Dear Mr. Automobile Fixer-Guy......

First of all, I would never try to tell you your business. I know very little about cars and how they work. I know how to put gas in one, but I'd rather someone else did it for me. I know how to put oil in one, but because I have an SUV I can't really reach it. I know how to check the tire pressure, and I know how to wash one, but I'm not really interested in doing it.

I concentrate on knowing the important things. I know how to install the gargantuan bicycle rack we use to haul the tandem. I know how to put a kayak on top of the car. It isn't pretty, and I could probably win $10,000 for the funniest home video of me doing it, but I can do it if I have to. I know how to put the back seats down so I can put my single bike in the back.

Those are the important things.

But I digress.

Far be it from me to correct you or imply that you might have told me just a little bitty fib. A white lie, if you will.

When I brought my car in eleven days ago because it was clearly leaking antifreeze on the driveway, your co-worker said it was a thermostat housing gasket, and he replaced both that gasket and the thermostat. I was headed out of town, so I was grateful that A) your folks could get to it in as little as six hours; and B) it ONLY cost $200 to fix.

But when Hubby got home yesterday, he noticed there was once again a puddle of antifreeze underneath the car. In the same exact spot as it was before. You know, the problem you "fixed" eleven days ago? For $200? Yeah, that one.

I understand that your co-worker, the one who ordered the "repair" eleven days ago, was on vacation this week. How convenient.

And since you clearly know much more than I do about cars, I will not question the fact that today's leak was due to a faulty radiator. Never mind that the leak was in the SAME. EXACT. SPOT. Go ahead and explain to me the direction that a leak would run in both cases, and never mind pointing out to me how they could conceivably end up in the same spot on the driveway. You have all the power in this relationship, you know? You have my car. You MIGHT have a new radiator for it tomorrow. And when I pick it up, you will have an additional $565 of my money that we could have used next week at the beach, more specifically at the casino.

Far be it from me to think I know more about cars than you do.

Mr. Automobile Fixer-Guy.

And the NEW Miss Georgia Is........

........almost certain to have a longer reign than the last one, who lasted just over 24 hours.

Seems the original winner, Kristina Higgins, suddenly realized that she could not honor both her commitments as Miss Georgia AND her job teaching middle school. So she relinquished her crown to the first runner-up, Emily Cook. Who knew that being first runner-up to anyone other than Vanessa Williams wouldn't suck nearly as badly as it felt at first?

I know I'll probably be crucified for criticizing the noble actions of this beautiful young woman, but COME. ON. You KNEW you were a teacher when you entered the blame pageant. You also knew you worked for what may be the biggest pain-in-the-ass school district in the entire state, if not the entire NATION.

So what if Emily now gets to wear the sash to the grocery store and show up at everything from cattle auctions to nursing home openings? For one brief moment last Saturday night, she was told in front of the whole world that she wasn't good enough. She didn't get to gasp and put her hands up to her face and try to hold the tiara on her head while she cried and pretended she thought someone else was going to win. No, she had to hold the winner's hand while they announced HER as the new Miss Georgia, and she had to paste that smile on her face and banish the thought that "I should be wearing that damn tiara."

They had a "crowning ceremony" today somewhere. I didn't catch where because I was multi-tasking at the time, always a dangerous proposition for me. I was preparing a lesson to teach online, advising Hubby on booking a hotel room for our vacation next week, and trying to eat an Oreo (or two) surreptitiously while Hubby was on the computer.

But how big an audience do you think Emily had at this crowning ceremony? Did she get to wear her fancy dress? She didn't get to have any of the excitement, the anticipation. Of course, the flip side is that she didn't have to fake her smile, either.

Okay, okay, I'll grudgingly give what's-her-name credit for doing the responsible thing and keeping her job. 'Cause honey, where she teaches, that job would probably NOT have been waiting for her NEXT August, when she wouldn't have been anything more than the FORMER Miss Georgia. And who's to say that if she hadn't entered the contest, it would have automatically defaulted to Emily? Hmmmmmmm?????? Maybe not. We'll never know.

