A Tale of Two Horses

My first car was a 1989 Mustang. I named her Medusa because she was pure evil, an atrocious lemon that had an alternator that caught on fire repeatedly, among a multitude of other problems. I became adept at using a fire extinguisher and making small talk with tow-truck drivers. I also got good at duct-taping leaking hoses well enough to drive to the service station. Medusa was a bad, bad girl, and every time I took her to the mechanic, I think I could hear her laughing. She didn't even have a pretty face, given that I had been in a fender-bender early in my stewardship of her that would have cost too much to fix (Of course, I ended up spending more money than she was worth in repairs....). Medusa finally died en route to Santa Cruz from Oregon where I had been visiting my mother. Silly of me to think that Medusa would survive a long trip like that. Maybe I was trying to kill her once and for all. But she did have the last laugh, since I tried to get her fixed (I should have gotten out the kerosene instead) and the mechanic screwed me. I swore off cars made by Ford forever.

All this means that there was something a little funny about the fact that the rental car agency gave us a Mustang at the airport during our visit to the Bay Area. Having signed up for a tiny economobile, Todd and I thought it strange that the agent asked us if we would like a convertible at no extra charge. We told him no at first -- it is December in San Francisco, after all. When are we going to put the top down? But then the agent confessed his true intentions: They were all out of "regular cars" and had no choice but to upgrade us to something sporty. And they had 31 brand new convertibles in the garage.

The agent asked us what color of car we wanted (we chose silver, although the idea of red was tempting), and off we went to find our car. At this point, I hadn't yet figured out that we were getting a Mustang: We had been offered a "convertible" and handed keys that said Ford, but it wasn't coming together. I was busy hoping that whatever the car was, it wasn't so big that parking would be a nightmare. But as we walked through the garage, and I kept seeing people driving off in Mustangs, I started to realize what was going on. When I saw the car, I immediately flashed back to Medusa and her many blazes of glory. Hilarious.

Luckily, the new Mustang does not look like the ugly 1989 monster. In fact, it looks good. Too good. I liked it. Dammit, Ford! I hate you! I may have even skipped and giggled a bit when I saw it. Though, in my defense, I was tired. As a sidenote, an older couple (male-female -- no compulsory heterosexuality here!) was getting into their own Mustang beside us, and having a difficult time. They thought the trunk was too small for their gargantuan suitcases. They sighed and struggled and complained about how they ended up with a sportscar. The man even went to ask if they might get something else. Todd and I, on the other hand, pronounced the trunk spacious, threw in our tiny suitcases, and laughed to ourselves at this poor couple who apparently does not know how to pack light, and can't figure out that the back seat can also hold luggage.

We drove off in search of our hotel and I reflected on my years with Medusa. As I was doing so, I caught a glimpse of smoke out of the corner of my eye. For a split second I thought: Is the car on fire? I was in a Mustang, after all. Isn't that what they did? But no, it was just exhaust in the damp night. Obviously, I'm more deeply scarred than I thought. Thanks Medusa. And also, thanks to the Mustang du jour, who has provided something of a corrective emotional experience, with its shiny coat, good stereo, and responsive growl.

Ford is still on my shitlist, though.

California, Here I Come

Todd and I are going back to the Bay Area for a few days for Christmas, our first trip since we arrived in Boston a little over 4 months ago. I'm curious what it'll be like. I'm looking forward to seeing friends and family, but there's a part of me that dreads, just a tiny bit, seeing the Bay Area itself. What if I have separation anxiety and don't want to come back? I realize that I don't feel all that homesick anymore, and I like that -- I'm starting to see this area as home now too. But there are still things I miss, and I'll bet there are even things that I don't know I miss. And I won't know what these things are until I experience them unexpectedly.

For instance, on the very rare occasion that I hear somebody drive by playing loud music, I'm transported back to Oakland, where we kept our windows open year 'round and were frequently bothered by people driving by and bumping their songs (fo' shizzle). It's funny how something that used to be irritating is now an occasion for nostalgia. Hell, there were times I called the cops on loud street-partiers in the middle of the night, like some kind of crazy old lady. (Although once I was told by the dispatcher that, due to a double shooting, the cops were unlikely to come quiet down the block. Go Oakland!). But now I wouldn't mind a little street party to mix it up a bit in suburbia. I think being a crazy, slightly ghetto-fabulous old lady suits me fine. Though, if I were truly ghetto-fabulous, I would just yell out the window myself at the partiers instead of calling the cops. But I'm a little shy.

