We had our end-of-the-season CSC bowling banquet the other night and, as expected, I didn’t walk away with any big ol’ bowling trophy. I guess bowling 7 games with scores under 100 isn’t quite good enough to garner a trophy.
How do I know I did so dismally? Well, because they provided each bowler with a final stats sheet. Nice of ‘em, huh? Mine was a little discouraging, but I’m guessing I wasn’t the worst bowler either. Fortunately, they don’t write on anyone’s stat sheet “Worst bowler ever!” or “You suck!” or anything like that. Now that would be discouraging!
On the bright side, I did bowl 10 games between 125-150 and 2 games over 150. And we got a steak dinner out of the deal, too. Plus, we had a chance to hang out with friends and even got to meet a few new folks – so it was a pretty good evening all around.
Two of the bowlers at our table won a cash award for being the highest over their average on the last night of bowling. And then they started calling ticket numbers for door prizes. And they called my number! It was a $10 gift card to GetGo so I’m thinking I can’t plan my retirement quite yet… but $10 of free gas is, well, $10 worth of free gas. I’ll take it!
Another bowler at our table won the final door prize, too, so our table was rather lucky.
All in all, I think I’m a pretty lucky person. I’ve had my ticket number drawn quite a bit over the years for various prizes. When I was in my 20s, I used to call radio stations to win prizes – and frequently I was lucky enough to be the correct caller. I’d win tickets to movie premiers, concert tickets, CDs, GCs and other assorted prizes. I even won a free haircut once.
The first time I ever remember winning anything was in 5th grade when I guessed closest to the number of jelly beans in a jar and won an Easter Bunny cake from some sort of fundraising thing at school. (I had to carry that cake all the way home from school that day and I remember thinking I’d probably have preferred winning the jar of jelly beans – it would have been a lot easier to transport anyway. But I remember being excited that I could provide my family with dessert that night!)
I’ve won weird prizes like fire extinguishers and I’ve won cool prizes like $450 designer purses. I can tell you one time I was glad my ticket number wasn’t drawn – the prize was a free tattoo. I don’t have a tattoo and I don’t want a tattoo, but it would’ve been hard to throw away the prize. So I was a little relieved that someone else won that one!
I’ve never been lucky enough to win really big prizes – like a trip anywhere or, say, the lottery. Now that would be lucky and, provided the jackpot was large enough, I probably could start planning my retirement. I did win $20 from a scratch-off ticket once, but it wasn’t enough that I caught the “bug” and started faithfully buying lottery tickets every week.
I’ve been to Las Vegas twice and I can’t say I came home a big winner either time. The last time I was there, I was given a complimentary $10 gambling voucher – so I used it in a Poker machine and got a Royal Flush in my second spin, so I walked away $70 ahead. That was pretty cool.
But otherwise I wasn’t that lucky in Vegas. Like one day, I sat next to a friend who was feeding quarters into the Poker machine and she was steadily winning. I, on the other hand, kept donating my quarters. Very quickly I realized I’d soon be out of quarters and my daily ‘allotment’ of gambling money, so I moved right on over to the nickel machines. I didn’t come out very far ahead, but at least I was able to keep myself entertained for a couple hours.
The luckiest thing that happened on that trip was when a friend and I went to see a Vegas show. Afterwards we grabbed a cab to head back to our hotel…and we found a $100 bill on the seat! Pretty lucky, wouldn’t you say?!
So, while I don’t expect to find a pot of gold at the end of every rainbow, every once in a while I get a fleeting glimpse of that ol’ leprechaun.
Hmmm…maybe I should stop on the way home and buy one of those new Powerball lottery tickets. You never know…
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
The "Check Engine" Incident
I just finished a blog about how my car was past due for its 3,000 mile oil change, and it reminded me of a story when I was in college that I wanted to share.
I didn’t own a car in college. Heck, I didn’t own my own car until I was 23 and realized that it was taking me 45 minutes to get to work – and I only lived about 5 minutes away. I even had to transfer buses downtown! (I didn’t know how close to work I actually lived because of, again, that whole “directionally challenged” thing. But that’s another story…)
Anyway, in the years before I entered the world of car ownership, my parents generously allowed me to borrow one of their cars, usually without requiring me to sign promissory notes. More often it was my dad’s ugly green Dodge/Plymouth/Chrysler/whatever car and not my mom’s sporty cream-colored Mustang, but I was happy to borrow any wheels at all, so I didn’t care all that much.
Their only requirement was that I had to put gas in the car. And they wanted me to keep it dent-free, but that was pretty much an unspoken assumption.
So one Friday night, my girlfriend Diana and I decided to drive to Salem to go dancing at a place called, “The Hunt Club.” Yes, I’m ashamed to say, it really was called that. What’s more, we went to this club whenever I came home for the weekend, which was fairly often – so we must have liked the joint.
(Oh, and just so you know, I wasn’t into “hunting” all that much. I was, after all, a serious college student and didn’t have time for silly things like chasing boys. Um, yeah. Okay, the truth is that I wasn’t into long-distance romances at the time.)
Anyway, we never made it to the Hunt Club that fine spring evening.
I had asked my dad if I could borrow his car and without hesitation he handed over his keys. That was easy, I thought. So I picked up Diana and, dressed to the hilt in our finest dancin’ clothes and high heels, we took off for Salem.
Between Alliance and Salem is (or was back then, anyway) a long stretch of 2-lane country road without streetlights.
There we were sailing along the road chattering away without a care in the world when about 5 miles before reaching our destination, the “Check Engine” light came on. I said to Diana, “Hmmm…wonder if that’s serious?” Diana, clearly not a car expert either, shrugged and said, “Dunno.”
So we kept on going. I figured I would call my dad once we reached the Hunt Club to ask him what we should do.
Oh, the irony of hindsight.
A few minutes later, we realized it was sort of serious when the car stalled and then died.
This was back in the day before cell phones, so I couldn’t whip out my trusty iPhone and call home. Instead, there we were on a dark, lonely stretch of road too far away from the Hunt Club and too far away from home. We sort of thought we remembered seeing a pay phone about half a mile or so back at a deserted gas station, but we weren’t positive.
