Archive for the ‘Humor’ Category

Staying connected at 90

January 5, 2018

My soon-to-be 90 year old mom announced that her computer of several years was on the fritz, and all her friends suggested that she should get a Mac product. “They’re so easy,” they all insisted. “I watch movies in bed on my iPad,” one raved. “I can FaceTime my grandkids,” declared another.

Who are these people, and why are they enticing my mother to spend way too much money on something that a basic machine can do? Email is a regular visitor on her computer, and she does order her vitamins online, but other than that, she does not take advantage of the myriad of apps and capabilities of these sophisticated devices.

She decided she needed a smart phone, thinking it would be fun to text. To be fair, she has texted at least once every other month in the time she has owned it, but her thumbs have not grown weary from pushing the limits of her data plan.

After numerous conversations and looking into purchasing something used (there are few available), I decided I would get a new laptop and pass on my perfectly fine 2012 to her. I would gain speed and satisfaction in honoring the wish of my mom in a way that was affordable to her. My biggest fear was that she would be calling me with challenges that I would be incapable of diagnosing across the 250 miles that separate us. (or even if I were sitting next to her).

I brought home my sleek Air days ahead of my mom’s visit and then spent the better part of a day with multiple technicians erasing my old one and getting it set up for her. I stuffed a small pillow with hair from my head, but we did get there, which was hugely rewarding.

I was driving her to the bus and reviewing the password, reminding her that when she arrived home in New York State, she would need to connect with the internet there. “Oh I don’t have a password there,” she stated confidently. I nodded vigorously. “Sure you do. I’ve needed it when I come to visit. It’s written down near the monitor.” “Oh, no” she pursued. “I know that there is no password at the assisted living. I’ve never had one.” Uh-oh. I started to get huffy. “Mom, there is absolutely a password there. Bet you ten bucks.” Worried that this basic tenet of computer life was eluding her I opened my mouth to refute her claim once again, but somehow stopped before any words escaped. “Okay, we’ll see,” I shrugged my shoulders, and hoped I didn’t sound too irritated.

Minutes later she changed tacks. “You know, my friends have been telling me about this dating website. I think I’m ready to try it out.” I slid a glance to check her expression. She looked as earnest as ever.

“Sure, why not?” I exclaimed. I realized her friends there would be in a much better position to help with this, too.

My mom has forged a close relationship with the Apple help people. They possess unparalleled patience, and knowledge to address questions great and small. I’m certain that in a few months it will be me calling her to ask what to do when my screen freezes and I can’t shut down my machine. Even if her answer is “Call Adam at Apple,” I still give her credit for being wiling to learn, proving that dogs of all ages can learn new tricks. They just need motivation and a little repetition. I hope I can maintain as open an attitude when I’m pushing 90.

Puns upon a time

I finally found a venue that celebrates the pun in punchline. After reading Away With Words, an exploration of the world of pun competition, I googled the Punderdome. Located in Brooklyn’s Park Slope, where the pundits play, the next monthly competition would be held during the three days I happened to be in New York City with my younger daughter and her boyfriend. Score!

I knew from my read that it filled up quickly, but when we arrived at 7:20 for an 8:00 pm performance, the seats were already filled and the atmosphere was electric. “It’s like a concert!” my 22-year-old daughter exclaimed. Indeed, the excited anticipation of a certain good time was contagious. The DJ was the rocking Chair of old favorites using a pair of turntables, and we were having a blast standing against the side wall.

At 8:00 Fred Firestone, the founder of the Punderdome welcomed the crowd, and explained the set up for us few newbies. Three heats of six contestants, each set given a (hot!) topic and 90 seconds to prepare their bit. During the 90 seconds, people performed a song or a quick ditty to entertain the crowd. After each heat, a human “clap-o-meter” would then be blindfolded, and the audience would rate each performance by applause with the top three moving on to the quarter finals. The top four from these nine advanced to the semis and the top two faced each other in a head-to-head pun off. We practiced what a 10 sounds like, with whoops, hollers and whistles piercing the air. Next we practiced an 8, so that the clap-o-meter would be able to gauge where to move the colorful cardboard dial. It’s one time that it’s good to get the clap!

