sunny side up

10,000 kelos

Okay, okay, I know I'm behind on blogging, but I've been busy regrouping after my little vacation (which is to say I've been reading Tim Sandefur's latest manuscript and maintaining my tropical tan.  You wouldn't believe the work involved.)  I'm currently toying with a post about tampons, so while you are waiting for that please consider putting off getting your roots done for another week or skipping your metrosexual pedicure to donate to a good cause.  After all, this land is your land.

we are experiencing technical difficulties

Having a great time; wish you were here. I wanted to post pics but it's not working out. And what's with Twitter not letting me sign up?
Waiting for Kai to finish nap so we can ride flat waves. 150 steps away.

Aloha oe, you smell like poi.

here today, gone to maui

Kauai, actually.  Soon. Very very soon.

I'll attempt to moblog from my Blackberry Pearl. Or maybe I'll hop on the Twitter bandwagon.  That way, you can be right there with me as I vomit in a helicopter or attempt to pass as a local so I can check out library books. I will try my best to refrain from making lame jokes about getting lei-ed.

Be there. Aloha.

house of mouse

When I was in the ninth grade, I had a geometry teacher named Mr. Simmons (or "Mithter Thimmons" as we referred to him because he had a lithp).  Mr. Simmons came off as an angry man who did not suffer fools gladly.  I think that his lisp, coupled with what seemed like some kind of skin affliction (I'm guessing vitiligo) contributed to his defensive--and sometimes offensive--personality.  Still, I could see that beneath his rough exterior that Mr. Simmons wasn't so bad.  I was particularly drawn to him when he was annoyed or disgusted, like when a student gave the wrong answer or didn't turn in homework.  Mr. Simmons would draw up a scowl and mumble, summing up what he thought by yelling out "Mickey Mouse Situation!" (or "Mickey Mouth Thituathun!").  I loved that phrase more than bacon or even Ward Donnelly and Eddie Bruno combined. When Mr. Simmons saw through your lies about the dog eating your homework, he called it for what it was: a Mickey Mouse Situation.

***

Kai and I (and my wallet) finally made it to Disneyland last Tuesday.  We invited his classmate Maya and her mother to use our spare ticket.  The ticket, which I purchased back in April, was a Disney Twofer: it allows SoCal residents admission to both Disneyland and California Adventure for the price of one park so long as the ticket is used by a certain date and the visits don't occur on the same day.  My tickets had, prominently hand-printed in red ink, the following: "First use must occur by 5/22/08.  Second visit must occur by 6/22/08."  We first used them at California Adventure back in April, and I wanted to go to Disneyland before June because 1) my life will be much busier then, and 2) the park will be more crowded then.  Still, I figured I had until June 22 to use the Disneyland ticket.

However, when we showed up at the gate on Tuesday, the sweet little ticket taker lady said the tickets had expired.  Maya's mom had purchased her own ticket so she was okay, but apparently my and Kai's and Maya's tickets had expired.  "What?" I asked.  "How can that be?  It says right here that the second visit must occur by June 22."

"Don't worry.  I've sent for someone to take care of  it," the ticket-taker said.  As I stood waiting for someone to take care of me, I pondered having to pay full price for an adult ticket and two kids. Yipes.  Suddenly my enthusiasm for Disneyland flagged.  And yet, we had pulled the kids out of school for this; we couldn't just send them back.

Then a very young lad in the tell-tale Disneyland uniform approached and took the tickets from the sweet ticket taker.  "These tickets have expired," he told me, quite matter-of-factly.

"But it says I have to use them by June 22.  How could they have expired?" I asked. 

"You have to use them within 30 days of your first use," he said, pointing to the teeeeeny tiny black type obscured by some bar code thingy. 

"What? It says right here that the first use must be by May 22, which it was, and the second use by June 22, which it is."  I was getting annoyed.

"Yes, ma'am.  It does. But it also says that whenever your first use was you have 30 days after that for your second use." 