For about five minutes we sat in the car debating what to do, but since no one passed our broken-down ugly green car the whole time, we realized we were going to have to hoof it back to see about that pay phone. Diana didn’t want to stay in the car by herself, so we carefully locked the vehicle and started teetering down the road in the dark in our high heels. There was no berm on the 2-lane road either and, again, no lights.
Now I realize you probably don’t know my friend Diana, but let me just say that the girl could talk. When I first met her in grade school she was shy and quiet, but then at some point in high school, the dam broke and all the things that she’d been holding back came out in a torrent. And she didn’t ever really stop talking. It’s one of the things I loved about her because I could pretty much just toss in an occasional “uh huh” and a “yeah” and she’d just keep on going.
So there we were click-clacking down the road in our heels. I was slightly worried about the car and praying that we’d find a pay phone once we reached the deserted gas station, and also hoping that maybe it wasn’t anything serious so we could still possibly get in some dancing and not waste our cute outfits. All these thoughts were going through my head when I took a step…and then landed flat on my back in a ditch! One minute the road was there, and then suddenly it wasn’t.
And as I was lying there on my back, I knew for SURE that we weren’t going to be dancing that night as my entire back – from my carefully coiffed head to the heels of my strappy lavender sandals – was now covered in mud.
Diana, oblivious, kept on walking and talking. After a few more steps, she must have realized I was no longer beside her. The next thing I see is Diana’s face looming above me from the roadside. As she peered down at me in the ditch, she said, “Jane! What are you doing down there?!”
Like I’d done it on purpose.
I said, “Well, I was getting tired, so I thought I’d take a little break and…what are you – nuts? I fell! Get me outta here!”
Right then the absurdity of our situation hit me and I started giggling. Then I started laughing. Once Diana realized I wasn’t seriously hurt, she started laughing, too, and it got so bad we couldn’t catch our breath. She just kept pointing at me and howling.
Finally, she managed to pull herself together and reached down to help me climb out of the ditch. Then, she looked at me and said, “Jane! You’re all covered in mud! We can’t go dancing now!”
That did us in. We were both doubled over laughing so hard we had tears running down our faces. Which ruined our makeup, but was sort of a moot point by then anyway.
I don’t remember what happened after that, except that we did reach my dad who came and picked us up in my mom’s sporty cream-colored Mustang. Probably he brought a towel so that I didn’t get the interior muddy, but again, it’s all sort of a blur.
It turns out that Dad’s car was out of oil, which he’d intended to replace, but had forgotten about before handing me the keys.
Filed under the category of “Duh,” a car without oil is not a good thing. And, yes, we fried the engine. And I never saw that ugly green Dodge/Plymouth/Chrysler/whatever car again.
Surprisingly, my parents didn’t give me a lot of grief about killing their car, but I suspect that my dad felt responsible and was willing to take the blame for the incident. They did, however, impress upon me the importance of immediately stopping if ever the “Check Engine” light comes on again in any vehicle.
This has happened a couple of times since then and, you should know, I positively panic. My instant reaction is to stomp on the brake in the middle of the freeway in rush hour traffic and stop the car right then and there. Fortunately, I am able to realize the foolishness of such a decision, so I pull over to the side of the road. But I do so immediately. And then I whip out my trusty iPhone to call for help.
Oh, and I rarely wear high heels anymore. If you’re ever forced to walk down a dark, lonely country road, it’s far better to be wearing flats.
I didn’t own a car in college. Heck, I didn’t own my own car until I was 23 and realized that it was taking me 45 minutes to get to work – and I only lived about 5 minutes away. I even had to transfer buses downtown! (I didn’t know how close to work I actually lived because of, again, that whole “directionally challenged” thing. But that’s another story…)
Anyway, in the years before I entered the world of car ownership, my parents generously allowed me to borrow one of their cars, usually without requiring me to sign promissory notes. More often it was my dad’s ugly green Dodge/Plymouth/Chrysler/whatever car and not my mom’s sporty cream-colored Mustang, but I was happy to borrow any wheels at all, so I didn’t care all that much.
Their only requirement was that I had to put gas in the car. And they wanted me to keep it dent-free, but that was pretty much an unspoken assumption.
So one Friday night, my girlfriend Diana and I decided to drive to Salem to go dancing at a place called, “The Hunt Club.” Yes, I’m ashamed to say, it really was called that. What’s more, we went to this club whenever I came home for the weekend, which was fairly often – so we must have liked the joint.
(Oh, and just so you know, I wasn’t into “hunting” all that much. I was, after all, a serious college student and didn’t have time for silly things like chasing boys. Um, yeah. Okay, the truth is that I wasn’t into long-distance romances at the time.)
Anyway, we never made it to the Hunt Club that fine spring evening.
I had asked my dad if I could borrow his car and without hesitation he handed over his keys. That was easy, I thought. So I picked up Diana and, dressed to the hilt in our finest dancin’ clothes and high heels, we took off for Salem.
Between Alliance and Salem is (or was back then, anyway) a long stretch of 2-lane country road without streetlights.
There we were sailing along the road chattering away without a care in the world when about 5 miles before reaching our destination, the “Check Engine” light came on. I said to Diana, “Hmmm…wonder if that’s serious?” Diana, clearly not a car expert either, shrugged and said, “Dunno.”
So we kept on going. I figured I would call my dad once we reached the Hunt Club to ask him what we should do.
Oh, the irony of hindsight.
A few minutes later, we realized it was sort of serious when the car stalled and then died.
This was back in the day before cell phones, so I couldn’t whip out my trusty iPhone and call home. Instead, there we were on a dark, lonely stretch of road too far away from the Hunt Club and too far away from home. We sort of thought we remembered seeing a pay phone about half a mile or so back at a deserted gas station, but we weren’t positive.
For about five minutes we sat in the car debating what to do, but since no one passed our broken-down ugly green car the whole time, we realized we were going to have to hoof it back to see about that pay phone. Diana didn’t want to stay in the car by herself, so we carefully locked the vehicle and started teetering down the road in the dark in our high heels. There was no berm on the 2-lane road either and, again, no lights.
