The Finisher II and A Note to Ford

You may recall this post I did about finishing things. My first project was the thrifted table. I cleaned the sewing machine table, removed the machine, and spent 40 minutes trying to saw a board using a tiny handsaw to fit inside it as a shelf. I gave up sawing the board after Other Half made me see the futility of 40 minutes of work vs. four inches of sawed wood when my father has a perfectly nice table saw. "But I REALLY WANT to finish," I said desperately, calculating that I could be finished by 3 or 4 in the morning (tops.) He talked me out of it, and then moved the table upstairs so it can be my vanity (where I can open the window and survey the vast tracts of land behind my stately villa while applying MAC makeup and assessing the progression of what could be wrinkles, but most certainly are not, and all with natural light.)

The next day, I left work in search of soup for lunch after a morning spent at the dentist. As I was about to pull into the parking lot, I heard a giant CLUNK CLUINK CLUNK along with the usual grinding sound, and the car felt like it didn't want to move, as if the power steering had broken. I managed to park the car. Not knowing what else to do, I went into the soup place and ordered a cup of soup to go. I got back into my car. I sat there for about 10 minutes. Then, why not, I started it up to make it back to my office.

The CLUNK CLUNK CLUNK stopped once the car hit 25 mph. The horrible grinding, like someone had taken the belts in my car and replaced them with terrified robot cats, kept going. I tested the brakes and wouldn't you know, only the left side was working. It also sounded like some large hammer had broken free from the passenger's side and was hitting against the wheel, KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. I called up Other Half and we decided that if I could get the car home, that would be it, the end of the line.

Yes, for my second finishing project I FINISHED MY CAR.

I had wanted to surprise you all with some great picture of a NEW FANCY CAR ( you know, the kind without a hole) before I told you that my car died, but that's not what happened. What happened is that I drove home through rush-hour traffic on the side roads with my hazards on hoping and praying that the huge hammer (probably now with added sickle) wouldn't cause my car to catapult, kill me and some innocent, unlucky person whose only crime was thinking they could get a frozen yogurt at 5:00 on a Tuesday.

So we're down to one car...

Dear Ford,

I'd love to be yours....(read more.)

Dear Ford,

I'd love to be yours for a Ford Flex. I mean, who wouldn't love a Ford Flex? It's like a minivan with attitude: a two-tone, low-slung, leather-wearing, voice-activated hunk of gorgeous American blue steel.



If the Flex were a diamond, it would be a Harry Winston. If the Flex were a book it would be Fight Club. If the Flex were a movie it would be the movie adaptation of Fight Club. If Flex were on Mad Men it would be the white-hot love between Roger Sterling and Joan Holloway. If Flex were a band it would be The Killers. Or maybe Whitesnake.

I could drive a Flex for a couple of years, tell everyone how much I love it, plaster copious pictures of me on this here blog doing glamorous, but down-to-earth things with my Flex (like eating Oysters Rockefeller in the carpool lane, or planning a trip to Malaga and also Costco with my nav system.) We could be exclusive, because I'd shape up for you, baby.

And really, my friends can't get enough of my telling them what they love and what they should do; I get phone calls asking for my opinion all day. I can't help but think how their eyes would start batting in your direction, Ford, if they saw me driving one around (right, guys? Seriously...guys...hey, wait up!)

I was once devoted to Ford: I learned how to drive a manual on an F150; I loved my full size Bronco, but then I bought a Toyota, and we all know how that turned out.

But Ford, we have to work on this now, because I need a car so that I can do crazy-mysterious things like go to work, drive my children, haul gourmet cheeses, imported drinks, copious diapers, all with time left over to hit the party circuit. Maybe I wouldn't need the party circuit with my Flex's SYNC. That's right, party in my new Flex, every day at noon-thirty.


What do you think, Ford, want to rescue me from the clutches of Toyota where I've languished for fourteen years?

Yours,

The grounded Jet Set

The Finisher

Years ago I was cutting squares for a quilt. I exclaimed happily how it would look so great when I finished and then I caught my sister laughing. "What's so funny?"
"You're not going to finish it."
"Yes, I am!"
"No, you're not. You never finish anything."
"I am this time!"
"I'll believe it when it happens," she snorted.

I got so angry about it that I didn't ever pick up those cut squares again. Really, I showed her!

I'm still afflicted by the same un-finishing I ever have been. Just when I think I have a project in hand I OH LOOK SOMETHING SHINY OVER THERE.

It drives my loved ones crazy. It would drive me crazy too if I remembered I was supposed to finish something or other.

I made a promise to Other Half: every day this week I am going to tackle one project, one abandoned area, one neglected space and fix it. I think it will help if I share with you exactly what I'm fixing and organizing (public humiliation at a task unfinished helps, right?) I'm going to try really hard to LOOK IT'S SHINY finish something I started. I can do this.

Day One:

The vintage sewing table!