Oh, crap.  He was right. I must have looked at those tickets twenty times--even reading the fine  print, because that's what I do--but my eyes always fixed on the red print with the specific dates.  This made me a little bit mad at myself but more mad at whoever printed the tickets for obscuring a key term of the Twofer tickets.  And yet, I knew that if I was going to turn this around I would have to go deep down into the darkest recesses of my person and (temporarily) shove my smart-assiness there, at least until I convinced the guy to let us into Disneyland without paying for new tickets.  This is also called simply "being nice," something I'm not completely incapable of doing.  Except.  Except when I think The Man is putting me under his fat hairy thumb, and then I get all spastic and ready for a fight.  And here, the big fat hairy thumb was this stupid 30-day provision and The Man was the young tough in a polyester uniform sent to enforce it. 

So.  I paused, took a deep breath, and flicked off the little devil on my shoulder that tempted me to fight with The Man about his Stupid Rule.  Sure, the devil kept trying to jump back on but in the end, the little angel prevailed.  I looked at The Man with big brown anime eyes and asked, "Ohhh, could you please let us in anyway?"  Then I gestured toward the children with their big brown anime eyes, and I looked back at The man and batted my eyelashes.  It took everything I had--everything, People--to do this.   

**

For you see, I needed to show myself I could do it.  I needed to know that I could keep my trap shut when the situation called for it. 

Recently I got pulled over for making a U-turn where one was not permitted.  I had not seen the "No U-Turn" sign.  I had never been pulled over before, but I knew that the cop had some discretion in deciding whether to issue a ticket, so I told myself to be nice.  However, as soon as the cop approached my car he was a jerk:  "Did you not see the universal sign forbidding a U-Turn back there where you made that U-turn?" 

"Wha? No, sir, I didn't.  I didn't see a sign." 

"Well, it was there, plain as day. You're telling me you didn't see it?"

"No, sir, I didn't see it." It was keeeling me, this refraining from being a smartass.

Then he asked to see my license, which chapped me because um, that information is personal, sir.  You do not need to know where I live or how much I weigh.  But then!  When he asked to see my registration and proof of insurance, that was the straw that broke the camel's back.  How dare he invade my privacy?!  I popped open the glove compartment.  I pulled out the plastic case that holds my registration and insurance info--actually alllllllll my insurance renewals for the past five and a half years, two per year.  (Yes, I suppose I should throw away the expired ones, but 1) oh, the effort involved in removing a 3x5 piece of paper, and 2) what? I'm sentimental.)

I considered being cooperative, really I did.  But I swear I have this thing inside me that wells up whenever a cop or border patrol agent or IRS officer confronts me, especially when I think they are being jerks who get their jollies exercising power over people.  And the welling up gets to be too much until finally, I have to be a smartass.  So, although my most recent insurance information was at the top of the pile, I proceeded to thumb through each. Piece. Of. Paper. One. By. One. All the while the cop stood waiting, waiting, as I said things like, "Hmmm. I am sure it's in here somewhere" and "Noooo, that's not it.  Not thaaaat..."   I had to make Mr. Copman suffer for pulling me over for breaking the law.  Right? 

I know! I know it was stupid, me and my big mouth.  Sometimes I'm just a thirteen year old girl at heart.  And so, not surprisingly, the cop handed me a ticket and said, "You be careful out there, Miss.  Drive defensively, and within the speed limit."   A-hole.

**

Flash forward to Disneyland.  I was not going to be burned again, not at Disneyland when others were counting on me. I displayed my nicest, most deferential persona until it almost broke me.  The young gate manager came through just in time. 

"Alright.  I'm going to let you in this time," he conceded, all the while I gave him big eyes and nodded affirmatively.  "BUT.  If you leave the park, that's it. You cannot come back in.  Once you leave these gates for the day, you will not be allowed back."  He spoke gravely, just so we were all clear about the seriousness of my offense and the extent of his awesome power. Then he turned to my friend.