Now I realize you probably don’t know my friend Diana, but let me just say that the girl could talk. When I first met her in grade school she was shy and quiet, but then at some point in high school, the dam broke and all the things that she’d been holding back came out in a torrent. And she didn’t ever really stop talking. It’s one of the things I loved about her because I could pretty much just toss in an occasional “uh huh” and a “yeah” and she’d just keep on going.
So there we were click-clacking down the road in our heels. I was slightly worried about the car and praying that we’d find a pay phone once we reached the deserted gas station, and also hoping that maybe it wasn’t anything serious so we could still possibly get in some dancing and not waste our cute outfits. All these thoughts were going through my head when I took a step…and then landed flat on my back in a ditch! One minute the road was there, and then suddenly it wasn’t.
And as I was lying there on my back, I knew for SURE that we weren’t going to be dancing that night as my entire back – from my carefully coiffed head to the heels of my strappy lavender sandals – was now covered in mud.
Diana, oblivious, kept on walking and talking. After a few more steps, she must have realized I was no longer beside her. The next thing I see is Diana’s face looming above me from the roadside. As she peered down at me in the ditch, she said, “Jane! What are you doing down there?!”
Like I’d done it on purpose.
I said, “Well, I was getting tired, so I thought I’d take a little break and…what are you – nuts? I fell! Get me outta here!”
Right then the absurdity of our situation hit me and I started giggling. Then I started laughing. Once Diana realized I wasn’t seriously hurt, she started laughing, too, and it got so bad we couldn’t catch our breath. She just kept pointing at me and howling.
Finally, she managed to pull herself together and reached down to help me climb out of the ditch. Then, she looked at me and said, “Jane! You’re all covered in mud! We can’t go dancing now!”
That did us in. We were both doubled over laughing so hard we had tears running down our faces. Which ruined our makeup, but was sort of a moot point by then anyway.
I don’t remember what happened after that, except that we did reach my dad who came and picked us up in my mom’s sporty cream-colored Mustang. Probably he brought a towel so that I didn’t get the interior muddy, but again, it’s all sort of a blur.
It turns out that Dad’s car was out of oil, which he’d intended to replace, but had forgotten about before handing me the keys.
Filed under the category of “Duh,” a car without oil is not a good thing. And, yes, we fried the engine. And I never saw that ugly green Dodge/Plymouth/Chrysler/whatever car again.
Surprisingly, my parents didn’t give me a lot of grief about killing their car, but I suspect that my dad felt responsible and was willing to take the blame for the incident. They did, however, impress upon me the importance of immediately stopping if ever the “Check Engine” light comes on again in any vehicle.
This has happened a couple of times since then and, you should know, I positively panic. My instant reaction is to stomp on the brake in the middle of the freeway in rush hour traffic and stop the car right then and there. Fortunately, I am able to realize the foolishness of such a decision, so I pull over to the side of the road. But I do so immediately. And then I whip out my trusty iPhone to call for help.
Oh, and I rarely wear high heels anymore. If you’re ever forced to walk down a dark, lonely country road, it’s far better to be wearing flats.
Friday, April 16, 2010
It's Oil Changing Time. Yippee.
I just realized that my car is in dire need of an oil change. Fortunately, that realization did not come about because my car sputtered and died on the freeway, but because I actually looked at the little tag in the corner of the windshield and realized how overdue it is. You mean they’re serious about that 3 months or 3,000 miles thing?
Oops.
Things like oil changes and tire rotations are not in my bag of tricks. Thus, I have to bring the vehicle to someone better qualified than I to perform such maintenance procedures. And I hate it. Why? Because I know absolutely nothing about the car’s mechanics. And, before you get all snarky on me and tell me about the myriad of classes I can take to learn about such things, let me just say that I don’t want to. I really don’t want to know the difference between a lug nut and a carburetor. Yeah, yeah – I know one is a whole lot bigger than the other and probably way more important, but I really don’t want to learn their functions.
One time, shortly after Vince and I met, he went into a long explanation about how a car’s engine operates. I tried really hard to pay attention, because, after all, we were still in the early phase of our relationship where everything the other person says is fascinating. Before the poor guy got to the part about fuel injectors, my eyes started to glaze over and I started to think that maybe – compared to this – root canals couldn’t possibly be all that bad. I managed to listen without interruption, but I changed the subject at the earliest possible opportunity. Probably I mentioned my next dentist appointment, but I can’t remember for sure.
Oh, c’mon. I’ll bet you Vince feels the same way when I go into minute detail about the pros and cons of waxing versus threading or anything shopping-related unless the word “steak” is mentioned.
In Vince’s defense, he might’ve thought I was actually interested in cars because I had done extensive research before purchasing my Mazda6, so I could tell him how many cylinders it has and what the horsepower is. I don’t technically know what those terms mean, except that a 6-cylinder car is gonna go faster than a 4-cylinder and I knew my car went fast.
Impressive, eh? Nah, I didn't think so either.
The problem with not knowing anything about car maintenance is that car mechanics get all happy when they see someone like me walking into their shop. Before I leave, they think they’ll have me convinced I need to replace every little doohickey and thingamajig in the car lest I face an immediate breakdown the next time I turn the ignition key.
Then, of course, I’m all defensive and keep saying “NO!” when they tell me what needs to be replaced, some of which might actually be required. But if one more guy at an oil change place pulls out the old air filter to show me how disgustingly filthy it is, I may just bean him over the head with it. I know the air filter is going to look filthy. That’s its job! It’s gonna look filthy a week after replacing it! (Hey! I guess maybe I have learned something about vehicle maintenance after all. Must be through osmosis or something because I’m sure I didn’t learn that on purpose.)
I have a friend whose granddaughter knows how to fix cars. I’m so impressed by that. A girl who actually likes getting her hands dirty and who knows what a head gasket is and where the timing belt is located. The best I can do is figure out where the window washer fluid goes. Not that I change it. That’s the benefit of putting up with a guy pushing a dirty air filter in my face – one of their jobs is to “top off” things like window washer fluid.
