The Subaru (Part 1)

Do you know why I went to law school?  To fight against injustice.  Mainly injustice against myself....  Because some crazy shit happens to me.  I haven't shared my joyful car-crushing experience from last fall, but it came back to literally bite me in the ass today -- and I could not be more pissed.  Or more ready to sue somebody....  

I left Washington DC on a Friday.   I said good-bye to my house, my hometown of 17 years, and my dog.  As I saddled up the Subaru Forrester (please refer to my February 17th post regarding lesbians) and made my way out of our nation's capital, some "check engine" light appeared on the dashboard .  Dashboard lights (despite what Meatloaf sang) are always bad news, and since I had barely began step 1 of a 3000 mile journey, I took the car to Fitzgerald Subaru in Rockville, Maryland where I had the vehicle serviced about a week earlier.  My husband (now the ex) talked to the service technician while I ran to Dunkin' Donuts (best. coffee. ever.) to grab breakfast.  We waited the fifteen minutes that our service technician said the diagnostic would take.  Then 30.  Then 45.  ...At this point, a small man stepped out of the garage and motioned for my husband to follow him.  (This was simultaneously annoying and a relief -- I mean, I frankly found it very sexist that the gentleman would look to my husband since it's MY car...  but since I don't care to be bothered with details -- details such as how the car actually works and why it is not now working -- I decided to stand down.)  About 5 minutes later, my husband comes out of the same garage door and makes the same "follow-me" motion that the technician had made minutes earlier.  Now I'm annoyed.  Because obviously this problem did not go away (just make it go away!) and we would have to engage in a discussion (I hate discussing).  Which would probably cost more money.


When I entered the garage I discovered that the problem had in fact increased exponentially.  My mountain bike (which my friends fondly referred to as "The Tank" because of it's substantial weight and ability to handle an impact) was piled in a shredded heavy-metal heap...because it had apparently hit the side of the building.   Here is the critical exchange that occurred while I foraged for sustenance at Double D:  1) Husband asked technician if he should take our bikes off the top of the car;  2) Technician said "no," the bay of the garage opens high enough to allow bike passage;  3) Technician proceeds to slam bikes into the side of the building without further lifting the garage bay.  We later learned that this was only the second-stupidest thing that this technician ever did.  Apparently the first was to leave a kayak strapped to the top of a vehicle while he ran it through a car wash.  The kayak hit the top wash racks with such force that it shot out the back of the automated laundry like a cannon, and landed smack in the windshield of a new impreza hatchback.  ...so we're not saving lives at Fitzgerald's of Rockville.

Once the 3000 mile journey was complete and I was left to my own devices in San Diego,  I took the car to be repaired and was given a rental car.  It was some craptacular box on wheels from Enterprise, and I didn't bitch because I was told it would only be a week.  Or two.  Or three...and then four.  Unfortunately, I had to do my job, despite the fact that others apparently were not doing theirs.  I am in the business of sales, and part of that business includes the shlepping of products and promotional items from one location to another.  One rainy Thursday, while shlepping to a client in a particularly San Fransisco-esk neighborhood, I had trouble finding parking, so rounded the corner and parked on a hill.  A steep hill.  Steep, really...really steep.  And as I was retrieving packages from the back seat, boxcar Willy jolted.  Paused.  ...and then moved with ensuing force down the hill, crashing into the intersection and a stop sign.

A couple of points here: 1) I'm from Indiana and we don't have hills there;  you can see all the way to Iowa.  I didn't know the rule about turning the wheels in - or out (details) -- when you park on a hill.  Of course, everyone was eager to share that nugget of information after the fact when it was oh-so-helpful.  ...thanks team; 2) I did in fact have the parking break on.  As previously mentioned, I do not conform to preconceived gender stereotypes, and prior to purchasing the subaru, I drove a vehicle with standard transmission.  I also drove farm equipment.  Therefore, it is ingrained in me to always, always use the parking break.  But despite doing the right thing, the accident was assigned to me-- not Enterprise Car Rental (I'd like to pick you up, bitch) -- and  a $500 deposit was swept out of my bank account.  

Since the time of that incident, the price of gas has crept up at a consistently alarming pace.  In California, the price is steady at about $4.25 per gallon.  This fact led me to take the car for an appraisal today (price of gas added to 22.5 miles per gallon equals me without money), where I learned that my $19,000 blue book value car would garner me a whooping $11k.  Because it has been in a major accident.  ...Caused by Subaru.  ...is that just me?  Or does anyone else see the irony here?

...and that fucking "check engine" light never did go off.

RepriMANded

There are many things I like about being single.  Dating is not one of them.

On Thursday I had a blind date.  ...with a gay man.  And this fact still remains unbeknownst to said date.  How is it that I've realized this truth and he still has not?  Well, (a) I was a theatre major and have had romantic relationships with many a gay man; and (b) men don't reach their mid-forties having never been married for nothing.  In fact, I've begun to assume anyone single and super-hot over the age of thirty is gay.  This theory has only failed me once so far (and yes, it was with new-boyfriend...who is still sooo not-my-boyfriend).  So although my date was lovely, polite, and extremely well-dressed (as most gay men are), I made a point of mentioning that I had to work over the weekend, which I assumed went a long way in implying that I was not interested. 

...Apparently not. 

On Friday, I received a text inviting me to some event at the convention center.  And I never wrote back.  Yes, I realize it was childish to ignore the text, but I was having a day where the emotional baggage quota was at an all-time high, so it was easier to ignore than either (1) tell the truth and worry about hurting someone's feelings, or (2) compile a creative-yet-suitable lie...I didn't have it in me.

Saturday, I receive a nasty-gram -- yes, a nasty-gram --  that stated as follows: "I assume since I never heard from you that you are not interested in getting together.  Next time, a simple 'no thank you' will do."  ...huh.  A couple thoughts came to mind.  The first of which, was "go fuck yourself."  Yeah, it's immature, but my first reaction was to smack back twice as hard.  I wanted to write, "I'm in the hospital" or "My father died."  ...who the fuck do you think you are, assuming that I'm free and sitting around waiting for you to call?  The second thought -- slightly more zen -- was, "I don't have to care."  Not "I don't care."  Because I'm a sensitive girl.  I try to hide it and play tough, little-miss-independent, but I take events such as this very personally.  I want to please; but I realized I had a choice.  I could choose to feel responsible for this other individual's emotions, or I could choose to let it go. 

This thought process may sounds quite elementary, but to me it was revolutionary. During this lifetime I have cared about pleasing my parents.  My teachers.  My friends, my roommates, my employer, my clients, my colleagues, and most recently my spouse.  I've even worried about what my dog thought of me.  I remember when I worked at the big evil law firm, there was a quick turnaround on a particular document production.  For about a week I slept under my desk, returning home only to shower and change.  One morning, I stepped out of the shower to find my four month old red bone coon hound lying on the bathroom floor, looking up at me with the saddest of eyes as only a hound-dog can do.  To say I felt guilty was the understatement of the year. 

In addition to the crazy-intense document review, I was scheduled to head up to NYC for more big law firm fun.  It was not a trip to which I was looking forward, but it was important to my position and possible advancement with Dewey Cheetem.  New associates did not say "no" to such opportunities.  ...but I did.  At that moment, seeing my rapidly growing puppy laying on the floor waiting for me because she missed me and this was the only moment in which she had the opportunity to be close to me, I snapped my priorities into place.  I made the decision to skip NYC and put her first.

This weekend was a little more difficult because it was me I had to decide to place first.   And rather than worry about pleasing another person or whether I live up to his predetermined expectations, for the first time in a long while -- possibly ever -- I said "no" to another in lieu of myself.  I'd love to conclude "it was easy" -- but I can't.  It was extremely hard and is still eating at me.  I'm upset that I hurt someone's feelings (self-involved though he may be) and I'm upset that I did not live up to his needs.  ...I'm proud of the decision...but I sure as hell hope this gets easier.

Mission Accomplished

A public "thank you" to food poisoning.  I officially weigh the correct weight as stated on my driver's license.  I so win.... 

Classy

The Cadillac margartia is the gift that keeps on giving.  And I need to write about my evening so I shame myself into not repeating it. 

We last left our hero dealing with a mortgage.  The situation reached critical mass yesterday (which was incidentally Cesar Chavez Day) when Nora the loan officer called me (no exaggeration) eight times regarding a 401k statement.  Apparently the first 14 copies of the documentation she needed were not sufficient and she needed a 15th.  I, of course, was speaking at a conference and unavailable to readily fulfill her every need.  My stomach was in knots attempting to deal with her and meet my impending closing deadline ... all while staring down the fucking barrel of a socialist bank holiday.

At about 4pm I head to the rooftop bar with a colleague.  While searching for a seat and debating whether to sit in the sun or shade, a skater-boy offers me his chair.  So I accept.  And kick back two very strong margaritas.  Incidentally, we all have our flirt-with-but-don't-marry types -- and tattooed, skater-punks happen to be mine. (As are bartenders.  If he had been the bartender, I probably would have had sex with him right on the spot.)

As you can imagine, the rest of this ends pretty badly.  Specifically, it ends with me making out with the skater-punk at the bar.  In front of co-workers.  I then proceed to call two other co-workers who I assumed were dying to talk to me.  (They weren't.)  I then called new-boy that I'm seeing (who also -- not dying to talk to me.  Really.  Because after six or so times, he picked up the phone and said, "please stop calling me.")  I then proceed to lose my wallet.  In my own car. Which I don't realize until I go back into the hotel to look for it and involve all of hotel security.

All of this would have been par for the course if I were in college. But I'm not.  I am a professional grown up who (let's recap): 1) committed PDA; 2) harassed co-workers.  And hotel security; and 3) annoyed the hell out of newest-boyfriend.  ...and likely ruined that avenue for ever having sex again. 

Obviously this is Cesar Chavez's fault. And the bank's.  Please just allow economic recovery to happen without excessively rigid loan standards.  The world would be a classier place.