Eleven 

Mike and I spent four days looking for a new car for the (ahem) business.  We went to a lot owned by a fellow who collects re-pos from all over the five state area. Beautiful, practically new cars at bargain basement prices.  I’d like to be able to say this guy doesn’t fit the mold of the typical used car salesman, but his liberal use of hair gel and pinkie ring say otherwise. 

“How about this one?”  Mike asked hopefully, stroking the shiny black finish of a Saab 900 convertible.

“Wait,” I said, “look at this Viper! It’s almost new!!  We could strap the kids to the top or better yet, just leave them home!”

“Oh, the kids,” we said in unison, crashing back to earth.  So after test-driving every single van and every single SUV that the guy had to offer, we made our selection.  Slimey gave the paperwork to his nineteen-year-old lackey and bid us farewell, zooming off in his RX7 to profit from some other shmoe’s financial difficulties. 

I am not the type who can make a major purchase lightly, however, and I called the lackey and changed my mind four times. 

“Hi, this is Katie McCollow….um, you know the Explorer we put on hold?  Well, I’m thinking minivan.”

Five minutes later: “Hi, Katie again, heh, sorry, um, it says on your inventory sheet there’s a blue one?”

Five minutes after that: “Katie Mc here, ( I tried to give myself a nickname so they’d think of me as a friend instead of an annoyance) nope, nope, back to the Explorer, the Explorer it is.   Wait, the Mountaineer has leather?  Definitely the Mountaineer.  I mean the Caravan…….”

 And so on. We went back the next morning to sign the papers and pick up the car, which was basically going to be a surprise.  We were greeted by the lackey.

“Oh, didn’t anyone call you?  Your loan was denied. Your business is too new.”

 Pause. 

“We knew that!  We just came to tell you we didn’t like any of your dumb cars anyway!  Who needs a dumb car! Not us!  WE HATE NEW CARS!”

We kept this up all the way out of the parking lot, driving off in a cloud of blue smoke. 

Of course, now every where I look, people are driving Mountaineers-with-leather in my face.  

“Why don’t you destroy the ozone a little more, couldn’t you find a bigger car to wreck it with?”  I yell at them through the haze of brake fluid stench emanating from my vehicle.  I then smugly burn rubber when the light turns green. (Or slowly go bub-bub-bubbing off, whatever. Tomato, tomahto.)

I was talking to my dad last night and he told me he and my mom had just watched an excellent movie, they had both really enjoyed it and that it packed a powerful message. 

Wow, what was it, I asked, getting out my little ‘movies to rent’ pad and a pencil. I didn’t really do that, I don’t really have a ‘movies to rent’ pad and pencil, but I wish I did.  I wish I was the kind of organized person who rented interesting, highly recommended movies instead of staring at the wall of choices at Blockbuster like an autistic child and going home with “Cocktail” for the forty-seventh time. Back to my dad’s favorite movie: 

“About Last Night,” he told me, starring Rob Lowe and the luminous Ms. Demi Moore. 

Um, hi, could you put Mr. Hubbell on, please?

All I even remember about that movie was how horrifyingly embarrassed I was watching it on a date with a boy who never called me again.  

We went swimming today. I signed Meg up for another block with the miracle worker swim teacher.  All I asked is that she be taught to not drown, and after two weeks, she’s swimming actual strokes like a pro.  She now swims better than I do, the extent of my abilities being I can look bloated in a bathing suit.  But while she was having her lesson, Finbar and I were playing Peter Pan.  This is his favorite pool game, because as he floats along on his water wings he pretends he’s flying.  He’s Peter, I’m Wendy, and I asked him who Tinkerbell was.  He looked around and spotted a very tan, very nubile sixteen  year old and bellowed, “HER!”  Then he scooted after her shouting over and over, “C’Mon, Tinkerbell!  Let’s go to Neverland!”

Mike will be so proud.

I have impetigo. 

On my face.  Gross! I thought the only people who got impetigo were seventeenth-century whores and guttersnipes.  I called the pharmacist to ask if there were any ointments available for such a thing.

“Hi, uh……I was wondering if you had any creams or powders or something for, well, impetigo?  My um, chimney sweep needs some….” 

There was a pause, as I’m sure the pharmacist was silently making an “ewwwwwwwwwww” face and probably putting a cloth over the mouthpiece so as not to catch it. 

“Well, you could try Neosporin or something,” he mumbled. 

“You mean my chimney sweep could?  OK, I’ll come in and pick some up….” 

“No, no, no, no, we’ll, um, mail it to you, no need to come in. Really. Please.  Don’t come in.”

