supposed to give me the second-cheapest model. Something "like a Ford Focus," the Web site promised. I knew I wouldn't fall in love with one of those. When I picked up the car, however, they had to upgrade me to a brand new Chevy Impala. The kind in rap songs.

At first I resisted. I grumbled about gas mileage. I nervously took turns Granny-style... slow and wide. I fumbled with the controls. Apparently, sometime around the year 2000, they started replacing every word on every knob or dial with a picture. My temperature controls, for instance, say radical things like "heat, vent, a/c, max a/c, off" The Impala's controls were like cave drawings: grill, fan, ice cube, closed circle, open circle...

Lulled by the six-speaker stereo system, slowly I began to soften. The lumbar support felt good on my back. The big engine accelerated smoothly. There was a lot of room everywhere for my bags. Cruise control went from being a vaguely annoying oddity to something I wasn't sure how I lived without. And the new car smell, my god, the smell.

And so began, around mile 300, the nagging idea set in that I'd have to join this century and get a new car soon. My Subaru, approaching 181,000 miles, is rusting. The rumbling engine sounds just a little tired. It needs new brakes.

I've been... reluctant, to say the least, about this purchase for many reasons. (Not the least of which is that it's an expensive ordeal involving a run-in with a possibly pushy salesman in a big gold watch.)

But the main reason is that trading in my first car really will be the end of an era. So many memories are wrapped up in that teal hunk of plastic and steel.

Passing my driving test. The first place I drove myself: a softball game soon after I turned 16. Taking my friends to the movies. The way Cara said it has a comforting smell. Listening to oldies on a tinny radio in the garage while waxing it with my dad. Mix tapes. Being driven to Prom. Packing it to the hilt and heading off to college. Road trips. Drive-in movies. Defending my tiger print steering wheel cover. Digging out of the snow. Taking my grandma Christmas shopping... Everyone I love has ridden in it. Getting a new bumper with cash after my friend's lesbian roommate hit me while parallel parking. Trowa's car seat. Navigating downtown Chicago traffic and laughing because my out-of-state plates helped me get away with a lot. Speeding tickets. Five-hour drives with a kitten on my lap. Countless tearful goodbyes.

When I first got the car, the road stretched way out ahead of me. It's good to look back at how far I've traveled. It'll be good to see where I'm going next.

Who wants to take a ride?

What I've learned...

• You'll always drop your cell phone on pavement. Never on soft grass, carpet or pillows.
• Hold your keys in the opposite hand as the one you're going use to throw your trash in the dumpster.
• If it's summer and you don't have bug bites, you're probably not having as much fun as you should.
• Being in a long-distance relationship was like being in the Army Reserve: One weekend a month, two weeks a year, and you could go to war at any time.
• Go ahead and give the guy in the Audi convertible who cut you off the finger. Now, while you're young. You'll feel better, and it makes a better story. The guy in a beat-up pick-up? Don't bother.
  
• It never hurts to smile and keep your mouth shut. At least for an extra moment or two.
  

In mint condition

A side effect of being lazy for an extended amount of time is that, eventually, Newton's law catches up to you and for every period of in-action there is an equal, productive re-action. This is how hobbies happen.

As for me, I happened to receive a couple of plants as gifts. Placing a life-form, however menial, in the hands of another is an interesting gift, isn't it? "Happy Birthday. Here's a chore that also turns a rather insignificant amount carbon dioxide into a small bit of oxygen."

As it so happens, I placed one of the plants next to the couch, on which I spend days napping and watching afternoon reruns of "Malcolm in the Middle." Then one day it happened. I looked over and had the burning idea it and the other two flowers in the apartment had to be repotted.

I took swift action. With that out of the way, each one snuggled in brand new pots with Miracle Grow soil out on the patio, I itched to plant more things. And I was armed with a whole extra bag of soil left over and a brand new watering can.