My very first car was a used Pinto. If you know anything about old cars, you know that the Ford Pinto was not a good car to own. They leaked oil. Copiously. Whenever I drove to Alliance, a 2-1/2 hour drive, I’d have to stop at the halfway point and replace at least two quarts of oil. I routinely carried a case in the trunk. I’d have truckers stopping to offer their assistance, but by that point, I was an old hand at funneling oil into its proper place under the hood of the car.
A year and many, many quarts of oil later, I replaced the car with a new one and promptly forgot how to add oil to the car. More likely, I refused to learn. Cleaning under my fingernails shouldn’t require lye soap and a heavy duty scrub brush.
One of the perks about being married is that vehicle maintenance is no longer strictly under my domain. Vince, being a car guy, is great at knowing what to do and when to do it where our vehicles are concerned. And few mechanics thrust the dirty air filter under his nose demanding that he inspect it and allow them to replace it. (Unless I was the one who took the car in for its last oil change and I automatically yelled “NO!” at them when they said I needed a new one.)
I suppose, however, I need to give Vince a heads-up that the car is past due for an oil change. Or maybe I’ll just let him find out by reading this…
Um…Honey…? What’cha doing this weekend??
Oops.
Things like oil changes and tire rotations are not in my bag of tricks. Thus, I have to bring the vehicle to someone better qualified than I to perform such maintenance procedures. And I hate it. Why? Because I know absolutely nothing about the car’s mechanics. And, before you get all snarky on me and tell me about the myriad of classes I can take to learn about such things, let me just say that I don’t want to. I really don’t want to know the difference between a lug nut and a carburetor. Yeah, yeah – I know one is a whole lot bigger than the other and probably way more important, but I really don’t want to learn their functions.
One time, shortly after Vince and I met, he went into a long explanation about how a car’s engine operates. I tried really hard to pay attention, because, after all, we were still in the early phase of our relationship where everything the other person says is fascinating. Before the poor guy got to the part about fuel injectors, my eyes started to glaze over and I started to think that maybe – compared to this – root canals couldn’t possibly be all that bad. I managed to listen without interruption, but I changed the subject at the earliest possible opportunity. Probably I mentioned my next dentist appointment, but I can’t remember for sure.
Oh, c’mon. I’ll bet you Vince feels the same way when I go into minute detail about the pros and cons of waxing versus threading or anything shopping-related unless the word “steak” is mentioned.
In Vince’s defense, he might’ve thought I was actually interested in cars because I had done extensive research before purchasing my Mazda6, so I could tell him how many cylinders it has and what the horsepower is. I don’t technically know what those terms mean, except that a 6-cylinder car is gonna go faster than a 4-cylinder and I knew my car went fast.
Impressive, eh? Nah, I didn't think so either.
The problem with not knowing anything about car maintenance is that car mechanics get all happy when they see someone like me walking into their shop. Before I leave, they think they’ll have me convinced I need to replace every little doohickey and thingamajig in the car lest I face an immediate breakdown the next time I turn the ignition key.
Then, of course, I’m all defensive and keep saying “NO!” when they tell me what needs to be replaced, some of which might actually be required. But if one more guy at an oil change place pulls out the old air filter to show me how disgustingly filthy it is, I may just bean him over the head with it. I know the air filter is going to look filthy. That’s its job! It’s gonna look filthy a week after replacing it! (Hey! I guess maybe I have learned something about vehicle maintenance after all. Must be through osmosis or something because I’m sure I didn’t learn that on purpose.)
I have a friend whose granddaughter knows how to fix cars. I’m so impressed by that. A girl who actually likes getting her hands dirty and who knows what a head gasket is and where the timing belt is located. The best I can do is figure out where the window washer fluid goes. Not that I change it. That’s the benefit of putting up with a guy pushing a dirty air filter in my face – one of their jobs is to “top off” things like window washer fluid.
My very first car was a used Pinto. If you know anything about old cars, you know that the Ford Pinto was not a good car to own. They leaked oil. Copiously. Whenever I drove to Alliance, a 2-1/2 hour drive, I’d have to stop at the halfway point and replace at least two quarts of oil. I routinely carried a case in the trunk. I’d have truckers stopping to offer their assistance, but by that point, I was an old hand at funneling oil into its proper place under the hood of the car.
A year and many, many quarts of oil later, I replaced the car with a new one and promptly forgot how to add oil to the car. More likely, I refused to learn. Cleaning under my fingernails shouldn’t require lye soap and a heavy duty scrub brush.
One of the perks about being married is that vehicle maintenance is no longer strictly under my domain. Vince, being a car guy, is great at knowing what to do and when to do it where our vehicles are concerned. And few mechanics thrust the dirty air filter under his nose demanding that he inspect it and allow them to replace it. (Unless I was the one who took the car in for its last oil change and I automatically yelled “NO!” at them when they said I needed a new one.)
I suppose, however, I need to give Vince a heads-up that the car is past due for an oil change. Or maybe I’ll just let him find out by reading this…
Um…Honey…? What’cha doing this weekend??
Thursday, April 15, 2010
LOST! (And, no, this has nothing to do with the television series)
I am unequivocally one of the most directionally challenged people I know. And I’m not afraid to admit it.
I can get lost driving around Columbus, and I’ve been living here more than half my life. (And, yes, that's a long time. Ha.) I used to move to different sides of the city just so I could learn to navigate around that particular part of town, but it was a not the best idea I’ve ever had as some sides of town can be a little dicey.
The area where I currently reside has been home for over 8 years and I’m pretty comfortable there. I finally figured out how the suburb is situated in relation to the city and can (most of the time) tell you which way is north, south, east and west without a cheat sheet. And if I get turned around on occasion, I simply look up at the handy-dandy compass permanently on display on my rearview mirror. It doesn’t mean that I can get myself from Point A to Point B without getting lost, but at least I can tell you which wrong way I’m headed.