There were a number of multi-time champs (22, 11, and 5), like Punder Enlightening, whose experience and creativity made them clear stand-outs. The first topic was cats and dogs, perfect for tall tails and those of us seated on fur-niture. Some created a story line. A woman could make us howl with a single paws, or subordinate claws before someone might whisker away. Even the crowd outside waited to pay in a feline so they could sit and stay. Other contestants tossed out one liners: Did you know that any country that loves lentils is a Dal-mation?
Joe Berkowitz (a.k.a Punter S. Thompson) points out in his hilarious, informative book that delivery is important. Indeed a performer’s delight is infectious, whereas a particularly dry punchline may need explanation to land (leeching out the fun). Stand-up comedians who pun are better e-quip-ped than punsters who do stand up for this very reason: delivery.

Phraser Crane, who ultimately prevailed the night we were there, tended toward less obvious puns. When colors was the topic, she asked “Who really wins? It’s hue!!” she exclaimed, extending her arms toward the audience. Discussing a thorny problem, she described it as a prism of her own making.

What a delight to attend an event that celebrates the oft scorned pun. I considered whether I could compete, the courage it would require, even in front of even a friendly and encouraging crowd like this one. These are my people, but could I stand up in this Punderosa where one gets horse with excitement? It’s something to dream about. If ever I find myself back in Brooklyn on the first Tuesday of the month, I will skip over to the Punderdome. It could be my puns in a lifetime opportunity.

Has the ubiquitous customer survey lost its meaning?

I have long been a proponent of feedback. Years before my training as an executive coach or social worker, I believed in the importance of letting someone know of my appreciation for a job well done, or if there was a big disconnect between my expectations and whatever job was at hand. How are people supposed to grow without it?

Recently there has been an explosive upsurge in requesting this “feedback,” particularly with the ease of sending email, and resending and resending til it feels like a screaming (but politely worded) demand.

I have become irritable with not only the volume and frequency, but often the length of the freaking surveys, which should be commensurate with the service. When I had my rotator cuff repaired, there were a lot of moving parts (so to speak) to the procedure, and it was extremely important to me and my health. I was happy to answer questions about the various aspects of this treatment.

However, if I’m buying a tee shirt online, I am not willing to profess at length about my experience. I shopped, I bought, I checked out.

At a recent oil change, the gentleman who processed my paperwork leaned in confidentially and advised me that I will be receiving an email survey and that it didn’t really count unless he had five star ratings, so would I please consider that. Talk about getting a bee in my bonnet! The service was fine, and everyone was pleasant, but I am not going to be coerced into handing out a five star rating. The time I had an unusual light on in my car, which took extra time to fix, they went out of their way to keep me posted and threw in a free oil change because it took so many hours. That’s worth rating, but if we’re supposed to comment on every pack of gum we purchase, or bag of dog food we run in to pick up, we’ll be spending as much time commenting on our experience as living it. Good intentions have gone out of balance.

As I was thinking about writing this a couple of weeks ago, I peered out at the torrential rain and realized that every day but one looked like rain for our upcoming week’s vacation. Determined to enjoy being outdoors in Provence, I started looking for rain boots. Too late even for Amazon Prime, I called LL Bean when I spotted low yellow boots that looked perfect. They did have my size and color there at the store 20 miles away. “Do you need them tonight?” asked the salesperson.

“No, but I need them when we leave tomorrow afternoon,” I replied.

“Well, do you have to come here? Where are you coming from?” I interpreted this question literally, not philosophically and told her where I live and she exclaimed, “I live the next town over, right on the border!”

“Oh you’re right on my bike route!” I blurted out.

“Hey, I’m leaving here in a few minutes. I’ll drop them off at your house.” I protested that I would be out, and she brushed that aside, asking where she could leave them. We completed the purchase over the phone and indeed when I returned home that evening my yellow boots were tucked near the back door. Free delivery. Now that’s what I call exceptional (and completely unexpected) service. And no survey has hit my mailbox, electronic or otherwise. But I will go out of my way to let Bean know that their employee went above and beyond, with grace and good humor. That’s what I call feedback.

Panic and exhilaration at full gallop

May 3, 2017

I had been yearning to be back on a horse for years. Memories of my time as a teenager, biking to the new stable where they eventually allowed my friend and me to take out horses on our own, have nudged at my subconscious. Even knowing that I would not be accorded the privilege of riding without a guide, the appeal of being in close contact with these beautiful, temperamental beings held a strong appeal.

The feeling of cantering around an open field back then felt timeless. Our hour and a half evaporated. We knew the woods and fields and could pace our ride to have enough time to enjoy the scenery, away from everyone else.
There were ten of us who signed up for the horseback excursion from our hotel in Patagonia and the estancia (large ranch) was clearly well drilled, sizing helmets and readying horses. Several of our group were first timers, and the bulk of the ride was casual walking through lovely woods on one side of the steppe. It was greener here than the arid stretches surrounding the hotel and the glacial lake it bordered.

