life is crazy

Cookies are Evil

~ kimberly ~ Leave a comment

I need to start packing my lunch. This is highly amusing since I’ll be packing it to go to… the living room. I thought working from home would mean that I could lose weight. After all, I’d be able to work out every day. And I have.

But there are cookies.

Yeah, there were cookies and ice cream and Mexican food and omelets and lattes and bagels… OMG. There was a ton of good food at the day job. But I could ignore a lot of it. Well, some of it. And I could ignore the vending machines.

Here, the cookies sit on the counter. Under the microwave. And they call to me. They’re really good. And evil. I can mostly ignore the Wallyworld fake Oreo’s. Well, I can stop at one. But then there are the chocolate chip cookies that I made. With butter. They’re really good with a glass of chardonnay. Just saying.

It seems I don’t work out enough to cover a lunch of chocolate chip cookies. Which is a bummer. But I’m not planning on working out a lot more than I am now. Heck, I went from twice a week to daily. That should say something. And it should be affecting the number on the scale. Or is that effect. Agh. Verb, noun, you know what I mean.

But the numbers aren’t moving. They were. And then the cookies called.

So I’m seriously thinking of packing my lunch. If it isn’t in the bag, I can’t eat it. Is it crazy for me to move a dorm fridge into my living room?

On the up side, I feel stronger, feel like I look better, have less stress and ¾ of a book plotted. Now, if the dog would stop walking by happily – very happily – and rearranging scenes until I can get the final plot figured out, it would be good.

And worthy of a cookie. Or two.

facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

Nothing But Good Times Ahead

~ kimberly ~ Leave a comment

I came home on Thursday, looked at the kids and said, “I lost my job today, but We. Will. Be. Fine.” I believe that. In my head I keep hearing Sophie Dempsey from Jenny Crusie’s Welcome to Temptation saying, “Nothing but good times ahead.”

Of course, I channel Sophie a lot. She’s sort of my idol because in the face of all sorts of adversity, she keeps the family going and makes sure everything is all right.

Now, if you and a million of your friends buy The Heiress and Her Fake Fiancé , then everything would be okay, and I could continue to write and spend time with my kids. Those two things were sorely lacking while I was working the day job with the hour-long commute each direction.

People keep telling me, “You’ll bounce back.” “You’ll get something better than what you had.” “When one door closes, another opens,” and all sorts of other great sayings that we all tell someone when their life has just gone to hell and they’re wondering how on earth they’re going to make ends meet.

The thing is, I’m not stressed about this. I should be. I really should be. It’s not like I had a cushion. But at the end of the day, that job was making me miserable. The only issue now is, I don’t know what to do. I mean, obviously, assuming book sales don’t go through the roof, I need to find another day job.

But I don’t know what that job should look like. The problem tends to be that if you ask me what I want to be when I grow up, I’ll tell you a novelist. But until that makes enough to be the day job, I need something else. I have a lot of experience in a lot of varied areas due layoffs over the years. That gives me a lot of possible roads to go down, but I don’t really care which one I take because the day job is not my passion. I know. “Do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life.”

Well, I work every day. I’m okay with that as long as I have time to follow my passion. And whatever I do, I give it my all. It doesn’t matter whether or not I’m passionate about it. If my job is to make sure the stamp on your letter is perfectly straight, it will be. So I will look for a job that I simply don’t hate. If it involves writing, that’s good. That’s fun.

In the meantime, I guess I can’t complain about no more time to plot the next book, can I?

facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

What Happens on the Van…

~ kimberly ~ Leave a comment

So, I spend two hours a day commuting to and from the day job. When I started taking the vanpool I thought those would be two hours a day that I could write. I mean, I’d heard about our vanpools.

People don’t talk on them. Ear buds in, low enough that nobody else can hear them. Laptops open. No talking. Written rules. Did I mention no talking? So it seemed like the perfect place to write a book every day. Two hours a day with no internet, no kids, no dogs. Perfect.

I didn’t take one thing into account. I didn’t get one of the lame vanpools. I got the party bus. We have rules. We even thought about writing them down. But in order to come up with the rules, we would have had to keep minutes. And that breaks rule number two: what happens on the van, stays on the van. That’s right, we’re mobile Vegas.

What’s rule number one?

No pictures on the van. That one popped up because in the early days we were kind of quiet in the morning and some people would fall asleep. And some of us might be just slightly evil enough to think that pictures of people drooling in their sleep would be good blackmail material.

