In the week since my high-speed* MVA, I’ve done some spacey things.
I squeezed conditioner instead of body wash onto my washcloth in the shower.
I flushed the toilet when I meant to turn on the shower.
I tried to fax something upside down. (A blank page arrived at the other end.)
I can’t say for sure that these are the result of being in a car accident. I’ve done the first and the third before. Never the second, though, that was a new one.
* I referred to it as a high-speed collision the other day and Rob said, “You weren’t in a high-speed collision. You were barely moving!” Fair enough.
I was on my way home from work yesterday when I noticed the cars in the left lane on I-5 slowing. Slowing a lot. Like to a stop. One car veered onto the left shoulder. Something was in the road. Something white and square. Can that be right?
The thoughts that went through my mind were, “Good thing I noticed these cars slowing, because I have enough time to stop. Hey, look at that car on the left shoulder. Guess he didn’t think he could stop in time. Maybe I should move to the right lane. Is anyone behind me?” (Looks in rear view) “Yeah, that SUV behind does not seem to be slowing, better move over. Oh, shit, I’m going to get hit.”
Smash.
The Lexis SUV pulled over in front of me on the right shoulder. I pulled out my insurance card and a business card. I wrote my insurance policy number on the back of my business card and grabbed a notepad. I waited for a pause in the whooshing of passing cars that shook my little Honda. When I felt safe, I slipped out of my car and walked around the back to determine that yes, in fact my rear had been smushed.
I walked along the passenger side of my car to the passenger door of the SUV. A white-haired lady was leaning forward clutching her knees. She gestured for me to come around to her side of the car.
“I don’t think it’s safe,” I said.
She offered to let me get in the car, but I couldn’t open the passenger door all the way because of the guard rail.
“Are you OK?” I asked her. I asked HER!
“I just had knee surgery.”
“Do you want me to call someone? Do you need medical attention?” Do YOU need medical attention?!
“I can’t tell how much damage there was to my car.” YOUR car?
I walked around to the front of the SUV and came back.
“Very minor. Just a little scuff. My car has significant damage. Here’s my card with my insurance information. Can I have yours?”
I had to squeeze through the passenger door to reach her purse, which had fallen on the floor. It took her a few minutes to find her insurance card. I took down her info and let her drive away.
I watched semi trucks whiz by and visualized getting run over while trying to get back in my car. I opened the passenger door, contemplating crawling in that way. Nah, easier to wait for a break in traffic. Man those cars are going by fast. Truck. Truck. Sedan. Oh, there was a little break, I could have made it in that time. I’ll wait for the next one. Truck. Truck. Whoosh. Truck. OK. Another break. Go. Go. Phew. Made it.
Back in the car. I called Rob. I called Allstate. While talking to Allstate and feeling the shudder of every passing car, Johnny Law showed up. Oops. Was I supposed to call him? He was a little irritated that I hadn’t, but I hadn’t wanted to wait around for the State Patrol to take a report. I didn’t care if the lady got cited. I got what I needed.
For sure I was rattled. My head started to hurt as soon as the SUV made impact.
I feel lucky that I wasn’t seriously hurt. And that the other driver didn’t seem to be injured. I’m really happy that Mia wasn’t in the car. She likes to sit right up against the tailgate, and even if she hadn’t been, she would have been knocked around worse than me.
I dropped my car off today, got a fun little rental. Reminds me of a hearse. Have to figure out how to transport my doggies around town, since pets aren’t allowed in rentals.
Nothing to do now but wait to hear from the body shop. Maybe watch that new NBC show about Broadway.
The last couple of nights, I have had dreams where I’m screaming and yelling at someone rather irrationally. The night before last, a little girl and her mother barged in on my bathroom stall (in my dream). I won’t get into the graphic details, but I wound up in a screaming argument with them about it.
Last night, I screamed and yelled at a guy who ran a burrito stand (in my dream) because he was making my burrito too slowly. As a result, he refused to make my burrito. It was a “No burrito for you!” situation.
In real life, I’m feeling fairly well-balanced, happy and mellow. Maybe that’s because I’m taking all my repressed anger out on imaginary people while I sleep.
Every year, when snow is in the forecast, I hear murmurings (and read them on The Facebook and The Twitter) of “Oh, no, it’s going to snow. Oh, I hope it doesn’t snow!”
I always think, “Seriously? I loooove the snow. How can you not love snow?” Saying you hate snow is like saying you hate sunshine or rainbows. Maybe you hate driving in it, or you hate having to shovel the driveway, but those are just the effects of the snow, not the fault of those frosty diamonds from heaven. Same as, maybe I hate it when it’s really, really hot out, but I wouldn’t say, “I hate sunshine.”
