Tag Archives: Driving

June 8, 2012 · 0:00

An International Life of Crime

The State of New Jersey just passed a new law requiring pet owners to restrain their pets in the car.  It’s become known as the Seamus law, after Mitt Romney’s dog Seamus who famously rode to Canada on the roof of Mitt’s car.

Now I have mixed feelings about this law.  It was designed to keep primarily dogs from distracting the driver.  Which is a good thing.  But I’m worried that it will lead to a crime wave.

Because restraining my dog led me to bribe an official of the French government.  Somehow I eluded authorities and remain a free woman.  But there is a lesson here.  And that lesson is this:

Restraint results in a loss of freedom

Yes, it’s true.  I am profound.  And awesome.  And a hardened criminal.

So what happened, Elyse? you say, wondering if you really want to know about my life of crime.  And you know I’m going to tell you.

*   *   *

When we got Cooper in 1998, we owned a Toyota Picnic, a little six seat van not available in the U.S.  It was kind of a vomit van, actually, because it was well known to induce vomiting by anyone who traveled with us.  We kept a large supply of cleaning supplies with us at all times.

Anyway, I read an article about how, if you stop suddenly, while traveling at 60 mph, a 50 lb Springer Spaniel dog will be traveling significantly faster as he flies through the car.  He will, in fact, become a projectile and might end up killing your kid.

Now I liked the dog a lot even at that early stage.  But I didn’t really relish the idea of the dog killing my kid to whom I was quite attached.  So, to scorn and jeers from John, I bought Cooper a special doggie seat belt that attached to the seatbelt of the seat behind the driver’s.

Cooper, however, did not approve of this new restraint.  I presume I hadn’t adequately educated him on the importance of self-restraint.  Because he ate his restraint.  And he had started eating the seatbelt too when I realized what was happening and released the rebel.  Who then happily sat wherever he wanted in the back of the vomit van.

Fortunately, Cooper hadn’t really done much damage to the seatbelt.  There were only a few bites taken out of it; it worked perfectly well and was not a safety hazard.

But when we moved across the border into France a couple of years later, well, we had to have the car inspected.  And the French car inspectors are famous for flunking Americans.  According to my husband, anyway.  And so I faced the villains alone.

Now, before you jump all over my husband for sending me into the lion’s den, well there is something you should know.  My husband cannot lie.  He cannot stretch the truth.  He cannot exaggerate.  Worse in this case, he would not have been able to restrain himself from explaining to the inspector that it really was not a safety issue.

Me, well, I’m different.  I grew up getting away with high crimes and misdemeanors.  I rarely got caught, and when I did, well, I got out of it. I’ve had practice.

So whenever we needed to deal with the French government, well, it was all up to me.

I drove to wherever it was, produced my paperwork, and waited my turn.  Truthfully, I was nervous.  I didn’t want to have to spend $1 zillion replacing a seat belt (car repairs in Switzerland/France are tres cher).  So I fidgeted with the container of mints in my pocket.  Tic Tacs.

When my turn came, I was outside with the inspector, chatting to him.  He was a young guy, and was nice and helpful as I tried to have a chatty conversation with him in my pigeon French. In fact, he couldn’t have been nicer to me.

Plus, the car was in great shape, clean and nearly perfectly maintained.  He found nothing wrong on the outside.  Then he opened the front passenger side, and tested the seat belt.  He closed the door and went to the rear passenger seat, and tested that one.

I started to sweat.  The chewed one was next.

He went around and opened the rear driver’s side door.  And that’s when I did it.

“Tic Tac?” I asked him, holding out the container.

“Oui, merci, madame,” he responded, closing that door without looking at the damaged seat belt.  He took a Tic Tac, and proceeded to inspect the driver’s seat belt.

My car passed inspection with flying colors.

And I continued to live a life of crime in France, just outside of Geneva for two years.

*   *   *

So, if you are going to be driving through New Jersey with your dog you have two choices:

Restrain him or buy yourself a three-pack of Tic Tacs.

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Filed under Cooper, Criminal Activity, Driving, Fashion, Geneva Stories, Humor, Law

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May 1, 2012 · 0:00

Going Downhill

It started as a theory.  An hypothesis.  And naturally, my scientific research proved my conjecture correct.  At least to the best level of scientific certainty I could muster for this particular experiment.

And so now I know exactly why the whole world is going to hell in a hand basket.