I don't know why it bothers me. Emily probably doesn't give a rip. I'll bet she sleeps in that sash tonight.

Hubby's Nephew and His Family.....

We had a (thankfully) small gathering for the Fourth of July, which was 100% larger a gathering than I wanted to have in the first place. Is there a Fourth of July equivalent for "bah humbug"? Wait....that makes me sound unpatriotic. It had nothing to do with the Fourth of July. It had a lot to do with the fact that I just wanted to relax at home. It would have been fine if Hubby had gone off to the golf course. But we had a gathering all the same, and as usual, it wasn't nearly as bad as what I had been dreading.

Hubby's mother and sister came, along with her son (D), his wife (K), and their three kids (D2, S, and C). They have two sons who are six months apart in age. I can explain that.

Hubby's nephew married fairly young. In the old days (way, way, way back), we would have said "they HAD to get married." They produced D2, a sweet little girl who was born the very day that Princess Diana died.


As happens to many young couples who "have" to get married, they began to grow apart. Eventually they split, but they were never very far apart, mainly due to D2. Both of them took their parenting responsibilities seriously, for which I admire them. I tend to think D took his responsibilities even more seriously than the child's MOTHER did, but I could be biased, since he's related to Hubby by blood.

D got involved with church, however, and in fact he sometimes preaches at his church, although he is not a fully ordained minister. K began to go to church with him, and soon neither of them resembled the people they had been before. The transformation was almost unbelievable. They weren't obnoxious about religion, but you could tell they weren't just dabbling in it. And they apparently aren't judgmental, because D continues to play golf with Hubby. That could test ANYONE'S religion.

They got back together, and then their son S was born.

Personally I wouldn't want to have children 10 years apart, but that's their business. I chose not to have more than one child no matter WHAT the age difference. Unlike my ex, who had two children born on Valentine's Day, THIRTY YEARS APART. But I digress.

When S was about nine months old, K's sister was tragically beaten TO DEATH by her husband. They had a three-month old named C. Well obviously he wasn't NAMED C, but you get my drift.

He is the sweetest little thing, but he appears to be much further behind S developmentally than their six-month age difference.

D and K took the little guy in, because they were his only family. Their family went from two kids to three literally overnight. They didn't even get a nine-month pregnancy to get ready for this event. They didn't even get to discuss whether they even WANTED a third child. That's not quite true.....D told me they HAD discussed it, but they had decided two was enough. I guess God had other ideas.



It is a terribly sad situation. They had to wait for the father to get sentenced before they could legally claim the child as their own. They still haven't adopted him, because right now they can get limited financial assistance from the state; if they adopt, that goes away. I know the legal system is cold and heartless out of necessity, but it seems a shame in a situation such as this one. They couldn't really afford a third child, but what else could they do? I am not usually in favor of milking the state for assistance, but in this case I certainly can't blame them for holding off on the adoption. It is safe for them to hold off; since the murderer has been sentenced, they have been granted "physical custody," and no one can take him from them.

The situation just raises all kinds of questions in my mind. For one, could I have done the same thing? Could I have taken a child to raise who wasn't my own? A child who will never remember any other mother? Of course I could, had it been one of my sisters. That's what sisters do.

At what age will they tell him what happened to his birth mother? And his sperm donor?

And how many times will D and K have to explain how they have two sons who are six months apart in age?

The INDEPENDENCE Day That Almost Was......

Twenty-two years ago today, I ALMOST made the best decision of my life.

I had lost my mind and decided to marry a jerk, a tyrant, an @$$hole, all wrapped up in one. Please just shoot me now rather than make me remember this.

Nothing big, just a civil ceremony.

He had one job. ONE. That was to find someone to marry us.

At around 2:00 in the afternoon of the 4th, he started calling random preachers he had heard of in passing. Along with a redneck dude who called himself the "Mayor of Struggleville" and had been a justice of the peace, but could no longer perform marriage ceremonies.