"Well, you can come back since you just purchased your ticket," he said nicely.  "But you three--" and he pointed to Kai and his friend and, of course, me, "you will not be allowed back!   So remember that.  You must remain here at Disneyland until you leave these gates, and that's it  . . ."

Oh my freakin' g*d, enough already! I get it.  The urge to be a smartass began to grow, and all because this guy couldn't just shut up and let us pass.  "Do it for the children," I told myself. "The children."

"Ohh, thank you sir! Thank you so much! I totally understand, and I'm so sorry about the tickets. Thank you SO MUCH!", and I flashed him my Poligrip smile.  This must have dazzled him because he finally let us pass. 

And we had a great time at Disneyland that day.  By 6:30 p.m., we were beat.  We were hungry.  It was time to go home.  As I passed through the gate to exit, the friendly gentleman manning the turnstile asked, "Can I stamp your hand in case you want to return?"  Instinctively I answered no, but immediately I realized that I could, in fact, have my hand stamped.  Why, if I wanted to, I could get my hand stamped and return that same day.  The morning gate manager had lied to me!  It was a classic Mickey Mouse Situation.  It almost made me turn back to get my hand stamped before going home. That would fix someone's little red wagon.

no one loves you better than your m-o-double-m-y

Happy Mother's Day!  Jade had asked if they could make me breakfast in bed for Mother's Day, and I was a little reluctant because 1) when I wake up I wanna get out of bed to start my day, not wait around for three hours for the rest of them to rise; and 2) since I work out in the morning, my breakfast usually consists of decaf coffee and 2 tablespoons of whole roasted flaxseed on a spoonful of peanut butter with a dab of honey.  I dip the spoon in the peanut butter, drizzle a little honey on it, then scoop up a healthy dose of flaxseeds.  That doesn't translate well to breakfast in bed, and not just because I would spill some seeds between the sheets (that sounds naughty), and it would be like having cracker crumbs in bed (although, presumably, Bell would not kick me out).

* My nice family surprised me with a brand-new Seagull acoustic guitar, sized perfectly for a diminutive person such as Yours Truly.  I've been wanting to learn to play for a while now, and this is just the thing I need to transition me into rock-stardom.  I will not, however, quit my day job while my guitar gently weeps.

* In addition to a lovely little book-like card, Kai delivered this note to me this morning:

Translation: "What would you like for dinner?"

* Speaking of Mother's Day, early last week Jade and Bell both complained of sore throats.  This was particularly bad news for Jade, whose class had a three-day field trip to Catalina Island planned starting (last) Wednesday.  I mentioned that I vaguely remember hearing that apple cider vinegar will knock out a sore throat.  But it has to include "the Mother," which means it is unfiltered. ("The Mother" refers to certain beneficial enzymes and whatnot.)

We just happened to have apple cider vinegar with The Mother on hand, and no sooner did I mention this when Bell whipped out a shot glass and downed a shot.  Then he poured one for Jade who, quite conveniently, was sitting at the bar, but she was not so willing.  When there's something she doesn't want to do, she has to complain about it many many times.  This is her way of processing the bad stuff (or simply complaining).  "You don't have to drink it," I told her, "but if you've got a bad cough and sore throat there's no way you're going on the field trip."  I turned away while she sat eyeing the shot glass and Bell proclaimed his sore throat better already. 

At some point when we were ignoring Jade she downed the shot, and I know this because she said, "My stomach burns!  Owwww!"  I tried to focus on the positive, but for several hours that night she complained that her stomach burned.  As time wore on, I totally blew her off because I've drinken ACV before and yes, it does feel like battery acid initially, but it goes away. Sometimes.  Sort of.

Anywho, after Jade went to bed I decided to check the Internets about this claim that ACV cures a sore throat, and sure enough, it purportedly does.  However, I discovered it should be diluted in water and gargled, not thrown back like a shot of Jack Daniels.  Ooops.  Fortunately, Jade's throat did get better and she went to Catalina and got to dissect a squid and go snorkeling and pet a giant bat ray and not shower for three days.   

