Stubborn? Who, me?

It should probably be seen as a sad state of affairs that my mother--who was up until recently famous for not knowing how to answer her own cell phone, which could neither text nor take a picture--now has a smart phone with all the bells and whistles, and pays about the same per month that I do. Not to mention the part where I whipped out my phone over the holidays to check a message, and got a round of 'oohs' and 'aahs' from the assembled family members, along with a "I didn't think they still made flip phones." Whereupon I had to admit that they didn't, and I'm a freak.

Yes, it's true. I'm clinging to outdated tech. Hard. I'm not even sure why--it's a pain in the butt to answer a text with the old keypad, where hitting the number 1 enough times eventually offers you A, B or C as options, and it's not worth taking a photo knowing it's going to be the size of a microchip and I'll have to text it to Arizona and have him send it to my email.

At the same time, though, I kind of like not having email access all the time, and there have been a whopping two times that I could've used internet access out on the road and didn't have Arizona right there with his work-provided smart phone to pick up the slack. So is it really so bad that I cling to my creaky old phone?

Then there's the car thing. My mom is currently car shopping and Arizona and I are (unfortunately) probably not that far behind her, so there have been some recent discussions of the new models with AWD … and the squirrel-powered engines that come standard these days. 

Okay, maybe that's not entirely fair … but this girl learned to drive in and around Boston, and still tends to take the 'when in doubt, aim and hit the gas' mentality, especially on the highway. Which isn't an easy thing to do when you feel like you've gotta whip your squirrels to get any acceleration!

If I could replace my eleven-year-old turbo Baja part for part and horsepower for horsepower (or keep it on the road forever), I would do it … except that Arizona doesn't exactly fit it with room to spare, and while Baby H will be a smallish package for some time, I'm told that won't last forever. At some point, we're going to need to transport large, gangling humanoid males in the midst of growth spurts. Sigh. 

So … we're either going to be stuck with squirrels, or we're going to have to upgrade the engine, which will come with a whole lot of crap we don't want, like back-up cameras and on-board navigation. All so I can get my RPMs up from squirrel to angry badger territory. I get the whole save-the-world thing, honest, I do! But when we come down to it, I'll cheerfully sacrifice some MPG for actual acceleration.

Yes, stubborn. But, hey, at least I own it (sort of), and I try not to let it affect other people. Except for the part where my beloved has to fold himself nearly double to get into our one car. Or the other week, when I had to ask the roadside assistance lady to Google me the number for a local taxi …

How about you, ReaderFriends? Do you have a something that you cling to, even when logic and the 21st century suggests life would be easier with the newer version? Please don't tell me I'm the only one!

On not breaking a leg this holiday season

Hello, ReaderFriends, and Happy Holidays to those who celebrate! 

Seeing how Arizona's spirituality lands somewhere between Navajo and agnostic, and mine is mostly self-assembled, our celebration is a bit of a mutt. We have a 'Winter Tree' that I decorate myself and Arizona surprises himself each year by enjoying; we do small gift exchanges with each other and my family and go spend time with his on Christmas day; and we take some time to be together and reflect on the year past and the one ahead.

And, weather and circumstances permitting, we take the bikes somewhere fun for a ride. 

This year, the usual tradition has been complicated somewhat by my super-pregnant, ordered-off-the-mountain-bike status. So we've adapted--going on some fun hikes, ostensibly scouting new biking locations for next year. How is biking going to work with a new baby involved? Beats me, but I'm sure we'll figure something out. (Crossing fingers.)

One of the coolest locations we've scouted is Rocky Neck, where an old WPA project building overlooks the sound on a lovely piece of state park. On the 'bringing things full circle' front, the first and only other time we had visited was to scout the building as a possible wedding venue. At the time, we deemed it too big (and frankly intimidating) for our small friends-family-and-barbecue plan. Now, though, Arizona declared it perfect. Because, you see, it has Good Rocks.