My father and sister are excellent navigators, but I was evidently absent when they handed out that particular skill set. Instead, the level of expertise I inherited was the Can’t-Find-Way-Out-Of-A-Paper-Bag Level. This is, as you might guess, a rather low level, ranking only slightly higher than the Hopeless-Don’t-Even-Bother Level.
I used to envy friends who were adept at giving directions. They could, without hesitation, tell you precisely which way to go to reach a particular destination. They’d say, in what I thought was sort of a smug tone of voice (but that might’ve just been me), “Jane, it’s simple – all you need to do is take 71South and exit at East North Broadway and the building will be on the southwest corner.” Those kinds of directions made me want to slap them. Just tell me Left or Right – and make sure you put a landmark in there, i.e., “If you reach the Dairy Mart, you’ve gone too far, so just stop and call me back.”
Very quickly my friends learned to give Regular Directions (as in the above example, for normal people) and Jane Directions, which basically meant that they drove me there.
I also had to build in extra time for backtracking. Otherwise, I’d always be late. As it is, my record is about 50/50. I’d say that I was leaving at such-and-such a time and people would look at me like I’m nuts. They’d say, “Why would you leave so early?” I’d just pointedly look at them and they’d say, “Oh, yeahhh…never mind!”
I think it’s really cute when my husband hands me directions from Mapquest and tells me I’m the navigator. He knows perfectly well my limitations in this area. “But all you have to do is read them to me,” he says. “How hard can that be?!”
Is he kidding??
Take the other night, for example. We got turned around no less than three times trying to reach an area precisely 13.27 miles from our home. There were 13 Mapquest steps altogether, and really only 6 if you consider that most people know how to get out of their own neighborhood. And, okay, I will concede that, for me, there were 13 steps.
What’s worse is that we were headed to an area of town where I used to live! It looked familiar and I knew I should’ve been able to guide him without any problem, but, well, it’s me we’re talking about here.
Fortunately, Vince is a patient man. It’s also fortunate that once he has driven to a particular destination, he usually doesn’t need directions the next time. This, to me, is unfathomable. It’s like understanding quantum physics without getting a headache just from contemplating the subject matter.
And then they invented GPS systems. You’d think I’d have gotten one immediately, wouldn’t you? Well, I’m also cheap and was waiting for the price to drop. I did, however, get an iPhone and it has a little GPS system on it. Yay. I thought my navigational problems were solved!
Not so fast there, Skippy…
I’ll give you a perfect example. Last year we drove to northern Michigan to visit my cousins. I’ve been there countless times and have even gotten myself there on quite a few occasions, although not always without incident or without taking, as I’ve started calling them, “Jane Detours.”
This time we were driving to another cousin’s house and I’d never driven directly from here to there.
For some reason, Mapquest was wrong (imagine that), and at about Hour 7 we were left scrambling for the atlas to compare it to Mapquest. And just so you know, northern Michigan (north of Traverse City), has a lot of little back roads without any landmarks. You can drive around for days and not find your way. Or at least I could.
Anyway, I finally remembered my iPhone’s GPS system, so I plugged in the address of our destination and started from our “current location.” We faithfully followed the instructions even watching the little dot as it plotted our progress. Suddenly, the little dot stopped and indicated we were at our destination. I looked up from my trusty iPhone expecting to see my cousin’s house…only to see that we were on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere!
Vince, who’d never before been to northern Michigan, looked at me as if I was supposed to know what had gone wrong. That’s like expecting your mechanic to perform delicate arthroscopic surgery on your knee because he uses tools and knows how to fix stuff.
Fortunately, I was able to reach another cousin who somehow managed to get us back on track and we eventually arrived safely at our destination.
So my faith in GPS systems is not absolute, but there is always hope. Plus, I think I am trainable. Like, for instance, right now I can tell you that I’m in a building situated on the southeast corner of the street and my desk is facing south.
And that, my friends, is progress.
I can get lost driving around Columbus, and I’ve been living here more than half my life. (And, yes, that's a long time. Ha.) I used to move to different sides of the city just so I could learn to navigate around that particular part of town, but it was a not the best idea I’ve ever had as some sides of town can be a little dicey.
The area where I currently reside has been home for over 8 years and I’m pretty comfortable there. I finally figured out how the suburb is situated in relation to the city and can (most of the time) tell you which way is north, south, east and west without a cheat sheet. And if I get turned around on occasion, I simply look up at the handy-dandy compass permanently on display on my rearview mirror. It doesn’t mean that I can get myself from Point A to Point B without getting lost, but at least I can tell you which wrong way I’m headed.
My father and sister are excellent navigators, but I was evidently absent when they handed out that particular skill set. Instead, the level of expertise I inherited was the Can’t-Find-Way-Out-Of-A-Paper-Bag Level. This is, as you might guess, a rather low level, ranking only slightly higher than the Hopeless-Don’t-Even-Bother Level.
I used to envy friends who were adept at giving directions. They could, without hesitation, tell you precisely which way to go to reach a particular destination. They’d say, in what I thought was sort of a smug tone of voice (but that might’ve just been me), “Jane, it’s simple – all you need to do is take 71South and exit at East North Broadway and the building will be on the southwest corner.” Those kinds of directions made me want to slap them. Just tell me Left or Right – and make sure you put a landmark in there, i.e., “If you reach the Dairy Mart, you’ve gone too far, so just stop and call me back.”
Very quickly my friends learned to give Regular Directions (as in the above example, for normal people) and Jane Directions, which basically meant that they drove me there.
I also had to build in extra time for backtracking. Otherwise, I’d always be late. As it is, my record is about 50/50. I’d say that I was leaving at such-and-such a time and people would look at me like I’m nuts. They’d say, “Why would you leave so early?” I’d just pointedly look at them and they’d say, “Oh, yeahhh…never mind!”
I think it’s really cute when my husband hands me directions from Mapquest and tells me I’m the navigator. He knows perfectly well my limitations in this area. “But all you have to do is read them to me,” he says. “How hard can that be?!”
Is he kidding??
Take the other night, for example. We got turned around no less than three times trying to reach an area precisely 13.27 miles from our home. There were 13 Mapquest steps altogether, and really only 6 if you consider that most people know how to get out of their own neighborhood. And, okay, I will concede that, for me, there were 13 steps.