* On Friday Kai's class held a Mother's Day Tea.  Kai had been very excited about this beforehand, especially when his teacher said the kids had to wear dressy clothes. I think the other boys in the class "forgot" to tell their mothers because many of them were in shorts or jeans while the girls were allllll pertied up.  As was Kai.  For as you know, Kai is all about the style.  I got him a little white linen shirt, and my friend Sue, who owns a school uniform conglomerate, hooked me up with a bitchin' red power tie, perfectly sized for the dapper 5 year old.  Kai topped off his outfit with, of course, his cowboy boots, and the ladies never had a chance. 

After the mothers opened their child's handmade gift, the kids lined up and sang this song.  If you're not a mama, maybe it seems corny to you but there was not a dry eye in the house.  And the best part was that while each kid looked at his/her mama while singing, my kid winked at me (several times) during the song, like he was pitching woo or something.  He totally killed me softly with his song.

And the winking thing? He does that a lot, and it makes him seem so mature.  So much so that my friends do a double-take and ask, "Did ... Kai just wink at you?"  I am not sure who he thinks he is or where he learned this, but he has developed several variations on this theme: sometimes it's a straight-up wink; sometimes he clicks and winks.  When something pleases him he he winks, clicks, and gives a thumbs-up, as here:

My personal favorite is the wink, click, and making his hand into a gun and shooting at me.  It gets me every time. 

* Lady Skittles doesn't know this yet but since she is also a mother, we are giving her a surprise mani-pedi this evening.  We have not been diligent about trimming her or Lord Chubblesworth's claws like we were with Hamlet.  They were so skittish in the beginning that we did not want to freak them out.  But they've grown quite comfortable and loving and into a nice routine here--both like to sit in each of the two bathroom sinks and watch while I put my face on--it's time to show them who is really in charge.  We're going to attempt to put on nail caps tonight.  I expect it will take a series of attempts before each cat gets a complete set.  Just for grins, I may top off the kitty spa service with an eyebrow waxing.

* And finally, when we were newly minted parents for the first time almost a decade ago, Bell and I were walking with Baby Jade down the streets of Old Town Alexandria.  She was but a couple of weeks old.  Bell wore her in a Baby Bjorn while she cried that wee newborn cry, and as people passed they'd smile.  As one woman walked by she said, "Aww, enjoy it now. It doesn't get any better than this!" (which I think was supposed to convey how special having a newborn is, but instead it frightened us).  "It doesn't?" asked Bell. This did not bode well for us.

Turns out, however, it does get better.  All the time.

i ain't sayin' he's a golddigger

Kai and I were planning to go to Disneyland with his best friend, Ryan ("Wyan"), and Wyan's mom today.  When we went to California Adventure recently and Jade thought I was going to check her into the psyche ward, I had purchased "Twofer" tickets (2 Disney parks for the price of one) because my campus sold them for even less than a Disneyland pass.  I didn't want to waste the Disneyland pass on Jade--who would be content to walk around--so I invited Wyan and his mom.  I think Jade was actually relieved.

The boys have been looking forward to this for over a month, and I was excited to finally get to go on rides I haven't been on for many, many years.  However, Wyan suddenly had to get a T&A on Monday, so he is currently recovering and cannot make it.  Last night Kai and I were discussing whether we should invite another friend or put off the adventure until Wyan feels better (although I only have a little window in which to act since the ticket expires soon).  We talked about whom he might like to invite and he nixed most of his girl-friends because they'd want to do all the Pwincess things, except for Maya, a fellow half-Filipina/half-white girl who is a complete tomboy.  Then he said, "If Maya can't go, then how 'bout you'n me still go tomowow?"

"Oh! Okay.  Do you think you could have fun with just your mom?"

"Syuh!!  As long as you wemember your wallet."

to top it off . . . or not (that is the question)

When I left you last Sunday evening, I was very cross about my inability to acquire G12 in an efficient and timely manner.  I went to sleep thinking about how to make the many things I had to do on Monday run smoothly, and this would include the acquisition of G12 from an inconvenient location. 