Here's the two of us scouting those rocks a couple of weekends ago and modeling our furry hats. (For the record, he was wearing said hat when he first came toward me across the ferry parking lot for our initial face-to-face meeting, and my original 'wonder if he'll be over six feet like his profile claimed' quickly morphed to 'jeepers, what is he, like eight feet tall?')

And here's Arizona this past weekend rocking the … er … rocks.

I, of course, was firmly planted on my hiking boots, taking the pictures (in a furry hat). And before I sent him off to have his fun while I hiked down to get a good picture angle, I gave him a kiss and hesitated. There was no real point in telling him to be careful, because if you're too careful on a downhill like this, you'll go over the handlebars. And I didn't want to tell him not to crash, because that's sort of inevitable in the sport, especially when you're scouting a new line. Break a leg? Just no. 

I went with "Have fun and try to land softly." And he did exactly that. So that is what I wish for you, ReaderFriends, as we navigate the holiday season and look to the year ahead. Have fun, and try to land softly.

--Doc Jess

An Open Letter to the Alarm Cat

Dear Pixel,

We love you dearly, and still marvel on a weekly basis that a bright, generous soul such as yourself found your way onto Route 95 that morning two years ago, and that you survived your dash across five lanes of traffic to where I had pulled over to help. And that, ironically, I had been on the way to the animal shelter, wanting a second kitty who was more amenable to cuddles and hugs than Lucy T. Cat, whose folder at the veterinary clinic is splashed with warning stickers and the nickname "Cujo."

The Universe got it very right when it paired us up--you are as soft, warm and cuddly as I could have asked, and you are Extremely Serious about your job of helping me write each day. I realize that some times it may feel as if there is no end to the pens and papers you must sit on, the computer keyboards you are required to walk across, and the effort it takes to poke me into the optimal position for your next nap. You take it all in stride, though, uncomplaining. You are a valued employee, and your annual review will reflect this, as will the raise we are planning for you next year. It is called a "catio" and will be attached to my office window and replace the scrubby bushes in the front yard.

However, in your annual review (and, well, pretty much every morning), it has come to our attention that you have taken on a second set of duties that you pursue with equal zeal: that of Alarm Cat. We would like to point out that we have small mechanical devices that perform this job adequately, and on a schedule of our choosing. Also, we would like to note that when these mechanical devices fail to raise an alarm around daybreak, this does not necessarily mean they have malfunctioned and need you to back them up. Similarly, you do not get extra credit when you anticipate them by anywhere from a minute to an hour. Sometimes us humans need extra sleep, too.

We can only assume it is your lack of faith in these devices that has prompted you to assume the duties of Alarm Cat, seeing how you have kibble in your bowl at all times; Squishy Food is not dispensed until 5 p.m.; and upon my awakening, you immediately repair to your window perch for an extended bath-nap combination that undoubtedly fortifies you for the busy day ahead.

We acknowledge the grievance you recently filed, regarding our closing of the bedroom door, and understand that this causes you great distress as you picture what might be going on outside of your reach, and assume it involves Cthulhu. If you could see your way to trusting the small mechanical devices more, and perhaps waiting for daylight before sticking your paw in my mouth, then we would be less likely to invoke The Door. 

It is our hope that the three of us, along with the Feline Workers' Union, will be able to negotiate some sort of an Alarm Truce in the year ahead. However, please note that your other excellent interpersonal and editorial assistant skills far outweigh the impact of your overzealousness in this other matter, and that we have no interest in altering the lifetime contract that was signed the moment I dug you out from underneath my car on that highway. We love you very much, and look forward to many more years of you being part of our family. 

Regards,

The Management

An Ode to my George Foreman Grill

I don't know about you, ReaderFriends, but I rarely (like, almost never) watch a TV commercial or see an Internet ad and think "I gotta get me one of them." 

I mean, really. Why all the dollars spent on car commercials, most of which look the same? I'm going to pick a vehicle by reviews, word of mouth, price and research, not because some VIP tells me it'll make my ass look smaller, or faster, or more fuel efficient or whatever. Same with restaurants, beer brands, and car insurance.