It’s the cars.  Or specifically, it’s the cars folks are driving.  Actually, it’s the specific cars specific people are not driving that is causing all the trouble.

“Huh?” you say.  OK.  I’ll back up.

It started last weekend when our family was gathered around in the family room watching a movie:  Spy Game.

I sat up a little straighter during the first scene when Robert Redford/Nathan Muir rushes across Memorial Bridge to CIA HQ at Langley in his Porsche.  [And not only because he was driving in the wrong direction,away from Langley, either.]  No, I sat up straighter because I knew that he was going to save Brad  Pitt/Tom Bishop who went rogue. (No, Brad did not quit his job as Gov’ner of Alaska.  Pay attention!)

Of course Robert Redford/Nathan Muir was going to succeed.  Was there ever any doubt? No! Of course not!  Folks who drive Porsches always succeed, don’t they?  Isn’t that how they get the Porsches?

Well, that first scene made me think.  I thought back on my extensive experience with spies, espionage and intrigue.  Since I’ve been in the DC area for the better part of 30 years, well, obviously I know a lot about spies.  Osmosis works, you know.

Anyway, that’s when I hypothesized that it is the lack of seriously cool cars in the hands of spies that has doomed the US to being a second-rate power.   You see, I live not too far from CIA HQ, and I sometimes drive right by it on my way to work. 

Hmmmmm, I thought. I don’t remember seeing cool cars driving into or out of Langley.  But I needed proof.  Damn.

Now, you can’t just hang out outside of CIA HQ.  They frown upon it, even.  So I knew that I had to be sly.  You see, in 1993 there was a terrible incident where bad guys drove in through the front entrance and started shooting people.  As a result, the CIA folks guard the entrances quite carefully, which is pretty smart.  And I’m usually glad that they do.

Well, except for one night.  That one night on the way to my house, some friends took a wrong turn and entered the facility.  Oops.  They were stopped and searched; the guards even searched the salad Zoe was carrying.  Good thing the Supreme Court hadn’t yet ruled that salad-toting folks could be strip-searched, even though the salad was still naked so it would have been pretty simple.

Anyway, to conduct my research took a bit of sacrifice on my part – I had to “stage” an accident – so I cleverly rear-ended the car in front of me so that I could hang out in front of the entrance to CIA HQ and see what-all today’s spies are driving.  It wasn’t pretty.  I saw:

22 Toyota Camrys

31 Honda CRVs

12 Buick Le Sabres

127 Jeep Grand Cherokees

47 Nissan Altimas

13 Jeep Wranglers

432 Completely nondescript cars

Nondescript car

 and 210 folks who took the bus.

Are you excited?  Envious?  Awake?

There were also several mini-vans with rear windshields covered with those Mom+Dad+Johnny+Suzie+Fido+Fluffy+Flip-flop decals on the rear windshield.  There was ONE BMW, but it was disappointing, too – it was an SUV, an X-3, with a “Love Animals Don’t Eat Them” bumper sticker on the back.

Not a cool car in the bunch.  No wonder our spies are so demoralized.

Or maybe, it is simply having to work here:

*     *     *

Hey, this is my 100th Post!

Thanks everybody for coming back.  You are coming back, aren’t you?

69 Comments

Filed under Conspicuous consumption, Driving, Humor

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February 17, 2012 · 0:00

Desperado

My husband doesn’t know it yet, but by the end of this three-day weekend, he will divorce me.  We’ve been married 25-1/2 years.  But they will be down the tubes in just a few days.

It’s sad.  And it all came about perfectly innocently.  Really.

It was a lovely morning, and today as I drove in to work, I was singing along with the radio when the song came on.  Desperado, as sung by Linda Ronstadt (not the lesser version done by the Eagles).

It just happened; I couldn’t control myself.  It tried, but really, I couldn’t help myself.  I sang with abandon.  With joy.  With knowledge aforethought.

Now, I need to tell you that my soon to be ex-husband is handicapped.  We have managed to make a good life together despite this, umm, problem.  But it can’t continue.

You see, my husband hears everything.  He cannot tune anything out.  Not music, not voices, not machinery.  I’ve never known anyone else with this particular disability.  Whenever a neighbor starts a leaf or snow blower, a power tool, anything, he hears it and is frustrated.  When a song he dislikes comes on the radio, when a commercial jingle plays, he hits the mute button faster than a Jeopardy contestant gets the buzzer.  John will scream and dive across the room to turn that damn thing off.