What’s worse is that we were headed to an area of town where I used to live! It looked familiar and I knew I should’ve been able to guide him without any problem, but, well, it’s me we’re talking about here.
Fortunately, Vince is a patient man. It’s also fortunate that once he has driven to a particular destination, he usually doesn’t need directions the next time. This, to me, is unfathomable. It’s like understanding quantum physics without getting a headache just from contemplating the subject matter.
And then they invented GPS systems. You’d think I’d have gotten one immediately, wouldn’t you? Well, I’m also cheap and was waiting for the price to drop. I did, however, get an iPhone and it has a little GPS system on it. Yay. I thought my navigational problems were solved!
Not so fast there, Skippy…
I’ll give you a perfect example. Last year we drove to northern Michigan to visit my cousins. I’ve been there countless times and have even gotten myself there on quite a few occasions, although not always without incident or without taking, as I’ve started calling them, “Jane Detours.”
This time we were driving to another cousin’s house and I’d never driven directly from here to there.
For some reason, Mapquest was wrong (imagine that), and at about Hour 7 we were left scrambling for the atlas to compare it to Mapquest. And just so you know, northern Michigan (north of Traverse City), has a lot of little back roads without any landmarks. You can drive around for days and not find your way. Or at least I could.
Anyway, I finally remembered my iPhone’s GPS system, so I plugged in the address of our destination and started from our “current location.” We faithfully followed the instructions even watching the little dot as it plotted our progress. Suddenly, the little dot stopped and indicated we were at our destination. I looked up from my trusty iPhone expecting to see my cousin’s house…only to see that we were on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere!
Vince, who’d never before been to northern Michigan, looked at me as if I was supposed to know what had gone wrong. That’s like expecting your mechanic to perform delicate arthroscopic surgery on your knee because he uses tools and knows how to fix stuff.
Fortunately, I was able to reach another cousin who somehow managed to get us back on track and we eventually arrived safely at our destination.
So my faith in GPS systems is not absolute, but there is always hope. Plus, I think I am trainable. Like, for instance, right now I can tell you that I’m in a building situated on the southeast corner of the street and my desk is facing south.
And that, my friends, is progress.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Friendship in the Age of Social Media
I was looking at the list of former high school classmates on Facebook the other day…and I realized that someone I had been friends with is no longer on my list of friends. I think that means I’ve been “de-friended.” Or is it “un-friended”? Aww. Either way, it’s sort of uncomfortable.
I wonder what I did? Or maybe it’s what I didn’t do. Did she expect a personal note and I didn’t produce? Did I not put enough “likes” on her comments? It certainly couldn’t have been something controversial I said because I’m one of the least controversial people I know. In my own mind, anyway. I don’t think I could have offended her in a chat because I hardly ever do the IM thing. And I rarely jump into debates over politics or religion. So I’m sort of stumped.
Now that I think about it, I have mentioned shoe shopping, so maybe that’s it. Maybe she is vehemently opposed to shoe shopping.
Oh well, I can’t get too worked up about it. I mean, this is someone I haven’t laid eyes on in more than 30 years and, other than a few good laughs on the school bus back in high school, I don’t think we shared many deep, meaningful conversations. So while I don’t think I’ll miss the friendship all that much, it is still a little disconcerting.
Ah, the challenges of social media. Facebook is a great little tool to reconnect with immediate family and extended family, new friends, long time friends, old neighbors, current coworkers and coworkers from jobs in the past. And it has been great finding classmates from college, high school and even people I barely remember from grade school.
But sometimes it’s like a barometer to see how popular you are. Or how someone feels about you. I guess we never truly grow up, do we?
I even know some people (who shall remain nameless, but one of whom I might be married to) who put their friends in categories because they have freakishly large numbers of friends. I, however, am not that organized, nor do I have that many friends. And I can only hope that my memory stays intact enough so that I don’t look at someone on the list and question whether they were a friend from third grade – or if I worked with them at my last job.
I have to admit that it would bother me if I found out that someone cancelled our friendship because of some computer virus, particularly since I don’t have any control over those. (I never open e-mails from unknown senders and try to keep my computer virus-free, but – y’know – stuff happens.) Nevertheless, I can only imagine how that conversation would go:
Former Facebook Friend: “You gave me a computer virus.”
Me: “No, I didn’t.”
Former Facebook Friend: “Yes, you did. And I don’t like you anymore, and I’m unfriending you.”
Me: (making raspberry sounds) “It’s DEfriending me. And I don’t like you either and I’m telling all my other Facebook friends not to talk to you anymore either!”
Evidently, arguing on Facebook must be like arguing on the playground in third grade. Except in third grade, you usually ignored your former friend for about 12 minutes before you forgot what you were arguing about and magically became best friends again. That’s probably because third graders have the attention span of a gnat. There isn’t enough room in their little heads to remember their locker combination let alone keep both the answer to 3x9 plus the reason they were arguing with their best friend.
Maybe that’s the way grown-ups on Facebook should do it. We could go back through the list and re-send friend requests. My former friend would say, “Oh – I haven’t seen Jane in more than 30 years. I will definitely accept her friend request!!”
And life would be good again.
PS, wouldn’t it be interesting if there was just a glitch in Facebook and sometimes friends inexplicably get dropped? If that’s the case…then, um, neverrr mind! Please ignore the preceding blog.
Oh, and I also want to apologize for the crack about third graders. They’re all super-smart and I love them all. And, Vince? Your list of friends is not freakishly large – you’re just a well connected, friendly kinda guy. And I love you, too.
(See? Not controversial.)
I wonder what I did? Or maybe it’s what I didn’t do. Did she expect a personal note and I didn’t produce? Did I not put enough “likes” on her comments? It certainly couldn’t have been something controversial I said because I’m one of the least controversial people I know. In my own mind, anyway. I don’t think I could have offended her in a chat because I hardly ever do the IM thing. And I rarely jump into debates over politics or religion. So I’m sort of stumped.