Then came the dawn of a new day.  On Monday morning, it occurred to me how extraordinarily heinous traffic would be during the time I planned to drive to the VW dealership to acquire the goods.  I remembered this heinousness from a few months prior, when I had to go to the dealership a after I had dropped Jade off at school: traffic was at a complete standstill on the freeway.  I ended up taking a bunch of backstreets and it took me twice as long to my destination as the freeway would have.  And, according to Bell (who used to travel in that direction by freeway but switched to the train and is so much happier), this traffic was business as usual.

I decided to cut my workout short so that I could get to the dealership by 7:00 a.m., when they open.  This alone was a great sacrifice because I do not like to cut my workout short. I get cranky when I have to cut my workout short.  Remember the time I saw that dude wankin' off during my run on the beach and I happened to say something to the lifeguard, and he radioed another lifeguard who asked me to stop running and go back to file a report?  That made me cranky.

However. After performing some highly technical calculations involving the cost of getting stuck in rush hour traffic vs. the benefit of having the G12 in hand early enough to make it home in time to shower and get the kids to school so that I would not have to reschedule my meetings on campus, my cost/benefit calculator came up in favor of skipping the triceps.  I'm not entirely irrational, it turns out.  And I decided not to be cranky because I was about to make my day much simpler than it first appeared it would be.

I pulled up to the dealership at 6:58, but the driveways were blocked off by those gy-hugic car-hauling trucks.  The lights at the dealership were off.  I hung out for a spell, but time kept ticking away beyond 7:00.  It was beginning to look like I had not saved myself any time, and that made me remember how I could have worked my triceps and made it here and the dealership still wouldn't be open.  Cursing under my breath, I finally parked down the block and walked up to the "Service" Center. Right thar on the window it claimed that its Hours of "Operation" were "7:00 a.m.-7:00 p.m."  But they lied!  Because by now it was 7:13 and nary a Service person was in sight.  The building was endarkened.  At 7:16 a young lady casually strolled up with her coffee in hand.

"Hey, are you guys open?" I asked.

"Isn't anyone there?" she asked.

Pointing to the endarkened Service Center I said, "I'm thinking . . . no.  Is someone supposed to be there?"

"Yeah. I'm a little late but there should be someone else in there."  Clearly she was traditionally "a little late" for work and she just assumed everyone else was more responsible than her.  "I'll go around and turn on all the lights and let you in," she kindly offered.

After five minutes of her light-turning on, she unlocked the door for me. Seated at the "service" desk was a squinty-eyed guy named Ken who looked like he had been there for hours clacking away on his keyboard. When I told him I just needed to buy some coolant he said, "I can't sell that to you.  You have to go over to the Parts Department," then he looked across the way and said, "but it doesn't look like they're open yet.  They're supposed to open at 7."  Yes.  Aren't we all.

I walked over to Parts when the lights came on.  Nobody was at the front desk.  I had to call out "Helloooooo!" a few times before someone finally moseyed up to the counter.  I asked for G12 (by name!) and voila! At long last, there it was.

"That'll be $25.18," he said.

"Are you frickin' kidding me?" I asked rhetorically, complete with loud exhalations and a vigorous head nod.  You know, because it was totally that guy's fault. He looked confused.

"No."

Liquid gold.  This is one of the planet's most precious nectars, second only to the breastmilk** I've spent countless hours pumping.

While he processed the transaction I read the back of the bottle, which instructed me to drain the old coolant, flush out the engine, and replace it with the new bottle.  And all along I thought I just needed to top off my overflow tank. So I asked the guy, "Do I have to drain the old coolant and flush the tank?  Because my manual says this coolant need not ever be fully replaced, only topped off."

"How many miles you got on your car?"

"Over 100K."

"Oh yeah, you need to drain and replace.  At 100 thousand, you should replace it. You have to replace it if there is anything in it, if it's been contaminated."

"How do I know if there is 'anything in it'?"

"Well, you have to have it analyzed."

"Analyzed? Who's going to analyze it?"

"You have to bring it to a shop that does that." By now, or maybe it was a little sooner than now, I was becoming slightly apoplectic.  At the same time, this was getting laughably ridiculous.  So you see, I struggled with my emotions.

"But the manual says it never has to be replaced."

"Yeah, it says that, but I'm just tellin' you---"

I growled a low growl, like Patty and/or Selma of The Simpsons.  So then the guy trys to get all sweet and suave-ay on me.  He tilts his fat head and says, "Heyyyyy, wha's goin' on?" Like, tell Papa your troubles, baby; it'll be all right.

"What's going ON?? I looked around everywhere for this stuff over the weekend but it turns out I can only get it here--SURPRISE!--and it's way more expensive than other coolants at the auto supply stores. [He nods sympathetically.]  I skipped part of my workout just to avoid traffic and get here early to buy this stuff when you opened, but you weren't even open so I had to wait around for you! [Here he looks guilty, and slightly afraid I'm going to tell his boss.] And now you're telling me I have to go home and DRAIN THE OLD COOLANT AND FLUSH THE SYSTEM  WITH DISTILLED WATER--or I could have the old stuff analyzed by experts first--when really, what I need to do is go home and get ready for work and get my kids to school and then drive to San Diego! THAT'S WHAT'S GOIN' ON!" I turned away from the counter, and at that point I think he realized his smooth-talking ways were fruitless.

Upon my exit, however, I had to add, "I know it's not your fault, though," because, well, it wasn't.  Still, when I got outside and saw the sign that said "PARTS" I thought, "Hey, Volkswagen--KISS MY PARTS!"

As I drove home I realized there might well be a leak in my engine or the coolant overflow tank, which would explain why it was suddenly dangerously low.  I decided to take my car to the mechanic to check this before I went through the trouble of pouring the liquid gold into my tank, only to later find out I have a leak, the fixing of which would require him to drain My Precious from the tank.  So I called Trusty Dan, whom I adore because he always bumps me up in the line (I think it's because I give him cookies and homemade toffee).  I 'splained the situation about needing a leak check, and I told him he didn't need to order the ridiculously priced VW coolant because I had just purchased some from the dealer. 

"Oh, you didn't need to do that," says Dan. "We always keep that stuff in stock."

__________

**You know how much work it is to pump that stuff out?  And inevitably someone accidentally tips over the bottle before you can get the lid on and you reach to catch it and you're all, "N-n-n-n-n-o-o-oooooooooooo!" but it's too late.  So you're left trying to sop it up off the floor or carpet with a sponge and then wring the sponge over the bottle.  I hate when that happens.

trashed

When I was in the third grade, I had a tremendous crush on a little boy named Darryl Gates.  (No, not the former Chief of the LAPD).  He had dirty blond hair and happy brown eyes.  I distinctly remember him in an orange shirt with brown lowrider Levi's cords (which were the fashion at the time).  Now, if there was one thing about Darryl Gates that was a tad off-putting, it was that he was reaaaaaally puny.  Given that I was probably--at best--between the third and fifth percentiles for height in my age group, you might think I was in no position to complain.  However, Darryl was even punier than me. If you have ever met me in person, you will understand how very remarkably puny he must have been. 

And yet.  The way Darryl's cowlick made his stick-straight dirty blond hair flop over to one side more than compensated for the puny.  Also, he was a pretty good athlete.  Since I was generously inclined to overlook his size, the only real obstacle to a meaningful relationship with Darryl Gates was the fact that he never paid one bit of attention to me.  Of course, this could only mean that he was shy, something I found even more appealing.  (But see The Case of Danny Harris, another boy in the same class with a different approach whom I did not find appealing.)