But there are a couple of us who are morning people, and a couple of us who just enjoy having adult conversation, and the group grew, and now I give a speech to the new folks who join the van. It’s pretty short.

“If you were looking for the quiet van where you could work, this isn’t it. Rule number three is no talking about work. We try to keep to it, but some days are better than others. Conversation runs from Disney-rated to not-even-close. If you want to not hear anything sit up front; if you want Disney sit next to her. Do not sit next to us. We apologize in advance.”

What?

We tried reining it in once or twice. It didn’t work. The reality is, if you want peace and quiet, you quickly find another van. One that doesn’t have parties. Or cake.

So, I know, you’re wondering. If what happens on the van is supposed to stay on the van, why can I write about it? Seriously? I’m a writer. There was an unspoken exemption. Okay, it wasn’t so much unspoken thing as them looking at me and saying, “no writing about us” and me laughing out load and saying, “right, how about no names?”

So I pretend that I’m going to work on the van. I bring my laptop. I even open it. And then I hear about everyone’s lives and get material for my books. But no names. I promise.

facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

Coon Hunting Trials

~ kimberly ~ Leave a comment

Last night, the dogs started going crazy. Snarky Daughter checked and saw two people with flashlights in the backyard. Here is the rest of the story:

SD: Mom, there are people in the back yard with flashlights.

Me: Of course there are, because I wanted to go to bed at 9. <Glance at time on computer. 15 minutes to go> Release the hounds.

SD: OK.

I put the computer down, sigh heavily, think dark thoughts about redneck sports, get up and head to dining room window.

Me: Sure enough. LED flashlights too. Wonder if they bought those at Lowe’s. grumble, grumble… <Walk outside on back porch> You need to get the hell off my land!

Dumbass Trespassers: <ignore pissed off woman and keep looking at tree next to shed 50 feet from house>

Me: grumble…<go inside, dial 911>

911: What is the address of the emergency?

Me: I give the address

911: What’s the emergency?

Me: I’m a woman alone at home with two kids. We’ve got two people in our backyard with flashlights. I’ve yelled at them and they didn’t respond.

911: They didn’t respond?

Me: No. They are also undeterred by the German Sheppard and Doberman I sent out to greet them.

911: We have a unit on route. Do you feel safe or do you need to stay on the phone?

Me: <At this point I’m thinking, really does staying on the phone keep me alive?> I’ve got a shotgun. I think I can escalate this if needed.

911: Ma’am, you do what you need to to protect yourself and family.

Me: Yes, sir. Thinking: Sweet, I’ve had a heck of a day and 911 just gave me permission to shoot someone.

<walk to bedroom closet>

SD: Mom, you keep the shotgun in the closet???

Me: Yep. Better question. Where are the shells? <find shells, pull one out>

DA Trespassers eventually leave, about 2 minutes before Deputy pulls up.

Me: They headed toward that road <pointing>. They have LED flashlights. You can’t miss them.

Deputy: They have dogs?

Me: Yep.

<he drives off and comes back a few minutes later>

Deputy Dog (he was K-9, Sheppard was in the car): Well I found them. There’s a reason they didn’t respond. They’re about 80 years old. I wanted to ask if they were legal to drive. Coon Hunting Trials are going on through Sunday, so you’re probably going to have several people end up out here.

Me: Excellent. Because what I want is a string of strangers with guns in my yard.

Deputy: They don’t have guns. It’s not Coon Season.

Me: Thinking Seriously, we have a season for coon? If you’re going to tree a “big ol’” coon in my yard, kill it. Save my dogs some time and me a vet bill.

Deputy: Now, if you see some guys in paramilitary gear carrying machine guns in your woods, call me.

Me: You think?

Deputy: You know when the military helicopters come flying low around here? That’s Special Ops training. We get a heads up because their weapons aren’t loaded and they’d like it if we didn’t kill them when they’re creeping through the field behind Food Lion. I’ve only seen ‘em drop out of the helios once. I drove around for hours and never saw ‘em.