I've decided that I could get into this gardening thing. I went to a real garden center and bought two kinds of mint plants. One is called Mint Julep, which I like because it makes no bones about being almost exclusively for the making of a delicious alcoholic beverage. The other kind I've decided to try is called Kentucky Colonel, which I like because it sounds like a homage to KFC. If this works out, it may be a gateway to a fullblown herb garden. Or more flowers.

Or, the pendulum of laziness may swing in the other direction, particularly after a series of fresh Mojitos, and I'll return to a more relaxed state. Ready for a new hobby.

g-l-a-m-o-r-o-u-s is b-a-n-a-n-a-s

I'm going to be in a wedding next month, and for it, I had to buy a pair of silver, bride-approved high heels. To avoid teetering like a woman on stilts at the event, I decided to practice wearing them around the house. It's fun, because 1. they make that clicking sound when I walk across the kitchen, one that I always associate with adulthood, the sound of elementary school teachers curtly clicking down the tiled hallway, and 2. It's like playing dress-up while I empty the dishwasher.

The other day, though, I realized I was vacuuming the apartment in these glitzy shoes. How "Look" magazine is that? Maybe I'll put the dress on and clean the oven.

We're Norther than South Carolina

Yesterday a coworker and I drove to Clemson, S.C. to watch Syracuse take on the Tigers in NIT action. Or, as I call it, the only postseason basketball I can afford.

The whole experience was incredibly easy. We parked a very short walk from Littlejohn Coliseum for free. Picked up our 10 dollar tickets. Then went right to whatever seat we wanted - in our case, about 10 rows behind the Syracuse bench, directly behind an already drunk guy in a cat-in-the-hat style orange and blue hat. Though he was a sight obstruction, we agreed that this guy was potential energy, about to become kinetic at game time.

He didn't disappoint, almost getting thrown out by yelling "Go CUSE!" at quiet moments during Clemson's pregame Alma Mater dirge. They take this stuff seriously -it was as if the Tiger faithful were singing a hymn in church. So it goes in the South.

Almost as entertaining were the children behind us, wherein the kid-to-adult ratio was a teetering four-to-one. One lad in particular, probably about seven, kept shouting things he'd regurgitated from years of pee wee sports. "Show 'em the heat!" he'd yell as Clemson would pass the ball in bounds. "Take your time!" he'd helpfully offer before free throws.

Or, there's my personal favorite, and the reason we dubbed him "Opie" for the rest of the game:
"Come on, Clemson! What are you good for, anyway?!"
(This is the actual spelling, but what it sounded like was this:
"Kim awn, Climpsin! Whadderye gud fer, anyway?!")His pa must've been proud.

Sweep, Caroline

It was a wild one. I was in Target, one thing led to another, and I ended up buying a broom.

If you're wondering, there are about seven different brooms you can buy, ranging from a dollar to fifteen. If you want a broom that actually looks like what you think a broom should look like, and by that I mean the straw-like bristles and wooden handle, it's about 13 dollars.

I settled on a small, completely synthetic, Target brand model for a cool $3.50. After all, it's really just to tear up spider webs on my patio.

As soon as I got home, I gave the ol' patio a good sweeping, and, much to my chagrin, the broom I bought isn't worth more than $2.50. Regardless, I'm happy to have it. I feel like I can Shoo stuff now. You know, big bugs, stray dogs, neighborhood children...

Why?

Would anyone buy Hershey's Syrup light?

American Idle

Love or hate the show, put that aside. If ever you were curious about what Bert from Sesame Street would look like if he were black, and, you know, a real person, look no further: HEY BERT

My early favorites? Blake Lewis and Chris Sligh (also the closest to being Ernie)

Dear Papa John's,

Dear Papa John,

As a father, you must surely realize the importance of protecting your children from harm.

With that said, I beg you to stop heating your pizzas in those oven pouches the drivers carry.

While I appreciate this commitment to "hot" and "fresh," I will be frank. I burn the roof of my mouth on your still-too-bubbly cheese every time.

