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Sunday,
August 11, 2002
actually written on . . .
Sunday, August 4, 2002
(First
things first. I was wrong about my
prediction, but correct that the film would be predictable. The catch is,
you have to see the first ten or fifteen minutes to determine the outcome. Buy
a ticket and see for yourself.)
For
the last five or so years I have relied largely on my own feet, public
transportation, or the kindness of, if not strangers, co-workers to get me to
and from work each day. I considered this surrendering of my independence to
time-tables and mechanical difficulties an enormous sacrifice of not only my
personal freedom but of my ability to alternately ridicule and secretly enjoy
The Howard Stern Show each morning.
I
bitterly hated the El, the train, the cab, and the walking of city streets in
perpetually bad weather, passing by all manner of humanity asking me for
directions or money or both. And the hair! I have endured frizzy ends,
Ruth-Buzzi-Bangs and what my husband affectionately calls my "Bag Lady
Ready to Attack" look, as a result of exposure to the elements. (To be
deemed appropriate for public consumption, my head should, under no
circumstances, be outdoors for any length of time.)
I
spent nearly six years in New Orleans and Chicago bemoaning the fact I had no
wheels to get me to work, but all that changes now. There is no public
transportation to my place of employment in Florida and my office is too far
away for me to walk.
My
father's car arrived yesterday afternoon. He bought this Corolla in 1991 and it
looks WRONG here. This car belongs in the driveway of my parent's house in
Connecticut, in the parking lot of a flea market or en route to a tag sale. The
radio should be picking up WTIC AM 1080 and the back seat should be cluttered
with tools and cast iron gadgety things. Maybe there should can of paint should
be back there too.
This
car does NOT belong on a live oaky, Spanish moss heavy street in Florida.
My
own car, a Tercel of the same vintage, will never get me to and from work
reliably. Purchasing my Dad's car seemed like the right thing to do. The frugal
thing to do. The New England thing to do. My mother had no use for it and the
exchange allows me to send her some money without her feeling guilty about it.
She was also able to relinquish the car to a family member, rather than a
stranger--it's not gone forever and she'll see it when she comes to visit.
Regardless of the many logical reasons why this transaction made sense, it feels
terrible. I just cannot get into that car without crying. For example, I had no
idea his umbrella would still be in there. Or that blanket--it's got to be
almost forty years old. As kids we'd sit on it during fireworks, or wrap
ourselves up in it when being treated to Herbie the Love Bug at the Hartford
Drive-In.
For
awhile, at least, I imagine this vehicle will make actually driving to work more
troublesome than public transportation. I'm trading in my Ruth-Buzzi-Bangs for
swollen bloodshot eyes.
Addendum: Forgive me for taking
the site down without notice and for not answering your emails. I lose sight of
Jackie O. on some days .
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