My car hates me

Almost 10 years ago, on the eve of the birth of Moo, I bought a Pathfinder. Let's call her "PF." PF has faithfully carted my kids home from the hospital, to and from daycare, school, day camps, grandmothers' houses, sleep-away camp, and dance class. In short, PF has become a member of the family. At some point, though, PF decided she hated me and would prefer to be with my Hubs. Example: PF loved to play dead (no power, no clicking, no nothing), but magically start like a dream when Hubs or police called to the scene. In fact, PF was the cause of the one and only instance where I hung up on Hubs during an SOS phone call. Details not important. Suffice it to say that Hubs later apologized. PF has yet to do so.

Flash forward to today. Hubs and Moo are in Wisconsin at family funeral. Gibby and I stay in Texas because I had to drop her off this afternoon at sleep-away camp. Hubs left PF for me to drive because Gibby's camp trunk is very large and very heavy. Good idea, I thought. Gibby and I blithely set off for Marble Falls around 8:30 in the AM. We have a lovely drive with a rousing game of "Slug Bug." I lost handily. I get Gibby dropped off. Cute Baylor Junior helped with with said huge trunk. I was shocked to hear Alexander is now an honors mens' dorm. Weird. Sadly, Gibby was strangely and totally embarassed by her ole Mom and I was out of there in under 30 mins. I skip to PF ready to listen to naughty David Sedaris and Justin Halpern ("Stuff" My Dad Says) MP3s I had downloaded for the long drive home.

PF sensing that I am the only Hennessee present clicks on her "Service Engine Soon" light at around the Temple city limit. I had packed a bag thinking I might treat myself and stay at a hotel in Temple or Waco instead of doing the whole drive in one day, but at that point, I knew the game was on. NO WAY was I stopping now. Until about Waco, I ignored PF's polite light indicating that she was totally peeved at me. Suddenly in Waco, she decided to make some horrible shutting-down, clicking noise while jerking madly like she was on the Devil's cruise control. Now the gloves were off. We hate each other, and this is war. I slow down to 60, which appeases her for a few more miles. But then she begins to hack again. So, I reluctantly turn off the air conditioner. Note to out-of-state friends: it's about 105 here. No air conditioner makes PF super happy. So, everything is hunky dory as long as I don't go over 60 in a 70 MPH zone and I have my windows down. I was quite popular on I-35 today. So many people honked, waved with one finger, and gave me their good wishes as they zoomed by. It really warmed my heart.

Don't be mistaken. I was terrified I would stall out in some backwater where the only garage was owned by Buddy "the polite rapist" Jones. So scared that I couldn't take my hands off the wheel and I could only pray. Have you ever tried to pray while listening to Halpern or Sedaris? It's really hard. It goes something like this: Dear God [Why do you run around like your a##hole's on fire after one candy bar? Stay outside until you either need to s*!t or go to sleep.] Please get me home alive [My elf suit at Macy's was a yellow turtleneck, green tights, and green velveteen pants] Let me see your will in why my car hates me [You say you're sick? I think you've got a case of the bulls*!ts] HAHAHAHAHA. Oops! Sorry God. I really DO want to get home, but this is some funny stuff.

Needless to say, I am totally blaming PF if I get in trouble for this on Judgment Day. Anywho, I made it home and will be spending my vacation day tomorrow at the repair shop. I really hate PF, but I think I may have finally talked the Hubs into a new car. That's right -- PF has won for almost 8 years, but I may have the last laugh.

Final indignity: I get home & cable box is out. So no "Mad Men." Guess I get to listen to more Halpern and Sedaris.

Keeping it Real, Part I

During my latest bout with insomnia last night, I watched a re-run of the always brilliant "Chappelle's Show." He had a skit called: "When Keeping it Real Goes Wrong." It was hilarious, of course, but it got me to thinking. When should I keep it real?

My girlfriends and I talked about this at our latest gab fest (aka monthly Pokeno/Bunko game). How women don't keep it real with their friends. You know, like when you go out to dinner with your gal pal, she orders a dinner salad, takes one bite, and announces, "I'm stuffed." You just know she goes home and dives face first into the Fritos with an ice-cream chaser. Wouldn't we be closer friends if told said gal pal: "Girrrrl, I know you are not full. Now get down on some cheese fries before we snarf up our super burgers." Quick aside: my Pokeno/Bunko friends are some of the real-est people I know -- we all love our second and third helpings and our kids are not perfect.