People often talk about California/The Bay Area in idealized terms: "Oooh! California! It's sunny all the time! It's so great! You don't even have a winter in the Bay Area!" In the past, I always scoffed. But now that I don't live there anymore, I can see why it seems so great -- it is (except for the ridiculous cost of living -- but at least the produce is plentiful and cheap). There really can be a lot of sun (except in the summer when it's foggy), and yes, in the Bay Area, winter is very, um, subtle. Even though it's not really all that cold here yet , I can see now why weather with a high around 60 during the winter months isn't really considered "winter" by so many people. Hey, you could get away with wearing assless chaps all year long like that! And I'm sure that there are some people who do. But I digress.

So my reunion with California will likely be bittersweet. But I promise (scout's honor!) that I will not go to our old apartment and try to do a citizen's eviction on the current tenants. At least if I did, it's not like the cops would come.

Somebody Buy This Woman a Drink!

On Saturday night, Todd and I went to a concert. When showing my ticket to the bouncer outside the building, he gave me a wristband, indicating that I am of drinking age. He didn't check my ID. However, when he got to Todd, he made him take off his hat and looked closely at his ID before forking over the wristband. Todd is 7 years older than me.

I've been wondering why this happened. Do I really look that old? Have the last few stressful weeks really aged me that much? But then I realized: I just have the haggard appearance of someone who really needs a drink. That's the result of the last few stressful weeks. The bouncer just saw it in my slightly wild-eyed glance. He didn't want to mess with me: Earlier in the day, some random woman in a doctor's office waiting room told me that I looked upset. She wasn't wrong, but my facial expressions are none of her business. I gave her a dirty look and an irritated laugh. That'll teach her to talk to me!

Of course, if I don't just look like I could really use a drink, this means that maybe I really just do look older than Todd. So maybe I look 10 years older than I really am? That's great!

Coping Through Chocolate

Things have happened over the last week that made it a very bad week. I can't really blog about them here, though, because of confidentiality and privacy constraints. Yeah, I know that sounds like there might be a lawyer or hit-man involved, but that's not the case. Even though I can't share what's going on, I can share other important information: Chocolate chip cookies and chocolate mint M&M's are important tools for coping. And you know what? Those chocolate mint M&M's taste really good with Shiraz. Go figure. Chocolate really is medicinal -- don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

Here's to a better week.

The Day the Music Died

Back in July, as Todd and I packed up our car for our road trip East, we realized just how much crap we had that we erroneously thought we could fit in the car. We dumped some stuff in our apartment lobby (like little-used camping gear) with a sign that said "Free" and let some lucky schmuck -- most likely our pack rat neighbor -- have it. We were feeling a little crazed, I think, by all the packing and cleaning (fumes from the Pine Sol?), and we also decided that we didn't have room in our car for all of our CDs, a few books, and a couple of shirts. Looking back, we realize that we definitely had room for these few items. Of course we did! We had an entire car! We're thinking more clearly now.

But at the time, we packed up a box: Some CDs, a few books Todd brought home from work, and a sweater and a couple of T-shirts that I didn't immediately need. The CoHos graciously offered to mail it to us when we got to our destination. Kjerste put the box in the mail in September, and it hasn't been seen since. It appears that the postal service has lost our stuff. This probably means that a mailman somewhere is listening to our CDs and wearing my sweater (that I got for $10 on sale at the Gap).

Now that I've given up hope of ever seeing that box again, I realize how sad I am about losing those CDs. Luckily, we had some of our most prized ones in the car with us, but every once in a while, I'll have a pang when I think about some music that I lost. Like almost my entire Ani Difranco collection (oh, it pains me to even type it), most of which was lovingly burned onto CDs by a friend of mine. Ani: I guess I drove a little too far out of range. And Led Zeppelin: Yes, it has been a long lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely time. And Frank Sinatra: I guess you did fly to the moon. And what about Ella Fitzgerald? She was right all along, you know: It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing. And Soul Coughing, and the Butchies, and Bratmobile, and Cake: I miss you all terribly.

I suppose this means that it's time for me to get some more CDs.