Now that I think about it, I have mentioned shoe shopping, so maybe that’s it. Maybe she is vehemently opposed to shoe shopping.
Oh well, I can’t get too worked up about it. I mean, this is someone I haven’t laid eyes on in more than 30 years and, other than a few good laughs on the school bus back in high school, I don’t think we shared many deep, meaningful conversations. So while I don’t think I’ll miss the friendship all that much, it is still a little disconcerting.
Ah, the challenges of social media. Facebook is a great little tool to reconnect with immediate family and extended family, new friends, long time friends, old neighbors, current coworkers and coworkers from jobs in the past. And it has been great finding classmates from college, high school and even people I barely remember from grade school.
But sometimes it’s like a barometer to see how popular you are. Or how someone feels about you. I guess we never truly grow up, do we?
I even know some people (who shall remain nameless, but one of whom I might be married to) who put their friends in categories because they have freakishly large numbers of friends. I, however, am not that organized, nor do I have that many friends. And I can only hope that my memory stays intact enough so that I don’t look at someone on the list and question whether they were a friend from third grade – or if I worked with them at my last job.
I have to admit that it would bother me if I found out that someone cancelled our friendship because of some computer virus, particularly since I don’t have any control over those. (I never open e-mails from unknown senders and try to keep my computer virus-free, but – y’know – stuff happens.) Nevertheless, I can only imagine how that conversation would go:
Former Facebook Friend: “You gave me a computer virus.”
Me: “No, I didn’t.”
Former Facebook Friend: “Yes, you did. And I don’t like you anymore, and I’m unfriending you.”
Me: (making raspberry sounds) “It’s DEfriending me. And I don’t like you either and I’m telling all my other Facebook friends not to talk to you anymore either!”
Evidently, arguing on Facebook must be like arguing on the playground in third grade. Except in third grade, you usually ignored your former friend for about 12 minutes before you forgot what you were arguing about and magically became best friends again. That’s probably because third graders have the attention span of a gnat. There isn’t enough room in their little heads to remember their locker combination let alone keep both the answer to 3x9 plus the reason they were arguing with their best friend.
Maybe that’s the way grown-ups on Facebook should do it. We could go back through the list and re-send friend requests. My former friend would say, “Oh – I haven’t seen Jane in more than 30 years. I will definitely accept her friend request!!”
And life would be good again.
PS, wouldn’t it be interesting if there was just a glitch in Facebook and sometimes friends inexplicably get dropped? If that’s the case…then, um, neverrr mind! Please ignore the preceding blog.
Oh, and I also want to apologize for the crack about third graders. They’re all super-smart and I love them all. And, Vince? Your list of friends is not freakishly large – you’re just a well connected, friendly kinda guy. And I love you, too.
(See? Not controversial.)
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
And As We Say Farewell to Another Bowling Season...
So this past Sunday was our last night of bowling and all that is left of the season is the banquet. Fortunately, I wasn’t anticipating winning any bowling trophies, which is a good thing because I simply have no more room on the mantle for another award. Oh, sure. Who am I kidding? Like I have any other trophies on there. I don’t really seem to have the talent for trophy collecting.
Anyway, I’m sort of sad that the season is over, but I’m also sort of glad. I was running low on Advil, and now I’m thinking I won’t need to restock until just prior to the start of the next bowling season. Let’s hope not, anyway. Besides, I’m kind of tired of beer.
Yeah, I had to take a lot of Advil (and drink a lot of beer) to keep the ol’ joints from complaining too much. Knees, elbows, shoulders – you name it – they weren’t happy that I repeatedly hefted a 12-lb. ball and threw it down a wooden lane trying to knock down some pins at the other end. The number of throws was even higher considering I didn’t get very many strikes.
But oh well. It has been great hanging out with friends on Sunday evenings for the past few months. Got us through the long winter, that’s for sure. Plus, we had cool bowling shirts and, well, where else are you going to wear hot pink and black shirts with “Pin Panthers” imprinted on the back? At a Putt-Putt course? Euchre Tournament? I don’t think so. That would just look silly.
I figured that our last night of bowling would be stress-free because we weren’t in any sort of play-off situation, so it would be purely for the fun of it. Because of this, I assumed I’d be getting strikes right and left. I assumed wrong. Well, I was throwing the ball down the lane right and left, which meant I wasn’t getting the middle pins and thus, no strikes. Not a single one. All evening.
So, as you might imagine, my scores were pretty abysmal. I didn’t even break 100 the first game. I did break 100 the second game, but only barely. I finally managed to squeak by at a little higher than my average on the third game, but for the most part it was a pitiful performance.
As if bowling itself isn’t enough jam-packed fun, we also throw in a buck per game and we play poker. At the first spare or strike, we pick up a set of 5 cards and we get to draw one card from the pile. And any mark after that earns us another card. Well, I wasn’t earning many cards all evening. Which is a shame because we were playing with Chippendales cards. Who wouldn’t want the chance to pick up a card featuring a smiling, bare-chested oiled up dude with a six-pack? Well, bedsides the two dudes on our team?!
Lest you think we get to play with Chippendales cards every game, I must tell you the rules. We play with “normal” cards regularly. However, if a woman bowls a game with a score over 150, we get to play a game with scantily clad men. Cards, I mean. Not real scantily clad men! And if the men bowl a game with a score over 175, we play poker with cards featuring scantily clad women. Oh, who am I kidding? The women on these cards are not wearing any clothes whatsoever. And, no, I didn’t make the rules.
One night my parents, who happened to be in town that weekend, came to watch us bowl. I had to forewarn them about the cards thing because one guy on our team bowled TWO games the previous week with scores over 175. But my 80-something-and-change mother did me proud. One of my teammates kept trying to embarrass her and would hand her two cards and ask her to pick which “woman” he should keep and which one he should discard. My mom didn’t bat an eye – she matter-of-factly studied them and then told him which woman she thought had better, uh, attributes. Go mom!
(Dad, by the way, was probably getting eye strain from furtively looking at the cards out of the corner of his eye all the while feigning complete indifference. But I wouldn’t swear to that in court.)