So, in the name of establishing my realness, I'll start. My kids are not the smartest, most beautiful, most athletic, most well behaved girls on the planet. They mess up. They bug the crap out of me at times. I yell at them when I'm tired and bitterly regret it later. I am not the perfect wife, mother, daughter, employee. I nearly went bonkers when the girls were newborns, and breastfeeding (even though I stuck it out for a long time -- 6-yr-old was 18 mos. old before she weaned herself) was like a Bataan death march. My favorite activity is watching TV on my DVR. I'm too impatient for the commercials. I can curse like a sailor and have heard my kids say those same words with my exact inflection. My house looks pretty clean at all times, but please don't look in my drawers or my closet. It's a mess in there. I adore corn nuts, funyuns, and any other white trash food that is sold at your local Quik Stop. If you peeve me, I'll tell you right then to your face. It's difficult for me to accept a compliment. I love crass, funny movies that generally appeal to post-adolescent boys. I'm moody. I like shortcuts -- in driving and in life. I need too much sleep and get cranky if I don't get enough. I don't wash my bras after each wear. The hubs, however, is pretty awesome. Truly. No lie. No artifice. He's a blessing to us three girls in the house.

So, in general, being real does not scare me. It's where I live. Where my realness and reality collide tends to be when I am confronted with a jerk. It happened recently with a family member actually yelling at the 9-year-old about her behavior. Believe me, any sort of chastisement to 9-yr-old was not warranted in that situation. Do I keep it real and rip family member a new one? Or do I let the hubs take care of family member and get 9-yr-old away from jerk? I yanked 9-yr-old out of the way and let hubs deal with it. Family member came over later to half heartedly apologize to the hubs, but I'm not sure I can forgive. Family member didn't see 9-yr-old's silent tears. Should I now keep it real and tell family member not sure I can forgive? Or should I just seethe quietly as I have done in the past with this and other family members? If this was my Hughey/Holley family, I could easily say "back off" and it wouldn't happen again. But this other family is masterful in the art of passive/aggressive communication.

We get to spend a "glorious" week with this family member next month. Not sure I can stop my realness from erupting all over family member. And, as Dave Chappelle pointed out, if you establish your realness, the other person may show you that he/she can keep it real-er. Not sure I want to deal with that.

Any thoughts would be welcome. I'm at a loss about what to do. Note: not going on "glorious" trip next month is not an option. Doesn't matter why, it just really isn't. Dear reader, this will not be my last journey down the keeping-it-real road. Generally, keeping it real and society at large are not a good combo. I'm sure my realness will come up again.

CRRAAACK!

My cheapness knows no bounds. My neck has been killing me for almost a year. I know it's because my pillow is not the right kind of pillow for side-sleeper me, but who wants to spend $100 on a durn pillow? Anywho. . .it got to the point that I couldn't turn my neck when I was driving. Surprisingly, that's a safety hazard. So I figured I needed to do something. I had gotten massages for it, which were great, but the pain would just return the next day. I took the plunge and called a chiropractor.

He's something else about me: I am skeptical about some types of medical professionals and what they can actually do for you. Maybe it's a result of seeing too many med mal cases. Not to say that there aren't some great doctors out there, but I digress. Chiropractors have always made me think "snake-oil salesmen," but when you're in as much pain as I was, you swallow your pride and step into your nearest stip mall for an "adjustment." I swore, however, that if he tried to give me vitamin "supplements" (although I wouldn't turn down some Vitamin V) or balance my chakras, I was out of there.

He was very nice and told me he could fix me in about 5 sessions. Score one for the doc--I hate it when they tell you that you need a complete 2-year course of treatment or until your insurance runs out. Then he says: Have you ever had an adjustment before? Me: Well, no but I've had massages. Doc: Heh, heh. This is a little different. So I'm on my stomach on some sort of medieval table that has a slit for my face (fully clothed--another point for the doc). He takes my chin in one paw, presses down on my neck with the other, and yanks my neck to the side until I can see the heels of my feet. The sound, my goodness, the sound! It was like CRRAAACK. The bad thing is that I squealed like a little girl at the top of my lungs. You know: Eeeeeeeek! The doc: Wow, we've got a screamer here.

I have NEVER screamed, yelled, or begged for mercy at any type of doctor (including when I had my daughters). I moan, I utter a dignified "ouch," but I NEVER yell. But this was the most shocking and most disgusting thing I have ever heard. Nobody's body should make this sound. I said to the doc: Please don't paralyze me because I need my legs for later. The doc: Heh, heh. Then he proceeded to CRRAAAACK it again. He kept doing it until my spine begged for mercy (me too) and he couldn't get it to crack anymore. I limped out of there, took four Advil, and went to sleep. Yes, on my crap pillow.