Now, mind you, I'm a fan of ads as an art form, as tiny little stories that play out on screen. (For example, the new Netflix one at the airport gives Arizona and me the giggles.) But while I enjoy some of the insurance commercials out there (the All State deep-frying-the-turkey ad is one of my all-time faves), they haven't influenced my choice of provider (USAA all the way, baby!). And half the time I know I like an ad, but couldn't tell you for love or money what company it's supposed to represent.

So suffice it to say that what little brand loyalty I possess comes from my own experiences, not the idiot box. Mostly, anyway. Because, as with any rule, there are a couple of exceptions. 

My green nonstick frying pan is one, impulse purchased at Wally World following the questionable consumption of a late-night infomercial that showed happy little sunny-side-up eggs sliding cheerfully of said frying pan and onto a plate, with (allegedly) no lubrication involved. And to be honest, it's a good pan. Maybe not lube-free, but plenty sufficient for Bacon-and-Eggies Saturday. 

Then there's George. Do you remember those ads with George Foreman and his gazillion kids, all named George? I do. And how about the ones where he extols the virtues of his indoor grillers, with their fat-channeling grooves, quick preheating, and numerous health benefits? Sign me up!

Yep, many years ago, I succumbed to those promises and bought an indoor grill that looked rather like the UFO at the World's Fair--you know, the one where Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones bust the place up fighting the big alien Bug in the first MIB movie? Yeah, it was like that, and it served me well until getting lost in the move to CT. I didn't replace it at the farm--who had time to cook when there were chores to do? However, a few years ago, in the early days of my new post-farm life, I once again saw a commercial for George and his gazillion kids, and found myself hankering for fat-channeling grooves and numerous health benefits. 

Are there better mini-grillers out there? Probably. Could I have done some research and come up with a different option? No doubt. 

Instead, I drove down the street, found the proper aisle, and got myself another George. And you know what? We love him. We even bought him some accessories. And if he died tomorrow, we would go right out and buy him all over again. I use him for everything from seared tuna to waffles, and a whole lot of stuff in-between.

So what about you? Have you succumbed to a commercial? Have a gadget that you adore and would willingly buy over and over again? Have a recipe for me and my George? Do tell!

Ah, yes, that old dental drill sound ...

Yep, that was my morning, spent in the dentist's chair. Mind you, this was a good appointment (to the point that anything involving the smell of your own seared teeth is good), in that the goal was to grind off the little orthodontic nubs, adjust my bite, and fill in the bottoms of my oft-chipped front teeth, thereby marking the end of my 11-month Invisalign experience and my entry into the world of Straight Teeth and a Decent Bite. 

(This as opposed to last fall, when I went headfirst over the handlebars of my mountain bike, smashed my face, and had all these people looking at my mouth and gasping, whereupon I was forced to assure them that yes, my teeth really had been almost that crooked and caved-in before my little stunt.)

Before and after pictures to come at a later date. Today, I'd like to share a few impressions (ha ha) from my morning in the torture chair. To whit (and please note, this is all said with affection and gratitude, because my teeth really do look and feel awesome):

1. Dear Dr. Y--Yes, that is my left nostril. Yes, your latex gloved pinkie fits neatly inside it. This does not necessarily mean you should use it as a leverage point.

2. It's bad enough that you're using the whiny drill thing that makes smoke and burning smells. I get that you need to keep water on the process to avoid heat or whatever. But could you decide whether to shoot the excess water up my nose or down my throat, and stick to that theory? It's the not knowing that's making me tense.

3. Given #2, I could do without the waterboarding jokes.

4. No matter how many times you tell me that giving up tea and Diet Coke will make it easier to keep my teeth white-ish, it ain't happening. Sorry. But, hey, you finally got me to floss on a regular basis, and talked me into the Invisalign. I'd chalk that up as a win.

5. If, when doing the dental impressions for my retainers, I mention that the first (unsuccessful) batch of glop was nice, with it's faint vanilla scent, that's a hint that I'd like to stick with that flavor. Not switch to the one that tastes like motor oil and toe cheese.