Me: That’s cool. <good upbringing kicks in> Really sorry you and your partner had to come out here for coon trials. Would he like a Milkbone? I’ve also got pie if you’d like a slice to go…

So a couple more nights of fun for me. I’m thinking of serving cookies. Or buying more shotgun shells. Not sure which.

facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

To Paralegal or Not to Paralegal

~ kimberly ~ Leave a comment

It appears that I’m at a crossroads of sorts. It may be a good time to dig in at the day job. Or, it may be a good time to go back to school and get certified as a paralegal. Really, it’s a good time for a million of you to blow $.99 on The Heiress and Her Fake Fiancé. Then I wouldn’t have to do either, and I could sit at home all day and write great books for you. Really, $.99 isn’t too much to pay for your future reading happiness, is it?

My father would say that it’s time for me to learn html, css, php and linux. Which would have me gauging my eyes out in short order. It’s not that it’s bad stuff. And I can get good at it. But I’ll never enjoy it.

Italian? Yes. French? Okay. Html? Pass. Like I said, I’m happy to learn as much as I need to in order to work on my own website. But it doesn’t bring me joy. It doesn’t even bring me mild contentment. It will always feel like work. And work should never feel like work.

Writing novels? That never feels like work. Even when the book goes in a completely different direction that I have planned. Even when I have to fold laundry or paint a room to think through what happens next. It’s. Never. Work. I love writing.

More than that, I love writing romance novels. I can write anything. But I love bringing people happy endings. Press releases rarely bring happy endings. Magazine articles have a better shot at it, but nothing is as much fun as writing a book.

It’s pure joy.

There’s a school of thought that says that you follow your heart and the money will follow. Hmmm. That involves trust the Fates. I don’t do trust well, let alone trust the Fates. They’re bitches. I mean, is there a Follow Your Heart GPS app that will tell me how long I have to wait for it all to work out?

Mine would have Hugh Jackman’s voice. Well, as long as Hugh’s coming along for the ride, he can sit shotgun. Follow Your Bliss… Turn right in 20 feet. Recalculating.

Trust in fate? Maybe today’s the day I try that.

Maybe.

facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

I’m Being Mature

~ kimberly ~ Leave a comment

Being mature sucks.

I’m being mature and Regan Black, my critique partner, is happy with the book she’s writing. The likelihood of either of these things happening, let alone at the same time, is unheard of.

Regan’s about 4,000 words from the end of the book. For those of you who don’t write, this is when you hate the book. You’re tired of the plot, the characters, everything. You just want it done. The characters have been yammering in your head for months. You’re talking to them more than to your family. Don’t believe me? Snarky Daughter keeps catching me having conversations with my characters.

You’d think being almost done would make you happy. I mean, the voices are about to leave you. But you’re going to miss these people, because even though they’re just characters, you’ve spent a lot of time hanging out with them. And they’re a lot easier to control than family and friends. Well, maybe not Regan’s characters since hers are always running around killing people, or they have people chasing and trying to kill them while they’re falling in love.

So Regan likes her book, which means I have some good reading coming. Once she’s done. This is not one of the things I’m being mature about. I want the book. Now.

I am being mature and business-like about the business of writing. I mean, I want to be in bed right now, but instead I’m doing this blog. Like I said I would. Aside of not always knowing what I’m going to write about, I like doing it.

Yeah, I know, where was I last night? Well, technically I wrote half this blog. But I have seven words for you: 3 hours of Linux training. Chiropractor. Rum. You do that math.

But that’s not what I’m really being mature about. I’m never mature about chronic back pain. You know when a friend is having a problem and they don’t want to talk about it and you say, “I’m here when you want to talk. No pressure,” and what you really mean is WTF? And all you want to do is shake them and check in until they finally tell you what the heck is going on?

Yeah. I’m ignoring that urge. Which is kind of like trying to ignore a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies when you’re on a diet. One of the reasons I’m a good writer is that I’m curious, and I ask everybody questions. I interviewed my mom’s Hospice nurse. While mom was asleep in the bed. I interview my hairdresser, cab drivers, pretty much anyone I cross paths with. So why would my friends be off the hook?

In this case, because in a moment of weakness I promised I’d leave it alone. But leaving it alone is killing me. No lie, I have to re-read the email I sent pretty much daily to remind myself that I am being mature. This is not my business, not my problem. But I hate it when friends have to carry a burden by themselves.

Especially when there is obviously a story there. Waiting to be told. It’s like reading the opening chapters of a murder mystery. The body’s lying there. You turn the page to start the next chapter, and…there’s no next chapter.

I am not a patient woman. I want the next chapter.