The great thing is, though, my neck feels great. I've had another adjustment, and will get another one after vacay. I totally dread it, but I can actually turn my neck without uttering a dignified "ouch." After my second adjustment, I had a horrible day. I mean, a low-down, dirty-rotten day. My main concern was not the instigator of said rotten day, but that it was making my newly acquired, easy-to-swivel neck tense up. Who knew turning your neck without pain was such a luxury?

I am now on the hunt for the perfect side-sleeper pillow. I shall force myself to pay more than $30 for it if it means I won't have to hear CRRAAACK or how girlie my squeal is.

Gibby speaks

I promise not to constantly talk about my kids, but sometimes Gibby really comes up with a corker. Phone rings at around 1:30. It's Gibby's school. Vice-principal says there's been "an incident." [Insert horror movie music here]

Apparently, Gibby, Boy A, and Boy B were on the playground. Boy A pulls Boy B's pants AND underwear down. In sum, an atomic pantsing. Boy B begins to cry. Gibby to Boy A: NOBODY NEEDS TO SEE THAT!!! Gibby begins to comfort Boy B. (I'm hopeful that Boy B has pulled pants up by now, but too afraid to inquire) Gibby to Boy B: Are you OK? Boy B to Gibby: Not really. Gibby immediately runs to get teacher's assistant (one of her acolytes).

Gibby, Boy A, and Boy B are sent to VP's office. Gibby is present as the reporter. She tells it all. VP has trouble getting through Q and A. Boy A sent home. Boy B goes home, too upset to continue. Gibby told to return to class. VP calls Gibby's parent in case Gibby mentions new sights at the playground.

Meanwhile, Gibby goes where she thinks class should be. Class not there. Gibby returns to class room. Class not there either. Gibby stomps to nurse's office (another one of her acolytes) and asks Nurse to figure out where Gibby's class is. Nurse calls and determines class is in the gym. Gibby returns to gym and continues on with her day as if nothing untoward has occurred.

I'm amazed at how independent and kind this kid is. She certainly did not get any of this from me. If I couldn't have found my Kindergarten class, there would have been weeping, wailing, and much gnashing of teeth (by me, of course). Not Gibby. She's going to figure this out, by golly.

Most amazing, though, is that Gibby has been given the gift of mercy. A gift I believe was omitted from under my tree. That night as Gibby told me the whole sordid tale, I told her that when I was 6, I probably would have laughed at poor Boy B because --- yikes! --- you don't expect to see THAT during your Kindergarten day. She looked at me with such sadness. You know the look. It's the one that says, "I have no idea what you're talking about, but it sounds awful." I praised her for her kindness and told her she had done the right thing. I was so proud of her. I know I didn't teach her that, so we thanked God together for this special gift she was given.

Then we settled in to watch some horrible kid show before bedtime. I was slightly teary and humbled at the realization that my daughter was more in tune with others' hearts than I could ever hope to be. Just then a Whataburger commercial came on. At the end, there's a big WHATABURGER logo that comes on and hangs there for a few seconds. Gibby say: Hey, does that say Chinese Barf-ay? I nearly choked I was laughing so hard. I told her: Well, first, that is Whataburger. And second, it's Chinese Buffet, not Barf-ay. But third, you're right -- buffets are barfy. I'll never be able to say "buffet" again.

So, my 6 year old daughter has taught me valuable lessons. Most importantly, always take the time to be kind. But, also, just say no to the buffet. I can easily follow the second. Now to work on the first.

Beginning

I have so many cool friends that have a blog, I figured I needed to dip my toe into these waters. Plus, April and May have been challenging months for me personally -- too much change. Because most of my life seems to be on a collision course with "different from before," I decided to do something I thought I would never want to do. Write a blog. I have resisted it because I consider it (for me) to be an indulgent form of navel gazing. Why would anyone find my life interesting enough to want to put their life on pause to read about my petty musings? But then I considered the fact that maybe putting my life out there -- warts and all -- would open up new avenues for me.

In case you can't tell, "new," "different," and "change" are not my favorite words. I wish I could fling my arms wide to everything life has to offer, but I usually face life with crossed arms and a suspicious look. So, here's some background on me that you may want to know to understand my blog. I am a 40 something wife, mother, and lawyer. I am a constant sinner who can continue on solely through the grace of Jesus, i.e., I'm a Christian. I have two daughters who I will refer to as Moo and Gibby, and a husband I will call the Hubs. I was put up for adoption at birth by a wonderful, nameless, faceless woman and placed with a great family. I work for a federal court, so I won't be talking about specific cases or politics. Mostly, I'll just ramble about what I think is important or interesting. In other words, because I say so . . . .