Today is my fourth day at home with the doggies, with 7-plus inches of snow in places. It’s a brisk 25 degrees outside. While I’m looking forward to it warming up tomorrow, I will miss the glorious sparkling snow when it’s gone. We’ve been taking magical daily walks through the white woods. Moonlight reflecting off the snow-covered backyard makes it bright enough to play out there after dark.
On my walk today, I thought of my childhood in Los Angeles. My family had a cabin in Lake Arrowhead, and relatives in snowy places like Indiana and Michigan, so snow wasn’t a complete novelty. It was a source of entertainment we sought out deliberately. We all have fond memories of the Thanksgiving it snowed in Lake Arrowhead. What I don’t get is, when do children make the transition from “Yay! Snow! No school!” to “I hate snow”? Maybe those people grew up in places where it snowed in the late fall and the ground stayed iced-over until spring. Maybe they had parents who grumbled all the time about snow tires and chains and black ice.
I still take childlike delight in seeing those fluffy flakes fall and am thrilled when it’s cold enough for the snow to cover everything. But then, I’m lucky to be able to hunker down and wait at home until the roads defrost. I don’t have to go anywhere. Rob, on the other hand, has to work. He hasn’t been able to enjoy this snow at all during daylight hours, and I think it’s going to wash away by the weekend.
So, if you do have to drive the icy roads, or walk knee deep through the snow in frigid temperatures, and you hate snow … I am sorry. I hope you can find something to enjoy about the weather. Hot cocoa, perhaps?
Mindy Kaling is one of my comedy heroines. Right up there with Tina Fey, Amy Poehler and Julia Louis-Dreyfus.
I always thought she was funny in her tertiary role on The Office, and was impressed when I noticed that she had a writer, producer and sometimes directing credit. I “liked” Subtle Sexuality on Facebook after watching the video for Male Prima Donna.
Following her on Twitter is what solidified our completely one-sided friendship.
When her book, Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns) came out a few weeks ago, I asked Rob to get it in audio form, because it’s so awesome to hear comedy writers read their own stuff. In the book, she talks about how falling asleep watching Dave Chappelle made her feel like they were friends. Well, that’s what it’s been like the past few weeks; Kelly Kapoor tells us funny stories every night before bed.
The best part is that Rob thinks she’s hilarious too!
His review: Once you factor in her creative talents in authoring & narrating humorous tales, Mindy’s hotness skyrockets through the roof. Gorgeous and brilliantly witty. She is the second smartest & hottest & funniest girl next to Kari.
Awww.
So when I found out she was going to be signing her book in Seattle, even though I’d already listened to most of it, and even though I can’t remember the last time I paid cover price for a book (sorry, authors), and even though the UW Bookstore required you to buy the book there to have it signed, we happily drove down there and paid $25 for the book and the privilege of saying “You’re my favorite Twitter friend.”
Know what else is cool? And I can say this with some authority since I grew up in Los Angeles and have seen my fair share of celebrities close up. Mindy Kaling is considered more of a “real person” than a “model/actress” type (which she notes in the chapter where she describes having to audition for, and be turned down for, the character of “Mindy” in a pilot she wrote!). And yet, compared to all of us schlubby Pacific Northwesterners, she looked famous. Glamorous and put together. And was so gracious.
I had an anxiety dream two nights in a row where I was late to the airport. In one dream, Kris Jenner was supposed to pick me and my dad up and drive us. She was late. I hope by including “Kris Jenner” in this post it will boost traffic to my blog. Khloe Kardashian was there too. We missed our flight, which was a problem because it was a direct flight from New Delhi to Bellingham, and they only had one flight a day.
Last night, I dreamed that Rob and I were at my mom’s old house and we didn’t have enough time to go to a museum before our flight that night. I had prepaid for the museum tickets and we wouldn’t be able to use them. I came up with a brilliant plan that if we missed our flight on purpose, we could rebook for the next day without having to pay a change fee, thus giving us time to go to the museum. But I couldn’t find the airline phone number on its website.
I started writing this post thinking these dreams are so weird because I have nothing in the world to be anxious about. I have nothing but time. I spent the first half of this day honoring veterans by napping on the couch.
But as I typed the sentence about rebooking a flight, I remembered that yesterday, I wanted to change the return flight for an upcoming trip to make it easier to pick up Leo from the kennel.
Ah ha. How could I forget? I practically cried about this yesterday. I am exceedingly anxious about going away and leaving the dogs. Rob’s parents are the best dog sitters ever, but they are going on this trip with us. I am worried I won’t even be able to enjoy myself because I will be so worried about the dogs.
I don’t want to board Mia, because I’m afraid she’ll think she’s being sent to live in yet another home. I told her months ago that she would live in this house the rest of her life, but I don’t really know how much English she understands. So we’re having someone come stay with her. Dealing with Leo is a lot more to ask of someone. We boarded him last Thanksgiving and he did fine. Why am I afraid the very same kennel will ruin him this time around?