Like I said, being mature sucks. Guess I’ll have to take this time while I’m waiting to write another chapter in my book.

facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

Sickness Strikes

~ kimberly ~ Leave a comment

Sick kid home today. Allergy shots this afternoon. Linux training this evening. Working out somewhere in there. Really the best part of today is the sick kid because it means I’m off the hook for making dinner. Who wants to smell spaghetti sauce when they have a stomach bug?

Yes, that’s right. I’m taking one for the team here and offering to not cook for the rest of us so that Snarky Daughter won’t smell anything that would set her stomach off. Am I a good mom, or what? OK, really there are times when I’m the worst mom around. Those times tend to be when people are sick.

It’s not that I don’t want to be that mom. The take-your-temperature-give-you-warm-ginger-ale mom. I do. But really? Come on. Someone has to go to the day job and said someone cannot be getting sick herself, because she does not get paid time off. Not complaining, I knew that when I took the job, and it’s not like I was getting time off when I worked from home.

So when a child texts me at work to inform me they don’t feel well and do they have to go to band, my response is no, go to your room. Don’t come out until you feel better. Do. Not. Share. Your. Germs. I’ll push food under the door.

I was better about it when they were little, but they’re teenagers now (or close enough), so they know that if they need me to stay home, they have to say, please stay home. And they have to be prepared for me to say, OK, I’m going to run to the office and get my computer so I can work from home. Because there’s nothing I can do. I can – and really do – give hugs and check temperatures and offer medicine. Or at least tell them how often they can take it while I’m at work. And I don’t take the vanpool on those days so if there is a problem, I can get home. But Snarky Daughter is three years from moving out, so it’s time for her to figure some of this out on her own. And she has. She turned green at the idea of the pink stuff and begged not to have to take it. Can’t blame her there.

Her bug is great news for Scout Son because it means he can spend some uninterrupted time on their computer. After we disinfect it. After all, I do not believe for one minute that she’s spent the day in bed without the laptop and Harry Potter fanfic. I’m tired, not stupid.

Also, he has announced he will be working on improving his grilled cheese sandwich skills. Good for him! See, this is a learning experience for him. I’m being a good mom!

Update on the Car Saga: I’m sitting at the dealership waiting for the car. It was not a simple fix. We’ll see if they got it right this time. Fingers crossed.

facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

A Day of Rest…or Not

~ kimberly ~ Leave a comment

New rule: no blogging on Sundays.

Turns out Sundays are the days that I get everything done. If Saturdays are the days I play (and clearly they are), then Sundays are the days I grocery shop, clean the house, do 52 loads of laundry, pay bills, contemplate the taxes, ask about homework…

I finally sat down with the intent of blogging at 10:00 last night, which is when I’m supposed to be going to bed. After Boy Scout paperwork, I was fried. That great idea I had while doing planks on the living room floor? Toast. The one I had while making coffee cake? Deserted me.

The thing is, I write these the day I post them. Yes, I should have a whole litany of these things saved up so I can preset them to post automatically. But if I do that, I won’t write every day and part of the deal here is that I’m supposed to be writing every day and dealing with whatever comes out of it.

Because, the one thing I have figured out is that keeping all my emotions bottled up until I have time to deal with them (two years later) is probably not the healthiest way to live. There are good days and bad days and going have mad days (thank you Jimmy Buffett), but apparently giving myself some distance was good because I’m not overwhelmed by emotions. I’m even enjoying the not so fun ones because now I’m feeling something.

Maybe it’s because the kids are older now and I don’t have to worry so much about them. Oh yeah, don’t get me wrong, I have to worry about the big things now, drinking, stupid friends and cars, boys. But I don’t have to worry so much about getting them to school on time, is everybody’s lunch made and the daily stuff that eats up your time.

You’d think not worrying would have given me time for my first Linux lesson with my father yesterday. Sorry, Dad. Let’s try for Tuesday night. This generally makes me ill, (the Linux not my dad), but if I’m going to update this site, I need to know some of the basics. Besides, with this knowledge I can pick up computer geeks. See, it’s a win-win!

facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

I Want a Zoo

~ kimberly ~ 2 Comments

Can someone please explain to me why I cannot get up at 5:15 to work out Monday through Friday, but on Saturday, after reading late into the night (or early into the morning), I wake up at 5:20 and can’t go back to sleep? I fought the good fight until 6:45, at which point I gave up, turned on the light and read until 8:30.