At one point, the guide asked me if I would like a little gallop before meeting up with the group again. “Sure!” I responded readily, imagining the easy going rhythm of a canter. He signaled one other person from our group and myself to follow the gaucho off to the left.

Once the others were around the bend, without so much as a howdy do, the gaucho took off like a shot, at a full gallop of 340 miles per hour. I was sliding around in my slippery hiking pants and quick- dry panties literally breathless within seconds! We slowed to a walk around a steep curve where the trees hung low and needed to be held aside and then just as abruptly were off at break neck speed. My horse, who had been antsy from the beginning, insisted on bolting past my fellow group member and I wondered whether he had wings that would unfold or was merely applying the after burners.

The saddle was unlike any I had ever ridden, without the horn of a western style, but more bulky than the traditional English saddle. There was a hump in front that I was relieved one could grab in order to keep a seat on the turbo charged beast who had sensed a return to the barn.

Having managed to remain in the saddle I can say that it was exhilarating. I relayed my panic and glee to my family and my husband was quick to point out that he recalled a certain adventure in Colorado where we had traveled to regroup after my mother in law’s death. With one guide for our group of two dozen, the guide asked whether I would mind being in the lead for a bit while he went back to check on the others.

“Happy to do it!” I assured him. As my husband tells it, within moments I had coaxed us into a gallop (we were trotting) and he was horizontal on his horse, managing to stay on by dint of his thirty year old strength. He feels his terror matched my mild hysteria at zooming warp speed with a horse who did not even speak English.

Fair enough. Justice is served. My karma has been balanced. Perhaps the next time I ride, I can achieve a happy medium of pace: walk, trot, breezy cantering and a dollop of galloping at the end when the horse and I are both ready.

A nod to the nap

August 31, 2016

Summer is THE time to hone one’s skill in the Department of Nap. I have never been prone to this practical and invaluable skill, and I am trying to make some headway into this seemingly unbreachable fortress.

There is no doubt about the restorative properties of the Nap. It can mean the difference between a struggle through the evening and being able to greet it cheerfully. My husband has the capacity to snooze on demand, and while this may come with its own downsides, I wish to be able to call it up when the situation warrants, without fear of incoherence and disorientation upon awakening. Even in college when I would regularly play ping pong until 2 a.m., and then trundle out of bed for an 8 a.m. class, I could not dally in Dozeland during the day.

Lately, I have found that Nap comes looking for me the day after I have been up in the middle of the night for some time. I have tried to infer some correlation between what I have poured down my gullet and any subsequent wakefulness, and have eliminated caffeine, meat and most dairy from my feed. Add in a couple hours biking and swimming and this typically ensures a pleasant forty winks, as long as it is also cool in the bedroom. My primary care physician describes sleep as becoming more fragile as we move through the life cycle. I like this description, as it suits so well. If I have set the stage properly, I generally enjoy my six-seven hours of z’s even with brief forays to pee if I surface. I have also learned not to sweat the times when I’m wakeful from 1-3 a.m., but instead try to enjoy the quiet, and get in some needed reading that I have missed from the day.

I’m not taking this lying down. I realized that this occasional night wakefulness has actually paved the way for my budding expertise in the area of the Nap. Interrupted night’s slumber, plus full workday or workout and voilà! We’re talking droopy, unplugged and battery reset kind of siesta. No lightweight catnap. Nothing to snort (or snore) about.

Philip Roth advises napping to be embraced so completely that one changes to pajamas and snuggles beneath the blankets to more fully take advantage of this delicious passage. I worry that this extreme measure will catapult me into a full on two hour bout of unconsciousness which will then TOTALLY wreck any hope of shut eye at night.

So I’m starting small. During my week on Cape Cod, after a walk through the dunes and a late lunch, I managed not once, not twice, but three times to have a tėte à tėte with the sandman while parked on a sun saturated lawn chair overlooking the ocean. Each time thirty lovely minutes elapsed before I could utter chocolate fro-yo and I found myself only slightly discombobulated and full of energy for voicing my opinion about dinner options. How soon, what to make, what kind of music to accompany.

