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Tuesday, August 31, 2004
The Buns of August
The Summer Olympic games may be over, but judging from menfolk I hang out with online and in person, it appears the term "beach volleyball body" will be with us for some time.
Why, yes, this term does apply to me, but only if I am being compared to the actual ball.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
10:26 PM
What's right with this picture?
Not long ago I brunched with a friend at Clyde's, a casual-dress family place but with cloth tablecloths and several different dining rooms. There were several families there, mostly dressed up for church whence they had just come. My attention to my companion and our meal was momentarily diverted by two preschool-aged girls, apparently sisters, who pranced by our booth wearing identical pink dressy dresses. Their brown complexions, jet-black hair, and big, round brown eyes reminded me of two other similarly complected young girls of my acquaintance, both adopted from India by two different friends. I also thought of the Chinese girl adopted by a redheaded former colleague of mine and her olive-skinned Italian husband. These families may be mismatched physically but the difference of course makes no difference to them.
With that association in my mind -- and with my senses admittedly addled by delicious eggs Benedict served over crab cakes instead of Canadian bacon -- it is little wonder that when the parents of the young ladies passed by the booth a few seconds later I was initially baffled by their own brown complexions, jet-black hair and big brown eyes, not to mention mom's sari. I forgot, you see, that parents and children come in matching sets, too.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
9:27 PM
They named that angle after you
Yes, that "One Way / Do Not Enter" sign can be baffling, can't it? So many words to read. And while that international symbol for "Do Not Enter" may fly with the Eurotrash crowd, this is America and you don't have to obey it if you don't want to, dadgummit.
But dude, don't you see that all the parking spots in that row are angled in a way that means you'd have to turn awkwardly at an obtuse angle to get your car in there? Which you did, making it a three-point turn in the process and holding up a line of oncoming cars driven by people who can read and understand an arrow.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
8:34 PM
How now, brown cow juice
Most recent indulgence: chocolate milk. Usually as my beverage with lunch. I've been craving it, which probably means I need the calcium.
I wonder if that explains that other recent craving I've been indulging: Chee-tos.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
10:37 PM
The end
Either they finally came and towed my former faithful steed away or else Capitol Towing has the power to transform a burgundy Geo Metro into a white Acura.
Of course, I have no receipt for the transaction in my hot little hand yet, so perhaps this should be: The end?
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
11:41 PM
I can't miss you if you don't go away
The saga continues. Yesterday's scheduled pickup of my beloved ex-car by the auction company didn't happen. Oh, they made the trip out from Maryland all right, they just apparently didn't get my voicemail left Sunday evening 'splaining that my original title was sitting in the photocopier/printer thingy on my desk at work and therefore not in the glove box along with the keys like they had specified and so if that was a show-stopper they had better reschedule.
I had tried to retrieve the title Sunday evening as soon as I realized where I had left it, only to learn that my elevator pass may work after hours but my proximity card does not. This is the first time since moving to that office in April that I had occasion to attempt entry on a weekend. Back home again from my errant errand, I left the photocopy of the signed-over title that I had managed to remember to take with me on Friday along with an explanatory note, just in case my voice mail message hadn't reached the right ears. Which it hadn't, because not only did I get home to find my poor little car still there, naked without its tags and with "NEED TITLE" scrawled on the windshield, but when I phoned the towing place as soon as I could after my half-day class yesterday to follow up, I was scornfully informed that my title was supposed to have been in the glove box. Heavy sigh. The new pickup date is tomorrow.
All this is trying enough but it is merely a chapter in an ongoing saga. When I paid off the loan a few years ago the finance people sent me a nice letter and the original title. I stored it in such a way that I could get my hands on it at any moment, as I knew I'd be needing/wanting a new car in the next little while. There it stayed for 18 months. Last month, when Need and Want finally convinced me that Now was the time, I went right to the place where the title was and transferred it to -- I don't have any idea. I have turned the house and both the new and old cars upside down looking for it. Two trips to DMV, a web search of the old finance company to find out what its new name is and a phone call to same, then 4-6 business days later, I finally secured a replacement title. Only to leave it in the copier at work over the weekend. D'oh.
There was almost another chapter yesterday as I went to put the original title in the old car. God or the wind or my own relcutance to bid farewell at last to the old car knocked the piece of paper from my hand, blowing it under my new car. Already imagining another round of getting a duplicate letter to secure a duplicate title, I held my breath and peeked under the chassis. The title was plastered up against the driver-side rear tire. Within reach and without risk of blowing away if I moved the car forward.
I won't put "the end" to the story until after I verify on my return home from work tomorrow that the spot on the street the old Metro has occupied since being stripped of its parking sticker and nodding dog (Bob) on the day I brought the new car home over a month ago is indeed empty.
Or, more likely around here, occupied by someone else's saga of a vehicle.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
11:11 PM
My first attempt at political humor
Political humor is not my forté. Politics generally, for that matter. Yet for no good reason, a joke I made up as a wee lass (age 7) during the 1968 Presidential election comes to mind today: "You Gene. Me McCarthy."
Hey, I said it wasn't my forté.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
11:42 PM
Jain, stop this crazy twinge!
During my time of silence here I became the proud new owner of a proud new car, a Mazda 3. (Major shout-out to friend J.J. for his considerable assistance in the research/buying process.) My Geo Metro was still running reasonably well but it was time to replace it. Because I am donating it to a charity rather than trading it in ("We'll give you $2.50 for it") and because locating the title and other details have dragged out for much longer than I had anticipated, it has sat on the street for over a month now, abandoned and forlorn. I feel a twinge of guilt every time I drive past it in my shiny new sporty car. When I finally got the title stuff sorted out late last week I filled out an online donation form. And promptly burst into tears.
Yes, I know it's a piece of metal. I don't name my cars but that doesn't stop me from becoming emotionally attached. We've spent a long time together and gone thousands of miles together, that Metro and I. Yes, I'm already "bonding" with my new car. Friend Marty waggishly quotes some unknown wag: "Don't anthropomorphize inanimate objects. They hate that." I have written here previously of silently thanking used Brita filters for their service before regretfully dumping them in the trash; a car is bigger than a Brita filter so imagine my angst over "dumping" it.
I believe in a former life I was a Jain, believing that every drop of rain has a soul. Even as a child I felt sorry for inanimate objects that were abused or neglected. I first learned of Jainism in college, in a class on Indian history and culture, so the term and the philosophy have never been far from my ken. So when looking it up on the web recently, after my post-donation crying jag in fact, I had to laugh through the tears at a bit of random cheekiness in web advertising. The first web site I found that explained that all things live whether animate or not had a huge banner tag across the top promising a prize if you could "Shoot the Watermelon!"
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
9:53 PM
As You Wish
How easy it is to fall out of a good habit, like writing a paragraph or two here on a quasi-daily basis. It's been an eventful six weeks or so, mostly all of it good. The sense of duty to report on same has been strong but the will to do so not so much. Like a temperamental movie actress, introspection sometimes demands a closed set.
My silence here might have continued indefinitely had I not been gently reminded that I have an audience, however small, and that my virtual presence has been missed. Boot, meet seat of pants.
Thanks for the wake-up call. More to come.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
1:25 PM