Featuring:

1. The vintage sewing table that I was going to turn into a bathroom sit-down vanity way back when I got it thrifting in the first week of December.
2. The orange table has been in my family room for so long, poised to make it up the stairs after what would surely be a quick makeover, that I think I've started decorating around it. Maybe I don't want to move it! Maybe it should stay! Maybe I should stick with the original plan.
3. Gift bag that we used to carry presents home from La Professora's house on Christmas Day. Still contains presents.
4. Wrapping paper, yes, from Christmas Eve.
5. The camera box from my new camera that I can't use because I don't have a memory card for it yet.
6. The instructions for the camera that Other Half unfolded when I called in a panic from Costco to make sure I was buying the right memory card. Still have no idea if we have the right kind.
7. Someone's PJs are on the floor.
8. Someone's sweater and jeans on the floor.
9. Baby wipes.
10. Outgrown baby church shoes.
11. Oh, and there's still a sewing machine inside the table that needs to be removed and the surroundings cleaned off.

This is going to be fun.

Dear 1979, The Whole "We Don't Believe in Overhead Lighting" Thing is STUPID

I wanted to do something hot for my husband this Valentine's Day. You know, romantical. And there's probably nothing more hubba-hubba than hiring a handyman to install some overhead lighting in a bedroom so that you don't have to leave the light on in the closet or bathroom to illuminate the space.

Married people are so mysterious.

Lark recommended a handyman who she credits for saving her marriage. We both married academics. We need professional handymen.

Handyman Mike arrived this morning and we did a walk through of the house, discussing projects. I got stars in my eyes when he started talking about a kitchen remodel. "We could take down this wall."
"Yesssss."
"And task lighting there and there."
"YEeeessssSSS," I breathed, ignoring the Good Angel who was screaming that we do not have the money, not in any currency form on earth, not even pie. Bad Angel insisted, even without a formal bid by Handyman Mike, that a whole kitchen remodel with the removal of two walls and adding new support columns, moving the plumbing, new appliances, counters, and some cabinetry, would probably cost a max of like $3,000 dollars. Surely, said Bad Angel, We could get our hands on a measly $3,000, even maybe an equity line? And think how happy you'd be, He murmured deliciously. Good Angel was freaking. Whatever. Killjoy.

Handyman Mike asked me where the electrical box was and I opened the door to the backyard, where instead of hearing nothing, we heard the rush of something.
"What's that?"
"I don't know," I responded.

He hopped over the railing and showed me the pond that was developing next to my foundation. A rushing pond. In January. Our first burst pipe!

Somehow, this is less exciting than I thought it would be.

And it probably means no overhead lighting.

Super fantastic!

"You're on irrigation water down here?" prompted Handyman Mike.
"Culinary..." I said.
"Your water bill..." he finished.

Well, I'm the one who wanted to own a house. I don't remember Good or Bad Angel having anything to say about that.

The Hissy

Almost precisely one year ago I had a breakdown. Some might've called it a hissy fit.

I was tired of ice and snow flying up through the hole in my car and hitting me. The novelty of driving children around in something with minimal safety features had long since worn off, along with the paint. I don't know what precisely had taken me to the edge, but I came home and just threw a hissy as hard as I could.
"I refuse to drive it anymore!" I nearly screamed, "How can I drive my children around in that thing? The seals are falling out, it's 20 years old, there's no L.A.T.C.H., there aren't any airbags, it's a TUNA CAN!" We both agreed, after I I hyperventilated into a paper bag*, calmed down and saw reason, that we would wait until we had a house. Guess what? Now the car is 21 years old, and I'm still driving it, but we do have a house.

Two months ago I ran over a hunk of ice. Immediately the temperature started rising and the car nearly overheated on the 5 minute drive home. When I dropped off the family and pulled out of the driveway I noticed a large green puddle. Antifreeze. That ice hunk punctured my radiator. For some reason, I thought I could make it back to work for a 3pm meeting even with my car rapidly expelling antifreeze. (I probably thought this because all last summer my car overheated with pin-point regularity. I knew that I'd have to turn the car off at all intersections and blow the heater during all of July. There was the panicked case of me having to pull off the side of the freeway while caught in a traffic jam until the vehicles moved and my car cooled down enough to drive. Misty water-colored memories.)

I made it to the intersection of Orem Center Street and 800 West, a lovely intersection on the crest of a hill. I sat, hazards flashing, smoke/steam pouring from under the hood, through two light cycles, and revised my plans. Clearly, I would not be making the remaining commute to work in my present state. Fortuitously, my regular mechanic was at the bottom of the hill: if I could just get the car started again, and coast through two lights and under the freeway overpass, I could make it to the mechanic half a mile away. And that, with the help of divine providence, is what happened. I called Other Half from the mechanic and said in a low and rage-filled voice, "If this is over $500, I. Want. A. New. Car." I think he was too scared to disagree.

The total came to $300.

I paid it and drove off with my fancy new radiator.

The check engine light came on 400 feet from the shop. I called Jenny and cried.


I picked up my friend Noelle so we could go to IKEA to price some things out for an OrangeSoda project. I made a joke about my car, and then mentioned that I saw one of the housekeepers in my new neighborhood driving the same car. All my neighbors probably think I'm the housekeeper. Sounds about right. "Honey," giggled Noelle, "I hate to break it to you, but my maid drives a nicer car than you."
"I know," I sighed.

Other Half drove my car today. "Does it...always sound like this?"
"Yes."
"Like it's all metal, and metal is being used to stop the car?"
"Yes."
"And like a cat or a small child got stuck in the wheel well?"
"Yes."


I'm just sayin....



I've been frugal enough, right?




*Just kidding. No paper bag. I've always wanted to become that hysterical, though. Do you think corsets are required?

Winter Madness!

I think I have Winter Madness with a terrible case of Spinning.

It's not the snow thing. I like snow. I think snow is delightful. I can even tell the days are staying lighter later, driving home in an icy-rosy glow should make me happy. Could it be the doldrums? No. I am not a ship on the ocean, no matter what kind of analogy you wish to employ.

Is it latent hibernation? I find myself reluctant to crawl out of bed, truculent if I have to abandon the couch, difficult if I have to leave my house, desirous of blankets to wrap around me at all times, and a serious case of the "No, I don't want to"s. I don't want to talk, I don't want to leave, I don't want to eat that, I don't want to go to there.

My DVR is 92% full. This is ridiculous. I have to delete shows before watching them. What kind of Winter Madness does not allow for TV consumption? That's grounds for investigation right there, Exhibit D.

The Supreme Court ruled today that corporations have the same rights as a person. This makes sense. Afterall, I broke up with AT&T, TJ Maxx is my secret lover, Apple and I have a love-hate relationship, I belong to Google, I have a crush on Ford, I'm in bed with OrangeSoda, and NBC is my mortal enemy. What could be wrong with all that? Wait, unless someone forgot to attend the Difference Between Personification and PEOPLE Symposium at the law school. Oops! Maybe they were too busy making crafts with the wives' club.

Speaking of stupid decisions, I've been meaning to get a pedicure for two months and keep putting off nail trimming until my theoretical appointment. My toe nails are obscenely long.

(Oversharing.)

(Winter Madness.)

(Send help.)

(And soup.)

(With a maid.)

(The soup has the right to vote now, right?)

(Let's bring back poll taxes.)

(MADNESS.)

Maple Lane

My friend Lindy is selling her lovely home on Maple Lane.

It's Maple Lane. Can you even? I feel like we should all be making pies, wearing aprons, writing novels in our copious free time, petting the beagle, lighting sparklers, listening to grandpa tinker in the garage, watching the clouds, putting on a parade, you know, like this is freaking AMERICA.

Holy cow.

That house.

Too late to move?

Someone should buy it. Someone who will still invite me to lunch and cut me dinner plate dahlias to take with me when I go back to my house with the no garden.

Christmas FAIL

Guess what?

No, guess what?

My Christmas tree? It’s still up.

I know.

I know.

It gets worse.

This year I didn’t really do Christmas decorating, which is a shame since I don’t decorate for other holidays (and if you bring up the working disco ball that is currently hanging in my foyer, sure, we put it up for Halloween, but I like it so much I’m turning it into a permanent feature.) I usually go all out for Christmas, well, all out for me: some lights in windows, a wreath, a tree, uh, I think that’s it.

All of that rigamarole at least once a year!

I pulled down the plastic containers with the ornaments and lights from the garage shelving and slide them along the carpet to the living room the day after Thanksgiving. Those containers stayed in that living room undisturbed for almost two weeks. It was only El Guille’s persistent nagging to put up the ornaments that finally got the tree up.

The wreath? First the weather was too cold to hang the wreath hook, and then I had to repair the wreath with hot glue. The hot glue gun stayed in the living room with the wreath for two weeks. The wreath is still sitting on the side table where I set it to cool a month and a half ago; it never made it onto the door.

I have these really cool bulb lights on a string that I was going to hang in my windows, they look so cool and mod from the outside. I couldn’t find the cool lights from whatever diaper box they ended up in during the move, and since they were the crucial first step in the lighting design, no lighting went up. Don’t you fret, I BOUGHT MORE lighting for the outside, which is currently in its original packaging, including the plastic bag from Target, in the garage. See, I went outside to test the external plug and it didn’t work. And it was that week in December when the high every stinking day was 5 degrees (and pansy California was crying because they were in the 40s.) I couldn’t bear to be outside to figure out why the external plug didn’t work, so that was it. The test string of lights was literally kicked around the foyer for four weeks. That was my guest prep: a vicious kick of the white string under the leggy 1920s settee, which is hardly a stealthy move and totally not obvious.

I...

I just couldn’t this year. And I’m having just as hard of a time taking down what I did do.

(Container of lights? STILL IN LIVING ROOM.)

Is this the kind of thing people call Oprah about for help?