I told him to get his %*!$ out of my car, my house, and my life.

But our "friends" were at our local hangout, and they were expecting us to get married that day.

So I relented, and we even pretended that we HAD gotten married that day. We went to the courthouse on Monday instead. It was two weeks later when I finally told my mother.

God, will I forever wish I had stuck to my guns on that Fourth of July.

May all your Fourth of July memories be happy ones. Mine have been, ever since 1997.

Even Perfect Men Don't LISTEN......

Apparently we're having a Fourth of July gathering at our house tomorrow.

Hubby and I had a conversation about this very subject approximately one week ago.

Me: Are you planning to play golf on the Fourth?
Hubby: I doubt it. Do you want to have something here?

Me: Not really. It's gotten where your sister is the only one who comes, and I'd just rather not fool with it.

[In her defense, she probably won't be nearly as bad since she's stopped drinking. And gotten rid of the leering, too-friendly, hugging creep she was with for a few years.]

Hubby: Yeah, me too.

Case closed.

Or was it?

When I got back from the Nash Bash last weekend and sister-in-law called to apologize for the fact that she had allowed the umbrella AND GLASS TABLE to blow into the freakin' pool on Saturday, she finished the conversation with, "I hear y'all are having a cookout for the Fourth?"

Crap.

I guess we are.

Only I ain't cookin'. The only thing I MIGHT make is Pioneer Woman's bacon-wrapped jalapeno peppers.

Other than that, they'd just better be prepared to eat sandwiches. And see a less-than-pristine bathroom.

And go home early.

Yours truly,

Your Hostess with the Mostest [Enthusiasm and Love for In-Laws]
Bragger

The Silver Comet Trail.....

Today I joined two of my bestest cycling buddies, Rozmo and VT, for a "little" bicycle ride on the Silver Comet Trail, an awesome multi-use trail built from a former railroad track. Because it used to be a railroad track, there is very little grade and few hills. [I read somewhere that a railroad couldn't have more than a 3% grade, but I'm not sure of the veracity of that statement. Don't you love words like "veracity"?]

No hills is the good news. The bad news is that you have to pedal, pedal, pedal, pedal, pedal, pedal, and then pedal some more. No coasting here -- at least not much.

The "little" ride turned out to be 75 miles. I say that as if they tricked me into riding that distance, but that is not really accurate. You pretty much know the length of any ride on the Silver Comet Trail -- it's wherever you are multiplied by 2. Because unless you have a chauffeur, your only choice is to ride back from whence you came. At some points on the trail it isn't even POSSIBLE to be picked up by the hypothetical chauffeur.

We rode that far because our objective was to have lunch at Frankie's, a wonderful Italian restaurant in Rockmart, Georgia. It would be wonderful even if it DID have tons of competition -- which it doesn't. Frankie caters to cyclists, because her restaurant is very near where the trail comes out in Rockmart. She doesn't mind that we're sweaty and stinky and generally not very attractive when we get there. She welcomes us warmly, plies us with food and drink, fills up our water bottles and/or camelback reservoirs, and has us sign the wall in her back room. Her food is delicious, and everyone is extremely accommodating. Rozmo didn't care for the garlic bread sticks [WHAT IS WRONG WITH HER?], so they brought her some that didn't have garlic. I had fettucinni alfredo with chicken, and I could easily have curled up in the corner and died from sheer happiness. But I had 37 miles to ride back.

Today was a wonderful ride. I was even in FRONT of the group for a lot of the time. I said I was going to come home and kiss my elliptical, because I'm sure that made a huge difference in my power and stamina today. Other times we were able to ride three abreast, taking up the whole trail. There are long stretches of the trail that are in very remote areas. When you start seeing people with strollers and dogs, you know you're approaching civilization.