Poor John.  He’s never found my mute button.

And that, of course is the problem.

You see, I sing.  Now, and for the last 25-1/2 years, I have looked over my shoulder before belting out a tune.  I try to be considerate.  And usually that works out OK for both of us.

Now, you should know that I can sing.  Really!  Years of chorus and choir, voice lessons, starring roles in musical comedies written by unknowns who, tragically, went on to other careers.  I am even a critically acclaimed singer, with the reviews to prove it.  Bronzed.  One reviewer went so far as to say that I was stylish, although I am pretty sure that he was trying to get into my pants when he wrote the review.  Of course, the evidence is circumstantial, based only on the reviewer’s verbal comments to me.  Still, I’m sure his judgment wasn’t impaired.  Extra blood is known to increase musical appreciation in men.  Do I need to produce the medical studies?

Now I have a handicap, too.  Unlike my husband, I can tune out anything.  Including my own singing.  While I’m doing it.  I often just don’t notice I’m doing it.

John can deal with my singing sometimes; sometimes I just keep quiet.  It’s worked.

Except for one song.  Desperado, as sung by Linda Ronstadt (not the lesser version done by the Eagles).  You see, it gets stuck in my head.  And not even the whole song.  Just one verse:

Desperado

Why don’t you come to your senses,

you been out ridin’ fences for so long, now.

Oh, you’re a hard one

But I know that you’ve got your reasons

These things that are pleasing you

Will hurt you some how

 That’s all I can ever remember.  And that, of course, is the problem.

“Lease, you’re doing it again. Those same lines — from the middle of the song.”

“Yeah, but they’re the best lines,” I respond.  (John is never amused by that line, no matter how many times I’ve used it.  Or how cute I look while saying it.  Silence and pursed lips follow. )

This morning, when the song came on the radio, I forgot.  I forgot that I cannot ever listen to that song again.  I forgot that hearing it, even once, will result in divorce.  I forgot that it might lead to a serious change in my life.

I didn’t change the channel.  I didn’t turn off the radio.  I did not drive into a tree or a ditch or another car simply to keep myself from hearing my beloved song – the one that my husband hates above all others.

Nope, I belted it out with abandon.

And it’s still there in my head.  It wants to come out.  In fact, it will come out.  Sigh.  And I know that my marriage simply cannot stand even one rendition.  Sigh. Oh well.  What’s 25-1/2 years anyway.

Mrs. Sparkly. Or should it be Ms.?

So it is a damn good thing that Janice at AuroraMorealist gave me the Mrs. Sparkly Award.  Because I’m going to need to supplement my income with some singing.

Thanks Janice!  For anyone who is unfamiliar with Janice’s blog, check it out.  She has heart and talent and gives love with every post.

72 Comments

Filed under Awards, Driving, Family, Humor, Music

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January 5, 2012 · 0:00

Smarter than me

Lori over at Sunny Side Up posted a piece this morning about parallel parking.  She can’t do it.  Me, I can do it pretty well; I just can’t spell it without spell check.

And it made me think.  Well, that and a cup of coffee.

Now, it may just be the Cheerios talking, but I am starting to be afraid of cars.  Afraid of crossing in front of them, of crossing behind them and of driving anywhere near them.

I don’t like being around inanimate objects that are smarter than I am; and when they can move without my throwing them, well, it paralyzes me.

Have you seen the gizmos they’re putting in cars nowadays?  Lori, you can get a car that can parallel park itself.  Lori, wisely keeps looking for a place.  (Me, I had a bad-boy boyfriend when I was a teenager who taught me how to do it.  But I digress.)

But based on the commercials, by the time the Ford Focus maneuvers into the spot, I would have wet my pants, because these days I parallel park only when I stop to buy coffee/use the restroom after being stuck in traffic.

These gadgets though, terrify me.  There’s one that will brake automatically if you get too close to the car ahead of you.  What if you’re in the sort of traffic we have here in Northern Virginia.  Hell, I’d have whiplash on my first commute.

Have you seen the one that keeps you from hitting the car in your blind spot?  I’m not quite sure how that one works.  It might involve wheel-destroying spikes, a la Ben Hur, or maybe flame throwers, but hey you won’t hit that car.  And you won’t even need to look over your shoulder.  Cause looking over your shoulder can be dangerous.