So I called Margy’s husband, the good Doctor Frank, who after making a lot of grossed out noises told me to keep it dry and clean and that it wouldn’t hurt me to bathe occasionally.  I guess he’s perfect, is that it? I probably caught it from their hot tub anyway. 

Fourteen

I’ve lost my mind again.

I’m painting my living room.  You may be thinking, “But isn’t she going to move? What’s the point?” or “Why does she keep writing to me?”  

I tried not to go to Home Depot, I tried not to pick out colors, I tried not to pay for it, I failed.  It has been so long since I’ve done anything creative, it was simply out of my hands. 

In line in front of us at the ‘Depot’, as those of us in the know call it, was a woman who turned and smiled and said, “Hello” to my kids.  Now, my kids are pretty shy around strangers. Well Finbar isn’t, but he was mad because I wouldn’t buy him caulk.  So they both just stared at her, and she got all huffy.  “Hmff. Don’t say hello, huh?  Hmff. Well, maybe they don’t speak English. Do you speak english?” (Directs this at me, but I am too busy trying to comfort my frightened children.)  

And she continues: “Hmff.  Just don’t say hello, huh?” 

I wanted to yell, “Stop harassing us, you freak!”  But the kids were on the verge of tears, so I ignored her.  What is wrong with people?  I suppose maybe to people who don’t have kids, shyness can be mistaken for bad manners, but fer cryin’ out loud, did she think humiliating them was helping? 

After that, we went to an open house.  

The woman in charge said to Meg, who was decked out in all her princess-wear, “Why, don’t you look lovely!” And Meggie said, “Thanks. I’m not wearing underpants.  My mom wouldn’t let me.” Then she lifted up her dress and showed her. 

I want her to come out of her shell, but I’d like her to warn me first.

We got a new car. Yay! Finally got the Mountaineer-with-leather. Mike made me promise, since I am a frugal Freddie, that if we got this vehicle I would never complain about the gas mileage.

"Who cares about that, it has leather seats," I said.

Much easier said than done, for a person who has been known to return scotch tape because it was too wide. I actually put a piece of masking tape over the gas gauge so I couldn’t see it, all I can see is the red light that goes on when its empty. So I can fool myself into thinking its gone five hundred miles between fill-ups. This is good therapy for me, as old habits die hard.

I love it love it love it!! The kids do too, they think it’s really fun. I now give other lucky devils in Mountaineers the head nod. 

And yesterday, the weather was so great that the kiddies and I went to the garden center and bought flowers for our pots. They were very good helpers (the kids, not the pots), pulling the wagons for me and choosing the colors. When we got to the checkout, Finbar picked up one package and tried very carefully to bring it to the counter, got almost right there, and then he tripped and wiped out. Skinned both knees and crushed the flowers. It was heartbreaking, his two year old pride was just shattered. But we successfully got the rest of the flowers home and planted, even though its way too early and they'll probably all freeze. Hey, it wouldn’t be spring if I didn’t kill some plant life 

Easter was great, I got up at 7 a.m. to the sound of Finbar rustling around in the living room—in true Janet Reno fashion, he staged his own pre-dawn raid and had found half the eggs by the time Meg was up.

Here’s a story for anyone who thinks all Easter is to kids is candy and bunnies: After the egg hunt, I put on the stereo our traditional Easter carol song, 'He's Alive' by Dolly Parton. When ol' Dol gets to the crescendo, Finbar starts running in circles shrieking, "IT'S MY JESUS!! IT'S MY JESUS!!"  Talk about moved by the spirit. (Granted, he had a stream of chocolate running down his face as he  screamed. But I have often had chocolate induced visions myself.)

After breakfast, we got the kids all dolled up and quickly took some snapshots. The second we were done, they were both immediately attacked by dirt. I don’t know how that happens.  I have to send the pictures to gramma Doris, so she can have proof that I do wash them sometimes.

By the time we got to her house, they were both so filthy they had to be handled with salad tongs.

"No really, that’s the fashion for four year old girls. Pink linen streaked with dirt and grass, feet ripped through the bottom of the tights, shoes nowhere to be found, and three or four hard boiled eggs pressed into the hair. Seriously, it’s all the rage."

Nothing else to report, except that while I was busy leafing through my new In Style, Finbar took a jar of Vaseline and smeared it all over all the furniture. Not just one piece. All of it. Greasy hand prints that do not come out on everything.

Well, speak of the devil, he's up and wants breakfast, so I have to go. 

© Katie McCollow, 2004 •