Ah, Nap. You’re within my grasp. Soon it will not be just during movies that you ask me to visit. Soon it will be my choice to ask for your elixir, your rejuvenating brain massage. If logs really do sleep well, I’m all for emulating them. Rest easy, Nap. I’m coming for you.

Blown away by the Manta Ray

June 8, 2016

Off the coast of the big island of Hawaii, we don wet suits, snorkels and masks and splash into the salty Pacific. As dusk approaches we make our way the short distance from the chartered boat to the raft, grabbing the red handles that ring the structure in order to float with legs stretched out.

Within minutes a twelve foot Manta Ray swims into view not four feet away, its wings flapping fluidly as it banks left and swims off. “Argglg!” I exclaim through my snorkel. Even though we are expecting them, the appearance out of the depths is still startling, as is their size of up to sixteen feet from wing tip to wing tip. Within several minutes there is one after another looping up in front of us, gigantic mouths wide open and gills spread to filter and catch as many plankton as possible. We see their gray and sometimes spotted top and white belly as they make several circuits in a row and I am in awe of the acrobatic and graceful arc that they carve as they repeat this choreography. My eyes grow wide and I am wonderstruck at their size, elegance and utter grace. They come within inches of our outstretched bodies, and several times I’m certain that one of their wings will brush against me.

Suddenly a shout pierces the air. “SH*T! OH SH*T!” It is the teenager from the family of five. “MOM, IT’S SO HUGE!” he bellows at the top of his lungs. At first I am annoyed, worried that his screaming will scare the Mantas. It quickly becomes evident that this is not the case as more of these enormous creatures make their way to the lights from the raft, which attracted the plankton. The boy cannot contain himself. Any veneer of teenage cool has vanished as he continues at volume ten: “MOM, IT’S SO CLOSE. THEY’RE AMAZING. IT’S LIKE A BALLERINA DANCE. SH*T!” Now it is pee-your-pants funny. And the joy that is unselfconsciously bubbling up from him is contagious.

His voice booms utter astonishment mixed with a touch of fear, as he is completely overcome with these toothless and stinger-free giants. I cannot even fathom how he can keep his mask underwater while his mouth is above water to narrate his flabbergasted observations. Anything I try to say comes out in a garbled mush. My husband, who is immediately to my right does not even hear him at all, we find out later. My 26 year old daughter is in between the kid and me and is as tickled as I am.

Even as we are reverent, and silently witnessing the majesty of the moment, there is a part of all of us that feels exactly like this fifteen year old. We all want to scream and shout and wiggle all around and it is just our desire to interfere as little as possible (and our snorkels) that help us to remain silent. For every moment that I am speechless, he is broadcasting the magic with his natural megaphone.” SH*T! OH MY GOD! IT’S A LITTLE SCARY BUT THEY’RE SO COOOOOOL!” Honest and pure, life giving and hilarious, unadulterated WONDER.

I am IMMENSELY GRATEFUL that the unbridled enthusiasm of this awestruck teenager was PRESENT to enhance our reverence of these magnificent animals of the sea. They will remain forever favorites, coupled with the neon lit expletives provided by our young friend.

When the chickens come a-callin’

April 18, 2016

Saturday was a day of unusual relationships. It started with a bridal shower at which I was meeting the bride for the first time, and ended with greeting our daughter’s (newly ex) boyfriend’s family who had flown in from Scotland. But neither of these was the most unusual.

When I arrived home from the shower I was greeted by one leaping dog, who insists on demonstrating her enthusiasm in this way until I get her to settle down. But where was her slightly shyer sister?

I spotted her in the middle of the yard, and she appeared to be munching on something. “Oh NO!” I screamed and went tearing out to the yard at break neck speed. Our seventeen pound peanut of a rescue was pecking at a downed hen. She looked gleeful and I couldn’t spot any chicken parts, but it was clear that the hen was expired, inert, an ex-hen. The break neck speed had evidently been in reference to the hen.

I turned tail and careened inside where my husband was already lacing up his shoes to dispose of the unfortunate clucker. “Nooooooooo,” I wailed, even though I knew it was too late to save this feathered friend. “Nooooo.” Twice before I had caught Livvie with a chicken in her mouth, and had raced outside screaming bloody murder to um, stop the bloody murder. And despite the plethora of flying feathers, both times a hen had waddled away swiftly. Our dogs stay within the bounds of their underground fence, so each time the hen was visiting our (h)enticing, insect ridden yard.