One day in class, Mrs. Terranova asked Darryl to walk down to the P.E. closet to get some balls for a dodgeball game.  This request demonstrated that Mrs. Terranova also thought highly of my Darryl--maybe she was also attracted to the cowlick?--because only the special ones were chosen to complete tasks requiring independence outside the classroom.  (I once got asked to go fetch the piano for music class. I was wheeling it down the hall back to homeroom and really got my momentum up,  so much so that when I tried to 'round the corner I accidentally tipped it over to the tune (if you will) of $300 worth of broken.  Oops. They never asked me to do that again.)

Darryl left the class to go get the balls for P.E. 

After about five minutes, Mrs. Terranova began to wonder where Darryl was, as did I. The P.E. closet was only down the hall, after all.  So the class lined up in formation and Mrs. Terranova marched us down the hall, hoping to pick up Darryl along the way.  As we approached the corner we could hear the faintest little "Help.  Help." coming from the closet, as if from the mouth of a Who down in Whoville.

Since I was at the front of the line, when Mrs. Terranova opened the door I could see Darryl's feet sticking out of the giant trash can-sized box that held the red balls.  Apparently he had leaned in to grab a few and got stuck between the balls somehow in an upside down position.  Had I not known any better, I would have thought he was foraging for trash. 

Many, many years later--the other day in fact--Bell was out in the backyard pulling weeds and cutting roses and doing whatever you people who garden do.  It was a bazillion degrees out in that hot sun but he was working like the farm boy he was destined to be.  He had big green-waste receptacle was in front of him, tilted toward him for easy access.  I came out to the backyard to say "hi" as he was leaning forward to put clippings in the receptacle.  He lost his balance and fell completely inside, head first.  One minute he was about to kiss me "hello," the next he's showing me the soles of his shoes.  Then Kai, who witnessed the debacle from the sunroom, yelled out, "Whaddya doin' out there Dad, dumpster diving? Ha ha!" It was a beautiful moment.

So for the last few days, everytime I get the image of my tall handsome sweaty husband falling into the trashcan, or indeed, every time I see anyone bend over in a vulnerable position it makes me think of my tall handsome sweaty husband falling into the trashcan, and this makes me smile really big.  That is one reason why I am still head over heels in love with him. 

temperature rising

This morning as I drove to the gym, an indicator light on my instrument panel went off (well, other than the engine light that's been on for two weeks now because my mechanic told me it was probably just randomly misfiring, so I've learned to ignore it).  Then I got the red "STOP IMMEDIATELY. Check coolant" warning.  I turned around and went back up the hill, hoping my car wouldn't just break then and there because it's about 700 degrees outside today and I didn't feel like walking the rest of the way home.  Once safely home, I checked my car manual (after I found the right one, that is. For some reason my car came with a thick pile of various manuals offering different bits of fascinating information about my car.)  I popped the hood and looked at the coolant overflow tank.  Much to my surprise, it was filled waaaaaaaaay below the minimum required for the efficient operation of my engine.  And yet, this was the first warning I'd had.  (Or was it?  Maybe my mechanic's idea of an engine warning light "misfire" is actually an actual warning.  Remind me to take that up with him tomorrow.)

Anywho, point is the coolant is very low.  So of course I decide to go buy more to refill the tank, an easy enough task, yes?

No.

The first auto parts store did not have the type indicated in my trusty manual.  "Good luck finding that," the chubby greasy man told me as I walked out the door.  I decided to call another auto parts store before I drove there. 