Anyway, on our last game of the season, I bowled three spares. That meant I got to pick up my first set of cards and draw one. I had three natural Aces and a 10. The card I drew was a 10. Yippee – a Full House on my first hand! At the second spare, I drew another Ace. Wow – 4 Aces. Finally, after my third spare, I drew a Joker/Wild Card, which meant I ended the last game of the season and the last game of Poker with FIVE ACES. Yay, me!
It was a great way to end the season. It even took some of the sting out of my abysmal bowling scores, but I’m not dwelling on it too much. I don’t want to go through the summer bummed because I bowled crappy the last night of the season.
Maybe we could practice all summer and be bowling champs next year? Well, “champs” might be a bit of a stretch, but I could see weekly practices – provided we play poker with the Chippendales cards. I’d maybe even be willing to buy some more Advil for that.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Old is When…
You know how when you’re young and you buy a birthday card for a friend who is the same age – you think cards making fun of old people and the ones with the Grim Reaper on the cover are hysterical? And then when you get a little older, you suddenly don’t find them all that humorous?
Yeah, I’m at that stage.
I have a card box at home filled with cards for all occasions. And whenever I need to send a birthday card lately, I seem to bypass those Grim Reaper cards. Sadly, I think they might be hitting a little too close to home or something.
Not only that, but I seem to receive more and more joke e-mails about aging and senior citizens. I try to laugh – really, I do – but with the last batch I couldn’t quite pull it off. The right side of my lip started to turn up a little bit, but then the whole thing sort of turned into a grimace. So I gave up trying to smile and actually harrumphed instead.
No wonder old people are sometimes called cranky – people keep reminding them that they’re old! (Harrumphing, you should know, officially qualifies one as old. Young people do not harrumph.)
I have a friend who’s 16 years older than I am and we’ve been friends since the 80s. That put me in my early 20s and her in her late 30s. Our friendship may have been a little unconventional due to the difference in our ages, but we made it work. She’d been recently divorced and wanted to find someone who was ready to go out and have some fun and show her where the happening places in town were. I fit the bill perfectly!
With age also comes wisdom and I realize now how very patient she was with her young, immature friend. I must not have been too obnoxious, though, because we remain friends to this day. Now we’re both way older – and way wiser!
Anyway, going out and doing things that single women do together – shopping, meeting new people, double-dating and so forth were great ways to bond and become good friends. A couple of times I even spent the night on the couch at her condo if it was late and I didn’t feel like driving across town to my place. (This is code for “overindulging” but remember, I was (a) young, and (b) behaving responsibly by not drinking and driving.)
I swear I don’t remember this, but about 10 years later she said to me, “So…Jane…now that you’re a little older, do you ever get out of bed in the morning and make noises?”
I was completely baffled and said, “What are you talking about?”
Apparently, at the cocky young age of 23, I’d made an observation that she made a lot of noise when she woke up – I heard her groaning as she got out of bed and then I heard all sorts of cracking and creaking and popping noises from joints that had stiffened overnight.
Oops. Guess I was a tad rude, wasn’t I?
Fortunately, she asked me the question when I was still young enough not to have creaking and cracking joints and I wasn’t yet at the stage where I needed to groan as I got out of bed. And so I vowed right then that I would never be forced to admit that, yes, in fact I did make noises when I got out of bed in the morning.
Nowadays, whenever I’m even a little tempted to clutch at my achin’ back and let out a groan as I rise in the morning to start my day, I think of my friend – and I do my best to keep my mouth shut!
By the way, I have some birthday cards in the card box at home featuring the Grim Reaper. Any takers?!
Yeah, I’m at that stage.
I have a card box at home filled with cards for all occasions. And whenever I need to send a birthday card lately, I seem to bypass those Grim Reaper cards. Sadly, I think they might be hitting a little too close to home or something.
Not only that, but I seem to receive more and more joke e-mails about aging and senior citizens. I try to laugh – really, I do – but with the last batch I couldn’t quite pull it off. The right side of my lip started to turn up a little bit, but then the whole thing sort of turned into a grimace. So I gave up trying to smile and actually harrumphed instead.
No wonder old people are sometimes called cranky – people keep reminding them that they’re old! (Harrumphing, you should know, officially qualifies one as old. Young people do not harrumph.)
I have a friend who’s 16 years older than I am and we’ve been friends since the 80s. That put me in my early 20s and her in her late 30s. Our friendship may have been a little unconventional due to the difference in our ages, but we made it work. She’d been recently divorced and wanted to find someone who was ready to go out and have some fun and show her where the happening places in town were. I fit the bill perfectly!
With age also comes wisdom and I realize now how very patient she was with her young, immature friend. I must not have been too obnoxious, though, because we remain friends to this day. Now we’re both way older – and way wiser!
Anyway, going out and doing things that single women do together – shopping, meeting new people, double-dating and so forth were great ways to bond and become good friends. A couple of times I even spent the night on the couch at her condo if it was late and I didn’t feel like driving across town to my place. (This is code for “overindulging” but remember, I was (a) young, and (b) behaving responsibly by not drinking and driving.)
I swear I don’t remember this, but about 10 years later she said to me, “So…Jane…now that you’re a little older, do you ever get out of bed in the morning and make noises?”
I was completely baffled and said, “What are you talking about?”
Apparently, at the cocky young age of 23, I’d made an observation that she made a lot of noise when she woke up – I heard her groaning as she got out of bed and then I heard all sorts of cracking and creaking and popping noises from joints that had stiffened overnight.
Oops. Guess I was a tad rude, wasn’t I?
Fortunately, she asked me the question when I was still young enough not to have creaking and cracking joints and I wasn’t yet at the stage where I needed to groan as I got out of bed. And so I vowed right then that I would never be forced to admit that, yes, in fact I did make noises when I got out of bed in the morning.
Nowadays, whenever I’m even a little tempted to clutch at my achin’ back and let out a groan as I rise in the morning to start my day, I think of my friend – and I do my best to keep my mouth shut!
By the way, I have some birthday cards in the card box at home featuring the Grim Reaper. Any takers?!
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