And the pizza is hot, yes, but it's also a bit overcooked. And I generally don't eat food prepared using the power from a car's cigarette lighter, if you must know. It's unnatural.

So, please, just return to the insulation method of yesteryear. My mouth thanks you.

Best wishes,
Lisa

"What an unfortunate nickname," I thought.

A mini van cut me off on my way to work yesterday.
The license plate read JEFFGINA.
Looking back, it's probably Jeff & Gina. But I read it "Jeff-jai-nuh."

Assimilation Com--..... Assimilation Comp--

I'm slow to assimilate to Charlotte. I struggle with the thought of getting an NC driver's license or plates on my car. I refuse to say y'all or get excited about the teal-clad, unexciting Panthers. But I'm trying to do it, one step at a time. Baby steps.

For instance, I got my first oil change down here the other day. It's always good to forge a relationship with a local who can explain noises and whatnot that may stop your ride. As it happened, I picked a pretty interesting place to spend an hour reading weeks old Sports Illustrated and Sporting News addressed to some guy named Frank.

The lobby of the garage is really small - there were five chairs. So you see and hear everything.

A man came in with a 5-year-old girl in tow. Said he needed a new muffler, and you could hear when he pulled up that he did. After a quick estimate, the man was even quicker to turn down the quoted price. The guy behind the counter lowered the offer quite discretely, not to haggle, but out of obvious concern. The young father just turned and left with a loud engine roar. According to Counter Guy, his brake pedal was to the floor and the exhaust is leaking into the car's interior. He had lowered the price to try to protect the little girl. "You can't make someone be responsible," he sighed.

Next was a man who already had the part he needed. He carried this long, banged up muffler piece that if it was the working part, I'd hate to see the "old" one. He had warred with value and won, getting this part from a junkyard. "This part new is $200," went his battle cry, "and I got one for a dollar fifty." It cost him $60 to put the part on, and there's no guarantee that it would work, but that is beside the point. He ran off to Wal-Mart while the work was being done, undoubtedly in search of his next bargain.

Two early twenty-somethings came in needing some minor repairs, a man and a woman. I offered to shift over a seat so they could sit together, but they declined. They spoke over me in quick, staccato Spanish. And the best part is, ever since my high school Spanish classes, I've been waiting for a real conversation to take place in public that I could understand, and here I finally found it. A brief transcript:
Isabel's party is on Saturday.
On Saturday? Why not Friday?
She has school on Friday.
School?
I'm hungry.
Let's eat over there.
I'm hungry. Now.
What time is it?
What is the date today?
How is the weather outside?

Ok, I made up the last three. But the rest really happened.

North by Midwest

A couple random thoughts, scrawled in my notebook Wednesday at 30,000 feet:

• Either "Yanni" is a word in Chinese, or the people behind me really like talking about the singer.
  
• Flying over a half-frozen Lake Michigan is one of the most beautiful things I've seen. It's like a miles long green marble.
  

Maybe models don't eat candy.

Two girls knocked on the door yesterday afternoon.

"The talker" (There's always one girl who does all the talking in these situations. This is why we travel in groups.) began to tell their tale. They're in a Modeling Club at a local high school. And to get the money to go to some modeling thing, they're going door to door. But that's just it. That's all they're doing - asking for a handout. They didn't even have little things to hand out or anything. It was ridiculous. No cookies. No candy bars. No wrapping paper. No overpriced scented candles. They weren't wearing Modeling Club t-shirts (though I imagine they'd be stylish).

I told them I'd have bought something but that I wasn't going to just hand them money. And they looked surprised. "You need a product," I said. "A product?" the talker shot back. "Yeah," I said. I think I gave them some strong business advice. Come to think of it, I should have asked them if they'd wash my car.

A sweeping claim

Sometimes something is so awful it's beautiful. This is the funniest moment in recent television history.