And then there is the one that vibrates when it thinks you’re falling asleep.  I’m sure it will know exactly when you’re going onto the other side of the road to avoid pot holes, small animals and wheel-destroying spikes coming from the cars that won’t let their drivers look over their shoulders.  I’m positive.  Because no in-car gizmo has ever, ummmm, not worked properly, right?

I am surely not alone in my fear of these gizmos.  Because anyone who has ever had a car with an electronic device in it knows that they break down all the time.

Me, I stopped trusting them about 2 months after I got my current car.  It has lots of gizmos and I trusted one of them once, while backing up.  My car has a Road Runner stuck in side of it.  It goes “beep beep” when I get too close to anything behind me.  It is supposed to “beep beep” in a progressive fashion, as I get closer to stuff.  It goes apoplectic if I reverse to within 5 feet of a wall – knowing that I won’t be able to open the back hatch sends it into a frenzy.  Especially since I only open the back on weekends and at places where there are no walls.  The car will, of course, allow the nose of my car to be in the middle of the driving lane without a peep, though.

I trusted the “beep beep” once.  I was backing up into the only spot left in a garage.  It was the only way in.  My car was filled with a bunch of kids who were being kids and making noise.  Sadly, none of them said “beep beep.”  Neither did the car.  I inched into the wall, giving my  new car a custom bumper.  It is dented in as if someone hit it with a large muffin.

I’m pretty sure that these new safety features are going to lead to some pretty interesting reality TV shows.  And I guess anything that can make those shows worth watching might be worth a shot.

56 Comments

Filed under Driving, Gizmos, Humor, Technology, Traffic

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October 4, 2011 · 0:00

Buttons

I’ve always thought that my car had too many buttons.  But now I’m not so sure.

At last count, there were 223 buttons of different sizes and shapes.  They control the stereo, the lights, the wipers.  They open the windows, heat the seats, and reset things I cannot identify.  In fact there are a lot of them that I’m just not sure about; so I try not to press them.  I fear disastrous results.

I didn’t used to worry about what would happen if I pushed something unfamiliar.  I thought, well, I can just press it again if I don’t like what happens.  But that was before owning my dearly departed Mini Cooper.  It had one button that was strategically located right next to the window control, and it terrified me.   My husband, John, said:

“Don’t press that button.”

Why not?

When you pressed it, the rollover control for the car went off.  I don’t know why a car would have that button.  The only explanation I ever found was that the Mini Cooper was very much like my dog, Cooper, who loves nothing more than a belly rub.  And so I figured that sometimes, my Mini Cooper just needed a belly rub, too.   And that button made it all possible.

But this morning I realized that my car is short a button.

Today, I drove to work a different way.  It was 8:45, and I was 15 minutes from work, when I got to the end of one road, and needed to turn left onto the next four-lane road.  I’m sure you realize that I am a terrific driver, a really nice, considerate, non-assholic driver.  So of course I was in the left lane, with my car responsibly flashing its left turn signal.  There was a silver Honda next to me in the right lane.  Obviously, being in the right lane, he was turning right.  He was not proudly displaying his turn signal, I might add.  At least not so I could see it.

When the light changed, I pulled forward, and I crossed the two westbound lanes and the left, eastbound one to take my rightful place in the right lane.  But my friend in the silver Honda did not turn right – he turned left – from the right lane!  And I immediately remembered that, well, he could do that at that spot on that road.  He was allowed to.

I cut him off.  And I nearly smushed his Honda flat enough to be used as one of those silver plates that cover big holes in the road.  Oops.

I felt bad, and not just because of the language with which he described my driving.  I am still blushing.  But I really do try not to be an asshole, at least when I drive.  And when I do act like an asshole, well, I want to mean it.  You know, like when someone drives really slowly in front of me, or really fast behind me or smokes in the car ahead of me with his arm hanging out the window so I have to smell it.

But after I cut off the man in the Honda, I tried to let him know I was sorry, that I had made a mistake, that I was glad he was not now in an ambulance, headed towards the trauma unit.  But there really wasn’t any way to do that.

That’s where my new button comes in.  I want to be able to hit a button and have a light flash that says,

“Sorry, my fault.”

I’m pretty sure though, that my new friend in the silver Honda wants a different phrase to come out when he smacks his new button.

16 Comments

Filed under Humor

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