Short of changing our return flight, the best solution will be for Mia’s dog-sitter to pick Leo up the night before we get home. But will Leo even get in the car with her? Will she have to drive my car and bring Mia with her?
Unfounded anxiety, right? Oh! Except in the book Lost Dogs about the Michael Vick case, one of the rescued dogs got away and got killed while she was being dog-sat. So yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.
Look, I have a complicated relationship with the cyclists who travel 32nd Street and thereabouts. I know it’s not politically correct to say, but you’re mostly in my way. Mine is a reasonably trafficked street, but it only has two lanes, so when you’re riding your bike between moving cars and parked cars, with your little kiddie trailer swaying behind you, you get on my nerves.
When I am on foot with my four-legged companions, I go out of my way not to cause problems for you and your buddies, the joggers and the strollers, skateboarders and scooter gliders. I know I have big scary dogs and I don’t want anyone to feel intimidated by us on the sidewalk.
I have my own baggage where this is concerned. It is because of you, because of all of you, that I couldn’t walk Isis on her very own street. I wished we lived in a neighborhood with no other people at all, near a woodsy trail all to ourselves. When Isis started consistently barking and lunging at passing bicycles, I tried setting my alarm and timing my walks to avoid all of you fit, environmentally friendly people on your morning commutes. I followed the Dog Whisperer’s advice and kept walking, walking, because walking is the answer to all behavior problems. And if she saw a bike, I would bump her with my leg to distract her from the oncoming threat. Doing this while she was midbark resulted in her powerful jaw coming down and leaving a nasty bruise on my thigh. To be honest, I have no idea how you cyclists felt about this, because I was so distracted by Isis’ tantrum, that I never even saw your faces. I wondered whether Isis was barking at the same person day after day, and why that person didn’t get the message and find another route.
Later I learned methods of desensitizing her to sidewalk stimuli, but walking her remained stressful the rest of her life.
Walking my dogs now is a joy. Leo had his own challenges, like when he used to jump up and chomp on our arms and legs (and Rob’s crotch) in the middle of the walk. Have to say, I was less embarrassed to have my dentist drive by and see Isis raging at a golden retriever in its own yard than I was to stand on the sidewalk with my puppy dangling from my bloody arm. But Leo’s a good walkers now, and last week I started walking him and Mia at the same time by myself.
This morning, a couple of bicycles passed us, including one that made that clicking noise that sometimes startles dogs. The doggies thought nothing of it. At one point, Leo started doing a little dance behind me and I turned around, surprised to see you, sunglassed, helmeted teenager, whizzing from behind, stealthlike. I hadn’t heard you coming, or else I would have protected you from my dog’s terrifying stare. I don’t even think Leo barked, but maybe he jumped his front legs off the ground in your direction.
You looked at me through your mirrored shades and extended your middle finger as you rode by.
Seriously, what did we ever do to you? Do you think it’s easy, walking 170 pounds of German shepherds? I’m very considerate of the people who share the road. Sometimes people stare or move funny and set off my dogs, but do I give them the finger? No. I am a grown woman.
My very mature response was “Thanks. For the finger.” And you were gone. I do wish I could discuss this with you further. Was I being somehow irresponsible or rude to walk my dogs on that sidewalk? My feelings are hurt, here. Really, they are.
I don’t pretend to know anything about poetry. I didn’t even know we were going to a poetry reading Monday night. I thought we were going to a music open mic thing.
Rob’s friend Rion had a couple of pieces he wanted to perform. He asked the MC if profanity was OK.
“I think misogyny is lame,” the MC said. I thought he said “massaging.” Why is massage lame?
“And racism’s no good either.”
Rion was cool with that, so we took our seats. The MC announced that this is a “challenging space. You might hear something you don’t like, and you might say something other people don’t like. But keep it civil. Have a dialogue.”
The first guy to read was pretty good. The following several were pretty “meh,” but I’m very supportive of burgeoning artists for putting themselves out there.
The guy before Rion takes a dramatic pause and says. “2012. FUCK. None of the above.” That was it. His poem.
Rion delivers two fast-paced, hard core pieces. They sound like a cappella rap. Listen for yourself.
I thought he was wonderful, but like I said, I don’t know anything about poetry. I guess it’s not good if you don’t read it slow.
…
Taking dramatic pauses for effect.
Reading from the backs of envelopes where you’ve scrawled your poems, so marvelous that they need no revision, and you can’t be bothered to copy them onto a real sheet of paper, or even …
Type them.
A featured poet gets 20 minutes to read. She’s angry at the world, men and therapists in particular, and the audience laughs like she’s the best observational comedian they’ve ever heard. I’m uncomfortable. Her poetry makes me sad, and kind of offends me. I want to leave but don’t want to be rude, and finally she’s done and it’s the intermission and we get up to leave.