6. When you use wayyyy too much of the stanky glop for the second try and the stuff goes down the back of my throat and blocks my airway, don't be surprised if I start unceremoniously digging the hardening goo out of my mouth and wiping it on my shirt in near panic. I was primed by the whole waterboarding thing. Oh, and sorry about the flying elbow when you tried to step in and help. 

7. Finally, since it's Thanksgiving week, thank you for the past year of trays, check-ups, and pep talks. And, well, thanks to my mommy, who announced one day that since my childhood ortho wasn't particularly good, she would help pay for an adult do-over.

And so ... I'm back at my desk, trying to get the taste of motor oil and toe cheese out of my mouth and the sound of that whiny drill out of my ears for the rest of the day. Not to mention, twitching when Arizona turns on the faucet in the kitchen!

Wishing you a day free of the dentist's chair, dear ReaderFriends, and a most excellent Thanksgiving, should you partake.

Car-ma and Awesome Vanity Plates

As I grew up, the automotive theme in my family was "it's a good car if it gives you lots of warning, or at least makes sure you're safe before it dies." Which, granted, ascribes a fair bit of free will to our four-wheeled partners, but, hey, we named them, too.

Bun-bun the diesel VW Rabbit had a habit of dropping mufflers up and down the east coast (Canadian camping grounds, the Expressway leaving Fenway Park, etc.), but even sounding like a giant, percussion-heavy marching band, he got us where we were going. Steve the pickup truck stuck with me through my first couple of years behind the wheel before politely leaking gas to let me know that the connection between his cab and his bed was about to let go.

These days, Arizona's and my beloved Subaru Baja, Roo, is well on his way to joining those hallowed ranks of Good Cars. Last summer, he gave us fair warning that he wasn't feeling well on the day before a planned road trip. Which was annoying, sure, but better the day before than a few hundred miles down the road! Similarly, this past week, my sweetie and I were on our way to the dentist for his-and-hers cleanings, when one of Roo's rear wheels started making a godawful grinding noise and he dragged to one side, like a pony that had just gotten a pointy rock stuck in his hoof and was tossing his head and going "Get it out, get it out, get it out!"

We pulled over. We stared at the tire and brakes. Arizona stuck his head under, to see if we were dragging something. Failing to find anything we could see, we went through the usual "parking brake on, parking brake off, back up, wiggle around, go fast, go slow" routine, and what do you know? Things started sounding better and better, until we could only reproduce the grinding noise with a hard turn to the right.

As an aside, this pleased me. I really hate handing a car to a mechanic and describing a problem he (or she, of course, but mostly he) can't reproduce. It's like taking a day off to ship a horse to the expensive vet clinic for a comprehensive lameness exam, only to have it walk off the trailer sound as a dollar.

Which left the question of what to do? Should we turn around? Keep going onto the highway? We would need to get on the highway with him at some point to get him to the shop, as it's ... Well, what do you know? The shop is right down the street from the dentist. 

So off we hied to get our fangs cleaned, then dropped Roo off with our most excellent mechanics, and picked up a loaner to drive home, only a half hour late getting Arizona back to his desk. And thus Roo (in addition to only needing a fairly easy and inexpensive repair) proved himself once again to be a Good Car.

Because did I mention we were planning an eight-hour, four-state drive on Saturday to visit a friend? Yeah, that. And while it wouldn't have been the end of the world to break down on some highway between here and there on a Saturday, it would've been a whole lot less convenient than toodling down the road with nice clean teeth for a two-hour repair.

Instead, our road trip passed in hours of pleasant conversation, Arizona's continued marveling at how us transplanted Bostonians choose to pronounce our place names (often only hitting one or two out of every three letters), and a game of 'spot the best vanity plate.' Because I can only guess that it's really cheap to get a vanity plate in Maine, because there were LOTS of them.

There was the SUV that was RN-N-L8 and doing eighty in the middle lane. It took me a second, but then I grinned. "Running late!"