I followed that up with making chocolate chip pancakes for the kids for breakfast and then trimmed my fingernails and cleaned my room. At any point, I could have started, you know, writing.

The thing is, I was really enjoying myself. The dog prints from the rain earlier in the week were banished from my bedroom and my mattress pad was in the washing machine. I danced while I vacuumed and washed the floor.

Then I headed to the kitchen for lunch, but kind of forgot why I was there when I saw the giant bag of chocolate chips sitting on the counter and started making cookies. At 2:00, I gave up all pretense of working on anything resembling a book, and we headed out to buy the least frumpy looking frumpy shoes that my orthotics would fit in (stupid high arches).

They’re kind of cute. Snarky Daughter — living up to her name — didn’t think so. Until I held up the alternative. Then she agreed they were the best we’d found in months of looking. And they’re light blue, which isn’t as cool as 4-inch red stilettos, but they’ll do. From there it was on to Game Stop and Barnes and Noble so Scout Son could blow some of his Christmas money.

Penance for that came in the form of a movie. The child must have been switched at birth, because he doesn’t like movie popcorn. I consider it dinner when you go to a movie after 4:00. So, popcorn, soda and a movie. Yes, true torture. Because no Sith were harmed in the making of this movie. Also, no Deceptacons, Transformers or Starfleet Captains.

If you haven’t seen it yet, you need to go see We Bought A Zoo. This is a great movie about starting over. With the obligatory adorable little girl, a cute, albeit miserable, 14 year-old boy, Matt Damon (I’m happy already), and animals that you’ll fall in love with. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry. And you’ll walk out wanting some wild beast.

The thing is, the movie brought home to me that I must have recently hit a turning point. Because I’m not unhappy anymore. And I should be. Things in my life aren’t perfect right now. I’m still struggling in a lot of ways, and waiting for love to come along, and, you know, living one day at a time. Nothing has really changed from last week or last month or last year.

But today, I was happy. I took a walk after breakfast and pretty much danced down the street. I’m sure the neighbors are wondering what that was about (just a really great soundtrack to walk to). Red Solo Cup came on the radio and I sang along as I drove, laughing because Snarky Daughter thinks it’s the dumbest song ever, and it is, but try getting it out of your head without singing!

I’m sure the patrons of Wal-Mart thought I was nuts as I goofed off with the kids while we were finding the right wire for the iPod to hook into the new car stereo. Maybe that’s it. For the first time in my life, I have a car that doesn’t have a tape deck!

Whatever it is, today was awesome. Even the cleaning. Even as I sit here and realize that it may be midnight before my comforter is dry enough to use. But when we walked out of the theater, all I could think was, I want a zoo.

OK, not an entire zoo. I get grumpy when it’s my day to empty the cat box. I can’t imagine cleaning up after a tiger, although if I had one, maybe UPS would finally put my packages in the garage… Anyway, after careful consideration for about 10 seconds, I announced that I wanted a pair of lemurs.

Hey, if a guy in Great Britain can have a zoo (and since it’s based on a real story, clearly he can), why can’t I have a couple of lemurs? Snarky Daughter immediately pointed out that she still wanted a ferret. Scout Son, the only sane one in the bunch, didn’t want anything– or maybe he just didn’t feel well since he had Bottle Caps candy for dinner.

Ferrets and lemurs and dogs, oh my! And the cat from hell. The other day I wanted a fish for my desk. Really, this is getting out of hand. But I’m laughing again, so maybe just one lemur?

facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

Missed Drinks

~ kimberly ~ Leave a comment

If you’re new to my blog, you don’t know about The Car. If you’re familiar with my life, the Saga continues.

Assuming you’re new, here’s what’s been happening. I was driving a 12 year-old Taurus with 214,000 miles on it. It recently tried to commit suicide. I really can’t blame it. If I was the vanilla pudding of automobiles, I’d want to die too. So one day I started it in the Sam’s Club parking lot and there was a loud explosion and the car sounded like I’d put a screwdriver into the engine.

I faced a mix of happy and sad thoughts as I assumed the car was dead. After all, I was 18 months away from handing this totally paid for automotive joy to Snarky Daughter and getting myself a reasonable mid-life crisis (Mini Cooper, anyone?). I had a Plan. But, it was paid off, and The Plan involved paying down debt first. So, while waiting for an hour and a half for the tow truck, I thanked God for smart phones and cruised the local dealerships online.