Me: I need coolant for my VW.  Do you have G12?
Kragen Auto Supply: Coolant?
Me: Yes, you know--so the engine doesn't overheat?
Kragen: Ohhhh, you mean anti-freeze?
Me: Yes, but around here we need it to cool, not not freeze.
Kragen: We have that.
Me: Do you have G12?
Kragen: Er, what color is it?
Me: Orangey-red.
Kragen: Oooh! We have that!
Me: But is it G12?  My manual says not to mix what's in there with anything else.
Kragen: Hold on.  [Puts down phone. I hear footsteps back and forth.]  Hello? Yea, it doesn't say anything about G12 but it says it can be used on VWs. 
Me: [Imagining my car exploding on my way to work] Nah.  I'll try elsewhere.
Kragen: But we have the orangey-red one.  We have it.
Me: Thanks. [click]

I call the VW dealership but since their Service & Parts department is closed, they won't sell me any super-special coolant.  I will have to wait until Monday morning.  When Bell hears this he  picks up the phone to take issue with the dealer, a move which rather surprised me for its impulsiveness, touch of righteousness, and sheer futility. It's the kind of thing I would have done if VW had put out a recall on a car part, the replacement of which would have required me to leave the car with them all day, then told me I would have to pay for a car rental myself.  Hey wait--they did do that to me, and my righteous indignation was completely lost on them. The VW sales dealer was kind enough to suggest auto supply stores if I really needed coolant today.  Everyone's a  comedian.

Next we hit the Auto Zone on the off-chance that we had just been checking the wrong auto supply stores. This may come as a surprise to you, but they don't carry G12. Ah, but there is always EZ Lube.  The very name suggests EZness, and at this point I just wanted things to be EZ.  I needed EZ.  I called them before going there, just to be sure.  When I said I needed G12 for my VW, a woman said she'd go take a look.  It was a very long look, and perhaps she left the store to continue her search because I was on hold for a spell when a guy finally picked up the line.  I told him I was waiting for someone to find coolant for my VW, specifically G12.  Did they have that?

"We have coolant for VWs," he said.  But of course, he did not answer the question. If I learned anything taking depositions, it was how to listen when an adversary's witness answers a question.

"Is it G12?" 

" . . .Welllllll, it's for VWs. We use it on VWs all the time.  . ."

Not so EZ after all.

So now I have to wait until tomorrow morning to drop both kids off at school (with the one car that has sufficient coolant), then drive north to buy the g-damn G12, then head south for an hour and fifteen minute commute to work (assuming no traffic), for which I'll be late, which means I have to reschedule some appointments.

Sigh.

At this point I could use a little coolant bath myself.

taking it to the next level

I spent last weekend in San Francisco for my high school reunion (thoughts about which I shall try to post later).   On our way to Zeum (which, btw, so. cool.) we stopped by the Sony store at the doomed Metreon--an "entertainment mall" originally owned by Sony.  As you might imagine, the Sony store prominently features its products at little demo stations all over the store.  Kai and Jade were all over it like a hot rash.  The first demo station we visited involved some dude and his horse in a medieval setting.  Presumably gamers were supposed to get the armed warrior onto his horse so he could ride across the hills to meet his enemy.  Oh, how my two gaming amateurs tried to figure out how to mount the horse while the animal just looked around and occasionally tapped a hoof on the ground.  Jade finally gave up and ran off to another game, and that's when Kai took control.  Instead of trying to get the guy to mount, however, he made the warrior slash and stab at his horse.  He figured out those movements pretty quickly.

"Whoa, buddy. It looks like you're hurting your horse.  You're not supposed to fight the horse; you're supposed to ride it out to fight your enemy. I mean, if you can ever get on it."

"No, I'm twying to stab it.  It's funnier."

Er, oh-kay.  Is this what they mean when they say video games cause violence?

I backed away slowly. No longer interested in watching Kai slay Black Beauty, I looked around for Jade, who was with my best friend from law school. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw this fair maiden, with a lovable toothless grin and a little mustache above that toothless grin.

For those living lives of leisure, San Francisco is a very livable city.  Apparently this is true of people at both ends of the income spectrum.  The homeless in San Francisco have always had it pretty good compared to homeless elsewhere. But now?  Now they have it so damn good. The whole time we were in the Sony store, this happy homeless woman stayed glued to the video demo, all her worldly possessions strewn about her feet.  Did she beg for money? No.  Did she ask for a place to sleep? A warm shower and shave? Negative.  All she really wanted was to make it to the next level.