On our way out, past the other artists taking smoke breaks, the MC pulls Rion aside and invites him NOT to return to open mic night.
What. the. fuck.
Rion leaves, but Rob wants to know why, so we ask. The MC has gone inside, but a few few other guys tell us it’s because Poetrynight should be a “safe space.”
Wait. I thought it was supposed to be a “challenging space.” I ask, “What was threatening about it?”
“Oh, I don’t know, talking about ramming some bitch with his dick.”
I don’t recall that being a line in Rion’s poem. I say, “He was just telling a story.”
An older guy with mutton chops said, “I didn’t mind it. It was very raw.”
Bewildered, we consult the video. Two parts that possibly could have offended people were the thing about killing a bitch like OJ and the other taking out his cock to piss on his father’s corpse. omg. He said cock. And jism.
People were threatened by that? Really? Enough to banish him from an open mic night?
I don’t get it. Stupid, pretentious poets.
Unless what they were really mad about is that he went over the three minute limit.
Early in Isis’ behavioral modification efforts, our trainer suggested we meet at the local cemetery. I thought it a strange place to take one’s dog, but was surprised to see a lot of people walking their dogs there. It’s near an official trail, so people naturally consider the graveyard to be a logical extension of an off-leash area, because there’s lots of grass and very little vehicular traffic.
I wasn’t really for it, but nor was I against it and hey, everyone was doing it.
The people that bothered me were the ones riding bicycles and even driving cars through the cemetery with their dogs running loose alongside them. A recent Bellingham Herald article points out that such use is disrespectful and not allowed.
It interfered with my particular use of the area for dog training, because we were deliberately looking for places to work with Isis that had minimal distractions like loose dogs and bicycles.
I confess, I did use the fenced area near the Jewish cemetery as a place to work with Isis on a long lead. Not on top of the gravestones, but on a grassy area next to the graves. Like the article says, it felt like a protected area, and since my trainer had recommended it, I didn’t realize that it was an inappropriate use of the cemetery. I stopped going there once I found out. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.
Interestingly, this issue was brought up in a book I just finished called Oogy (which was otherwise not at all thought-provoking). The author discusses the controversial use of a cemetery as an off-leash dog park and says it’s actually beneficial to the graves, because the presence of dogs discourages gophers. So, uh, you’re welcome, all those graves that we may have stepped on during Isis’ dog training. May you rest in peace.
I had about four hours between appointments 20 miles from the office. Plenty of time to return in between, but where’s the fun in that? I brought along my laptop and planned to eat lunch/kill time at Starbucks.
On the way to Starbucks from appointment #1, my car started making a funny noise. It sounded like I had an old-fashioned cassette tape player on the passenger side floor and it was rewinding itself. I had plenty of electronics in the car: laptop, SLR camera, flip camera, MP3 recorder, iPod, mobile phone. None of those make that noise.
I pulled off into a rest area and the noise stopped as I slowed the car. I popped the hood and looked inside. Looked like an engine to me. I turned on the engine and looked again. There was a spinny part, but it wasn’t making the same noise the car made when it was in motion.
I consulted my owner’s manual. Did you know there’s no diagram of the engine in there? How to turn the volume up on the stereo, that’s in there. But if you want to know the name of that spinny thing on the left-hand side, good luck to ya.
I used my GPS device (oh yeah, forgot to list that one above) to look up the closest Honda dealer. There’s one 20 miles to the north and 20 miles to the south. I looked up “car repair” and found a list of transmission places and body shops. I congratulated myself for knowing that a body shop was not what I wanted. The transmission place wasn’t necessarily correct either, but it was in the right arena. During the 2 mile drive, the sound was awful, but the car felt like it was driving normally.
I passed a Les Schwab (pat on the back for knowing that wasn’t what I needed either) and found a rinky dink car repair place behind a body shop and next to Enterprise rent-a-car. It was closed.
I decided to try my luck at the car dealership across the street from Les Schwab. It’s an American car dealership, but a service departments is a service department, right? I said, “I have the wrong kind of car, but it’s making a funny noise…” After taking a lap around the parking lot, the mechanic agreed. Yes, in fact, it is making a noise.
Now, instead of whiling away my afternoon at Starbucks (which I considered walking to), I’m at a hotel restaurant. I’m told the dealership has a nice waiting room, but lacks an internet connection. The hotel restaurant has wi-fi, a lovely vegetarian sandwich and beer-battered french fries.
I may even still make my afternoon appointment.
Update – 17 minutes later: Gravel got all up in the wheel part or something. Fixed now. Still time to get to Starbucks. Or, you know, take a nap in my car.