Our sanguine neighbors were unperturbed. “That’s Mother Nature,” and then “That’ll teach her to go in your yard.” I was dubious about the learning curve of the hens and imagined one arriving back at the coop. “Guys, do NOT go over there when the four leggeds are out. Man, they are FAST, and their bite is way worse than their bark. I lost a whole patch of feathers back there. How’s a gal supposed to relax and lay eggs after that?”

I felt terrible that our previously shy and shakingly terrified terrier had hit her stride and was aggressive with the chickens. I know how upset our neighbors have been when hawks, owls or coyotes have picked off their brood. Having just seen Zootopia, I ponder the question of how we overcome our savage tendencies. I am just as struck by how deep this streak can run.

I wondered how much dinner the little carnivore would eat after her live snack, but she ate normally, and our daughter commented that she looked remarkably unbloody. The meaning of this struck home the next day when watching Livvie (aka Chickenhawk) playing with Fred, our fifteen pound kitten. She was jabbing at him with her mouth the same way she does with her sister dog, or us. My husband’s words came back to me, now that I could hear them. “She was pecking at the (unresponsive) hen, trying to get her to engage.” It’s possible that Livvie was playing, but was just too rough, and the faint hearted chicken was literally scared to death.

Our neighbors have talked about clipping the wings of the chickens so that they don’t fly over the fence. I hope this helps. Even with the complete understanding of our egg collecting friends, it does not sit well to have their animal population so impacted by ours. I am grateful for their perspective and will consider whether it’s possible to train the chicken chasing gene out of our feisty young dogs.

A Leprechaun’s Improvisation

March 17, 2016

On the evening of March 16th, when Kate was eight or nine, she greeted me when I returned home from work around 8 pm. “Guess what,” she cried. “I’ve put my boots under my bed so the leprechaun will leave me treats.” What ho? This was a new one in my world. “Someone at school told me about it. Isn’t that great?”

I hesitated just a moment before replying, “Yes, how fun is that?” I was feeling for the hard working leprechaun who had so much to do and might not have enough treats in his coffers to fill the boots of so many children. Tall boots to fill, that.

She went to bed happily while I considered the options.

There were no more outings scheduled for the evening and I scanned our cabinets. We often bake and have homemade cookies around, but not then. I found an item that I have not bought before or since: Drake’s coffee cake packages. There was one left and I snuck it into Kate’s boot, lest the leprechaun suffer some untoward delay. And then I did something completely uncharacteristic of me. I left the empty box in the cupboard.

I am a dedicated and prompt recycler. When a box of something is finished, I crush and add to the recycle bin. Nothing lingers unattended in the kitchen, as the clutter which is already loud threatens to overtake if I don’t feed the recycle bins promptly. I’m not sure exactly what my thinking was here.

The next morning Kate arose and came downstairs holding the coffee cakes triumphantly. “Look what the leprechaun brought, “ she crowed. A cloud passed over her face and she walked very deliberately to the cabinet and stretched onto her tippytoes to reach the fated box. I cringed as she opened it and looked inside.

“The leprechaun took our Drake’s cakes.” she sounded perplexed. I opened my mouth to protest and offer an alternative solution…(Dad ate it last night…the dog pushed a chair over and made his way into the box…a hardy herd of ants carted it off together..) An instant later her face brightened and she declared, “What a smart leprechaun he is. He had not been expecting me to put my boots under the bed. It’s the first time I ever did that so he just used what was here.” Satisfied and pleased, she bounced off to get ready for school.

I sat in awe of her creativity and conviction in her beliefs. Once again I am shown how we create our reality. Certainly I was relieved that it met her expectations. I was grateful that she orchestrated this whole event and established a new tradition. I will be eager to see what lands in my boots on March 17.

Loving the Leap Day possibilities

February 29, 2016

Why should frogs have all the fun? The concept of Leap Day has always captured my imagination, named in such a way as to invite boldness, a time to try out a new behavior or idea, a designated opportunity to bring freshness to life.

This quirky day, designed to bring synchronization between the solar and calendar years, dates far back in history. Julius Caeser (hence the Julian calendar) instituted the extra day to compensate for the roughly extra quarter day each year that separates the two calendars. However the actual difference is slightly less than a quarter day. It is eleven minutes and fourteen seconds less. In my growing respect for how small increments create big change, it is not surprising that these minutes would eventually throw the calendar off course by a full day, and it is Pope Gregory XIII who is credited with adjusting the formula to eliminate a leap year three times out of every four hundred years. (hence the Gregorian calendar) The rule is, a century year cannot be a leap year unless it is divisible by four hundred, thus 1700, 1800 and 1900 were not leap years, but 1600, 2000, and 2400 all are. With this method, it will take 3,000 years to give one extra day. How this conundrum will be handled?

