she· verb

 

What sheverb is

What sheverb is not

Select photos

Archives

E-mail

Get Notified

Home

 

 

 

 

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 . 

Previous | Next