There was the white hatchback that proclaimed itself a HERO. Since it was a Purple Heart plate and wore USMC stickers, I'll take that as fact rather than braggadocio. 

There was the big, badass pickup truck that claimed to be YR FATHR. I'm not sure if it was meant to be biblical, Star Wars or Jerry Springer, but it was memorable.

Then there was the usual gaggle of names, initials, and inside jokes that Arizona and I could only guess at. But it got us reminiscing about vanity plates we have known and loved, like the red VW Beetle named LADYBG, and a variety of horsey themed plates I have seen at the shows over the years, versions on EQUIT-8 and JUMP IT. 

My all-time favorite, though, was one I saw back when I was a kid, maybe on one of those familial road trips: a white VW Rabbit whose plate said IM LATE. 

Mind you, I was old enough (and had a weirdly esoteric sense of the world stemming from reading anything I could get my hands on) that at first I thought it meant someone was pregnant and, to quote Aerosmith, the rabbit done died. Upon following the in-car discussion, however, I acknowledged it was probably an Alice in Wonderland reference. And a cool one, at that.

Me? I've never had a vanity plate. Thought about it, sure, but I just haven't been able to settle on a seven-character string that works. It's made even more complicated by Arizona's and my choosing to be a one-car family, since we do most everything together anyway. So for now, we're ... well, whatever numbers and letters Roo is wearing (I think there's a Y in there somewhere). And we're grateful to him for giving us plenty of warning that he needs to see a car doctor!

How about you? Does your car have a name? Do you have a favorite vanity plate? Have you seen a funny/awful one? Let's collect them!

Battle of the sexes: to obsess or not obsess, that is the question

Arizona and I are headed for a major (happy) Life Change, and as the big old countdown to Holy Crap chugs along, I am aware of (and amused by) a major difference between the two of us. To put it in writing terms: I'm a plotter and he's a pantser.

A plotter does her research, thinks about the book's beginning, middle and end, and has a pretty good idea of what is going to happen before she starts writing. A pantser (no, autocorrect, I don't mean 'panther,' even though panthers are Very Cool) dives right in to writing the story and makes it up as he goes along. He might have a high-level idea of the story (hm... I think I'm going to write an alien love story set against a geopolitical movement involving hard cheese), but he figures out the rest of it on the fly.

I have been both a plotter and a pantser (nope, still don't mean 'panther') over the years, in both my stories and my life, and the thing is, I'm convinced that I eventually wind up with the same product in the end--I just got there two different ways. And just as when I'm in plotting mode, it would stress me out to have to shift gears and write into the mist (without a plan), when I'm in pantsing mode, I don't want anybody hovering over me, telling me it's time to plot.

So, too with me and Arizona. 

This past weekend, we went to an all-day class to help us prepare for our Big-Happy. It included videos. Do you remember the spaghetti films from Driver's Ed? The ones with lots of blood and gore, and messages like "don't drink and drive" and "don't drive distracted"? Yeah, they were like that. There were flip-books, too, and some unsettling Q&A periods. Afterwards, when a family member of Arizona's asked how class went, he replied, "It was fine. Good to know where to park and how to find the cafeteria."

Ah, the male perspective. 

Me? I came away from class feeling more settled about the whole process. I, too, am happy to know where to put the car and how to find food. But I also like knowing all the other details, including What Could Go Wrong and What To Do If It Does. See? Plotter. Arizona, on the other hand, would far rather pretend the day didn't happen--because if it did, then he has to worry that Something Might Go Wrong that He Can't Prevent. Pantser.

And you know what? I'm okay with that. In fact, I like it. It's one of the many ways we balance each other out. He reminds me to enjoy today and not spend so much time thinking ahead, while willingly (or at least without active foot-dragging) going along with things when I announce: "I need a plan." Not to mention, we really do seem to wind up at the same destination nine times out of ten, even coming at things from different directions ... and the tenth time is usually that much more interesting because of our different takes on things.

So how about you? Plotter or pantser? (Or, apparently, 'panther'?) Would you rather know what's coming or find yourself surprised?