Some of the traditions around Leap Day include the dated Irish tradition that women could propose to men on that day. It is also sometimes called Bachelor’s Day and in European countries the understanding was that (upper class) men who refused a woman’s proposal on February 29th had to buy her twelve pairs of gloves (supposedly to hide the embarrassment of not having an engagement ring.) This does conjure tremendous fashion possibilities, and certainly lots of business for the glovers of the time. Yes, this is what glove makers are called. Today they would move to Virginia, which is known for Glovers. Would they give twelve pairs of the same boring white gloves, or would it include leopard, red, blue, rainbow, and stripes? And would they include hats to match the gloves, or would that be considered gauche? These are the questions that vex.

I propose that Leap Day be considered a personal opportunity to break free of the mundane, to celebrate initiative and reward inventiveness. Employees should be given the day to research new material, to seek new business or to sit still, whichever is most unfamiliar. I love that this day occurs to pay homage to inexactness, to the effort to coordinate and to create a common language by which (much of) our world speaks of days and years. It is a public declaration that we honor the sun around which we cycle each year, and over which we hold no sway. We cannot move or change the sun, we can only adjust our own behavior and measure to accommodate our relationship to it.

What an important concept to remember and reminds ourselves about. It is a piece of structure around which our most creative selves can and do emerge. It is within a framework that our most striking achievements develop. Everyone’s Leap Day will look different, but may it be a time for adventures as large as visiting a new country to as small as changing up our morning routine to try a new cereal or coffee. It feels good to stretch ourselves. We need to have faith that possibility lies within our capability. What better invitation than a day named for this jump?

Driving for Distraction

July 10, 2015

I have always loved to drive. I grew up learning on VW Bugs and Toyota Corollas, so standard transmission was, well, the standard. I knew it was time to switch to automatic when driving in rush hour traffic on I93 into Boston with one hand on the wheel and one hand desperately trying to keep our antsy two year old in her car seat. Not fair to use my knee for steering and this was well before cell phones were a threat to safe driving.

When the same daughter got her license and needed a car to get herself to a school with no bus service, I realized I could make the shift back to five on the floor. When we visited the Subaru lot I was thinking Impreza, and maybe even a new car, of which I had only ever bought one. We test drove both the Impreza and its sportier version when I spotted a bright blue WRX. My husband insists that he was the one who suggested I try it. Either way, one spin around the block and I was hooked. This turbo charged beauty is HAPPY. No delay in pick up- it has plenty of zip plus all wheel drive and the 5 speeds I was looking for. I was sold.

I had no idea that I was joining a Young Men’s club. My daughter’s friends, did, evidently. As do the guys who change the oil, or the random people who give a thumbs up at a stop light.

Pulling into the gas station the other day, I had to back up a little to let a woman out. There was enough room for the QE II to pass through, but she seemed annoyed that I was not backing up even further (and launching myself into the street). I pulled up to the pump and the guy swiftly leaned down. Uh-oh, I thought. Maybe I had been rude and there was only room for a much smaller ocean liner to pass by me.

“What can I getcha, my Subaru Sister?” he asked brightly. I wasn’t being scolded! We were bonding! I must have looked a little bit dazed, but said “Fill with Premium, please.”

“What year is this?” he asked. Had I made the wrong choice?

“It’s a 2008; I got it in 2011.”

“Oh, the first year they made this body. It’s narrower than the later ones. I have a 2015, the one year they didn’t make a hatchback. See? It’s right back there. Check it out! So what was that you wanted?”

“Premium? Filled, please.”

“Yeah, that’s what I put in mine.”

We chatted a few more minutes about how much we love our cars and how much fun they are to drive. I feel a little like an imposter because I don’t know anything about stats, I have not suped mine up, and I don’t even drive particularly aggressively. (Says me. My husband used to call me Emerson (Fittipaldi) because of my penchant for, um, efficient driving.) I have started to own that I should just expect comments of comradeship from the young men with whom I come into contact who enjoy cars. I don’t have to worry about the fact that they are my daughters’ ages. We are just sharing the simple appreciation of a well made car that we can afford that offers a driving experience pleasure. As well as handling well in the snow. In my book, the ideal marriage of form and function. Now if only I could put the top down……

« Older Entries