And then my ex-husband fixed the car. Which had literally blown a spark plug out of whatever they sit in. Yeah, that’s not scary. But he fixed it, for which I thanked him profusely with meals for the day and a half that he worked on it and a homemade apple pie.

But the mileage was never the same. When I realized it had dropped to 20 mpg highway, I pulled out my high school algebra, did some calculations, called the ex again, and determined I needed a new-to-me car.

And I bought a car that night. No, it’s not as crazy as it sounds. Remember, there is a mid-life crisis in my future. All I need is a car that gets wicked-good mileage for that lovely 92-mile commute to the day job. Because in 18 months, I’m handing over the keys to Snarky Daughter, who will say Thank You, and be thankful that I chose the car that is Ferrari red and a lot more fun to drive than the Taurus. Hard to believe a Sentra can be fun, but I’ve been driving a Taurus for a long time.

And now I have a manual transmission. At least I would have it, if I didn’t keep taking it back to the dealer. Problems started 12 hours after I got the car, and the issues have been small in the scope of issues, but issues nonetheless.

I took it back to the dealer yesterday because my fuel-injected car required me pressing the gas in order to start it, and rumor has it the point of fuel-injection is that you’re not supposed to have to do that. So, while the warranty was still in place, I wanted them to check it out.

According to them, the throttle plate was sticking, so they de-gunked it (their technical term, not mine), and we were off to the races again. Or not. On the way home (after the service desk was closed), I realized all was not well. Not bad, but off. For instance, I still needed to hit the gas to start the car.

But on the way to the day job the car was idling high, reving and dropping. Odd. So, I ping the ex (there are benefits to working at the same place), and invite him for a test drive around the company compound over lunch. He came back with this to say:

You need to call them. Now. They didn’t fix anything and now the check engine light is on.

At this point I think, OK, I’m done. It’s cute, and it has a stick shift, which has been really fun, and it’s Ferarri red but Japanese so it should run, but I can’t keep taking time from work to take care of this. And the dealership doesn’t offer loaners for same day fixes, so I am taking time off to deal with it.

More importantly, I am now missing drinks with a friend after work. I have been looking forward to that beer since, no lie, Tuesday.

But I am a mature, responsible, pissed off adult so I place the call and talk to Management, and they promise me a loaner. I show up early and throw the fit of all fits with the service person I have been working with. Who is really nice, and this is not her fault. I know that, but I have hit my limit.

I talk to Management some more and say, “Look. I don’t want to see it again until you’d let your wife or your 16 year-old daughter drive it. In the middle of nowhere. Without a cell phone. If you can’t do that, tear up the sales slip and let’s walk out there and I’ll find something new. Seriously, I’m not that hard to please. I’ve been driving a Taurus* since the last century.”

Now Management tells me all the things I already know. They probably did something to a sensor yesterday. This should not be a big deal. Which I already know since I brought it in and asked them to look at the spark plugs, which they didn’t do. And he promises me that if they have bought something they shouldn’t have and sold it to me, we will find something else. I am mildly appeased, but dreading the piece of shit Chevy Cobalt (think Fisher Price car) that they’re going to give me as a loaner because that’s what they gave me for visit number one.

Make note: apparently if you hold two additional car purchases in the next four years over their heads, tell them your four car history with them is at an end now, and then point out they’ve had your new-to-you vehicle almost as much as you have over the past two weeks, they throw you a bone on visit number 3.

A Nissan Altima with leather interior, one of those funky automatic-but-you-can-shift-like-a-manual transmissions, and heated seats (right where my back hurts most). It’s like piloting the space shuttle, assuming the shuttle doesn’t need a key.

I looked at the nice service chick and said, “Um, I love the car I bought if you can make it run. This is not helping me love it though. Heated seats, really?”

And they’d already turned them on. Which almost makes up for missing out on drinks after work. Almost. I’m pretty sure I was going to get some great writing inspiration out of that!

Tune in next week when we’ll solve the mystery of What Did They Loosen/Break When Fixing It.

*Please note: The Taurus is a really good, responsible, reliable family car. I have had three (if you include the Sable, which is the same body style, etc) over the past 14 years. It holds me, two kids and two large dogs, as well as our luggage and two dog kennels. But nobody should have to drive one for 14 years.

facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail