Car Safety

Today I heard that a new state law is in effect: EVERYONE in the car, regardless of seat location, must wear a seat belt. My first reaction was to wonder how people in Texas are going to install seat belts in the beds of trucks. Then I wondered if the wonder twins, Doug and Tex, were going to need some sort of special doggy-belt and doggy-seat.*

This law also got me waxing nostalgic. It effectively puts the final coffin nails in the last chapter of "Unsafe Car Riding Practices"**, which was a freely distributed tome during my childhood. I remember being free to move about the cabin in the 70's, all whilst inhaling unfiltered cigarette smoke. Those were the days when the captain NEVER turned on the "Fasten Seat belt" or "No Smoking" signs.

I remember, vividly, the game between my father, brother and me that would occur on car trips. Of course, it was FUN for me and my brother. My Father, however, should have had fourteen coronaries for every road adventure, because, for him, this would have been an appropriate response to being slowly tortured to death on the way to our family vacations in our 1970's-era, solid heavy metal, death trap of a car. It went like this:

Dad: "Quiet down back there."
Mom: "I don't see where we are on the map." (We were perpetually lost in my childhood.)
Dad (pointing to somewhere in Illinois though we were currently in Michigan): "We're there."
Mom: "But that's Illinois."

This little banter would go on for awhile before Dad pulled over to the side of the road, took the map from Mom, figured out where we were and where we were going, then gave the map BACK to Mom.

Poor Mom. She was hopelessly map-illiterate for all of my childhood. And Dad was a "half-full" kind of map relinquisher, who figured "THIS trip she'll get the hang of it."***

Now, in the back seat, we still hadn't quieted down. And we were like monkeys in an invisible cage, bounded by the front seat, back doors, and the rear windshield. We'd bounce around, scream, throw things, and paint an invisible line on the back seat whenever we got tired of each other. Then we'd announce "Don't go over that line." Of course, the other did, and that brought screams of "MAAAAHHHHHMMMMOOOOMMMM. She crossed the line."****

Dad (irritated voice): "I thought I told you to quiet down?!"
Kids, bouncing: "OK"*****.
Dad: "I'm serious."
Kids: no response. Still bouncing. Now hitting.
Dad: "DON'T MAKE ME PULL THIS CAR OVER."
Kids: still no response. Bouncing, hitting, and screaming now.
Dad: "I'VE HAD IT!"

Upon hearing that phrase, kids would scatter, because we knew what was next. An arm, much like the tentacle of the giant squid in "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea", was about to makes its way over the front seat, searching for whatever prey it could get its suckers on. It's entire purpose: to get us to SHUT THE HECK UP.

To paint the picture a little more vividly, Dad is six foot four. He wears a size 15 shoe. His arms are LONG. So you knew certain death was about to visit you if you didn't move QUICKLY.

Whoever was lucky enough to get the back windshield ledge and play dead was out of reach. But the poor sucker who hit the floor or backed into the seat was just completely at the mercy of the Gods. You could flatten like a pancake and that hand might still hit you smack dab in the face. Sometimes, if you didn't breathe, that helped, because you weren't giving any indication of location to the tentacled-one.

Usually the car would quiet down after this little game. Then, undoubtedly, one of us would ask "Where are we?" Mom, map in hand, had not a clue but, I imagine, a raging headache. Dad, still winded from the giant squid imitation, was too irritated to respond.

So then the questioning would hit nails-on-a-chalkboard level, with the inevitable "Are we there yet?"

Now, in all my years as a parent, in retort to this annoying question, I have wanted to say, in an oh-so-patient voice, with the look of an angel on my face, "Children, if we were THERE, we wouldn't be HERE. Since we are HERE, we can't possibly be THERE. Once we get THERE, we won't be HERE anymore. So, in the HERE and NOW, please shut your mouth until we get THERE."

Back to the 70's: there were always the complaints of I'm hungry, thirsty, bored, tired, and the happiest one, "I'm going to throw-up." That would be my younger brother, who had the unfortunate habit of getting car sick. Back in the day, since I had yet to experience my own kids with very sensitive gag reflexes, the thought of being a possible vomit victim was horrendous, unfathomable, and downright proposterous. This greatly increased the chances of my parents hearing the "Are we there yet?" line of questioning, as I wanted to get away from barf boy as quickly as humanly possible.

Through all the road trips we took as a family, none of us ever said anything that sent anybody else to a psychiatrist. I'd like to think we had fun while getting on each other's nerves, the way most Americans who vacationed via car did in the 70's and 80's.

Today I thank goodness for airplanes. They make getting THERE pretty quick. Nobody has to rely on map-reading skills, wrong turns are almost non-existent, and, goshdarnit, it's just fun to look out the window at our beautiful country.

Best of all, an airplane is a smoke-free environment, where I can simply sit back, seat belt firmly fastened, have a drink and relax.

Because I KNOW giant squids don't exist at 30,000 feet.


*If PETA has anything to do with it, this will be law next month.

**Not a real book, just a title that encompasses the attitude of the 70's: "I wonder what these things are doing in here?" (sound of seatbelt hitting floor of car.)

***Fast forward 35 years and they are now in possession of a GPS. I'd like to thank the inventor for saving my parents from killing each other during some random road trip. I'm executor of the will and I don't have time to deal with all the paperwork a double-homicide would induce.

****Notice I used a feminine pronoun here. This could have easily been "he". My brother was just as much at fault as I was.

*****This response was a blantant lie. We filtered out anything from the front seat of the car, besides the music coming from the "state-of-the-art" AM/FM, 8-track player.

Now hiring...

Pool boys are supposed to be cute, charming, and accommodating. They are supposed to serve you drinks on command. Drinks with little pink umbrellas in them. If you believe anything you watch on TV, they "service" more than the pool.

Our Cabana boy is impossibly broken. Beyond repair. Ready for the dump. And I'm left to wonder: could it possibly be because we are CHEAP?

Back when we acquired the new house, we hired the least expensive, highly recommended company that promised "chemicals only" service on a weekly basis. That meant all the "heavy" work--cleaning, emptying the strainer basket, keeping the filters up--was OURS.

Of course, we'd never owned a pool before then, so we figured, being CHEAP, that we could do the bulk of the work and leave the chemicals to the pros.

Then our "pro" arrived.

He fit the poolside macho profile: young, tan, cute, and buff. He didn't arrive with drinks, but I figured that was a $20 a week premium I wasn't ever going to be willing to pay anyway. So he got a pass to enter our backyard without tequila and paper umbrellas. Frankly, if he had pulled out a condom I would have laughed in his face*.

When our chemical-dumping dude opened his mouth, we knew trouble had a new last name--and it wasn't N-O-W-E-L-L.

This fit young thing thought he should inform us our gate was locked. And that we were his last stop of the day. And that he was tired**. And demanded we unlock the East gate to save him 50 feet of walking and hauling his supplies.

Mike informed Mr. Man that the East gate was, indeed, going to be locked EVERY TIME he showed up because it was broken and, when unlocked, provided an escape for the fab-two***. And that it wouldn't be unlocked because we were knee-deep in remodeling inside the house and didn't have time to deal with a gate that was perfectly good as long as it was locked****. Besides, Mike reasoned, the West gate was totally accessible, 24/7. Cabana boy left downtrodden.

Fast forward a week and Studly returns. Now, I'm in the kitchen, completely within view of the the dude, so he brings his sad plea to me. Little did he know that I had already decided to plead complete ignorance on the issue and leave it to the He-Man in my life to duke it out.

He reasoned that the gate only needed a new spring, as best he could tell, and that he'd be glad to provide the BOLT CUTTERS to take the current lock off. All we'd have to do was buy a new spring and a new lock and then install the new spring. Easy-peasy-fresh-and-squeezy.

'Cept, according to plan, I wasn't playing along, and referred him to The Mister. He exited the backyard more downtrodden than the first time.

The following week he arrived to find our "save-your-children-from-drowning" pool net in its rightful place atop the pool. Truly not mechanically inclined, he had no idea what to do to move the net. So he left. Without dumping chemicals in the pool.

A bit later our more mature, paunchy-bellied, semi-bald, non-complaining pool boy showed up. Not only did he service the pool through the WEST gate and know exactly what to do with the net, but he didn't try to tell us when and how to fix the other gate. He didn't even knock on the door.

It appears that customer service has been shot about four dozen times, is bleeding profusely, and has arrived at the ER, but it isn't YET dead.

In the meantime, however, I'm still on the prowl for a non-condom-carrying cabana boy who will serve drinks and pour chemicals, all with a smile and a very low monthly fee.



*As IF! I'm SO TOTALLY HAPPILY MARRIED, stud-boy.

**Lost me there, boyfriend. I get whiny all day from the under ten-set. Sure ain't taking it from a "grown" adult.

***Tex and Doug, the Houdinis of the dog world.

****In other words, we're too cheap to fix it right now.

Hello, Gorgeous!

"Do you remember the 21st night of September
Love was changing the minds of pretenders
While chasing the clouds away."

If you haven't gotten your groove on with Earth, Wind and Fire lately, now is THE DAY. Log on to You Tube, search for "September", close the shades, and get down, get funky! I double dog dare you NOT to dance.

When September rolls around and August is but a distant memory*, I start fantasizing about Fall. I am all about Fall. Who could be against a season filled with cooler weather, longer sleep periods and FOOD?

When I think about all the things I love about Fall, I think, "HEY! I was really supposed to be a BEAR! I have the extra chubbiness, love salmon, and think there is nothing better than a good nap. Hibernation, frankly, sounds excellent."

But, since I'm no Yogi, I'll stay in the present and get thinking about all the good things I'm looking forward to:

1. brisk air in the morning when I first open the door to let the dogs out.
2. watching the leaves turn different colors and gracefully dance to their new homes on the ground.
3. the first whiff of a fireplace in the neighborhood being used.
4. finally being able to wear my winter slippers around the house without being questioned by the neighbor kids, who wonder aloud, "Mrs. Nowell? WHAT are you WEARING?"

Fall food? In a word: GLORIOUS! Funnel cakes at the State Fair, Chili pie at football games, Halloween candy**, Thanksgiving pies, homemade Christmas candy and cookies. Good gracious, I'm gaining weight just typing this!

August around here is supposed to end with a rather cool day for Dallas--highs in the upper 80's. That is close enough to Fall weather for me. I'll be breaking out sweaters and leggings next week, at least in my mind.

For today, though, I'll be breaking into my best 70's R&B funk, complete with singing and getting in the groove. Maybe it will make Fall come FASTER?!

"Ba de ya - say do you remember?
Ba de ya - dancing in september?
Ba de ya - never was a cloudy day?"

Yeah Fall!


*Read: on the first of September, in my failing mind, August IS a distant memory.

**This may be my only annoyance about Fall: stores have this cockamamie idea that we should start celebrating Halloween in August, Thanksgiving in September, and Christmas in October. Can't we just leave the holidays where they belong??