The last time I rode the trail was NOT a pleasant experience. I rode with VT and Rozmo that day too, and it was miserable. Looking back now, I think I may have had some symptoms of mild heatstroke. I drank and drank and drank and drank, even when Rozmo did NOT tell me to, and I thought I was well hydrated. When we got to Rockmart, I was about to die to go to the bathroom. But when I got there, I. Could. Not. Pee. That was one of the most miserable experiences in my life, up to and including childbirth.

This happened on a Tuesday. We rode up to Frankie's door, and I was in front. Rozmo shouted, "What time does she open?"

"Thursday."

We had ridden 37 miles to eat at a restaurant that wasn't even open that day.

So we went to a sub-par barbecue restaurant, where I still couldn't pee, and when my lunch got there, I couldn't eat. I had ridden 37 miles on my bicycle, and my only choice was to ride 37 miles back, and I could not eat a bite. Rozmo went to the store and got me a Gatorade, and my friends were kind enough to stop frequently and allow me to lie down on the side of the trail. I was never so glad to get to the end of a ride as I was that day.

There was a time when I wouldn't have thought twice before going out to ride the trail alone. It is patrolled by officers on four-wheelers or golf carts in each of the counties it passes through, and most people appear to be friendly and only there for the exercise or to enjoy the scenery. That all changed in July of 2006, however, when Jennifer Ewing was murdered as she rode her bike along the Silver Comet. The animal who killed her recently got the death penalty for her murder, but lethal injection is too good for him. She fought back fiercely, to the point that her attacker wound up going to the hospital and HIS blood was found on her bicycle. She wasn't able to save herself, however.

A memorial stands beside the trail near the spot where her body and bicycle were found.

It is a very sobering reminder of the society in which we live today. Other people have also been attacked on the trail, men as well as women. One man was attacked by a group of four teenagers, so I'm not ENTIRELY sure that the three of us women riding on the trail are safe. Every time I see a woman riding alone, I cringe inside.

When we got back to the parking lot today, my bicycle computer read 74 miles. I wanted to be able to say I rode 75 miles, so I went beyond the 0 mile marker toward a shopping center (where, inexplicably, they evidently have a -1 mile marker -- I don't get it). I thought I'd ride another half mile down the trail and then circle back to my car for a total of 75.

Only when I'd ridden about 3 tenths of a mile, I got to a hill. A fairly big one.

I decided 74.81 miles was far enough. I will say I rode 75 miles if I want to, and you can't stop me.

Figment.......

There was a guy I was craaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaazy about in high school. He was fairly shy, and I was ................................. not. But I was smitten with him. [Don't you love the word "smitten"? I got it from a girl I used to work with. I hate her, but I kept the word.]

I talked about him nonstop, probably because in some corner of my brain I thought if I talked about him enough, someday he might actually give me the time of day.

My Aunt Rosie started teasing me about whether or not this guy even existed, so she started calling him Figment. As in "of my imagination."

We had lots of things in common, Figment and I. Except for that shyness thing. We went to church together. We played in the marching band together. At church we sang in a gospel quartet together. I sang alto; I don't remember what he sang, but I think it was bass. We were in chorus together in school. We went on at least one mission trip together with the church. I don't remember whether or not he was along on the trip when I had to get stitches in my eyebrow because I bumped heads with someone else. We had been warned over and over again not to "horseplay". But I didn't consider jumping on his back to be horseplay at all. Figment and I were both going to go to medical school and become doctors. I don't know what kind of doctor he planned to be, but I was going to be a pediatrician. (Isn't everyone?) And then after my step-father died of cancer my senior year, I was going to be a neurologist.

When I was in 10th grade and Figment was a senior, he asked me to the prom. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. I kind of thought it meant we were "going together" or something. I started making wedding plans and sending out "save the date" cards. Not really. I didn't know what a "save the date" card was back then.


HE (apparently) thought it was a date to the prom. Period. I hate men for the way they think. Didn't he know it was much more significant than that?

Yes, that is a lime green tuxedo jacket he's wearing. It matches the lime green in the modest cover-up that my mother made at the last minute, when she saw what you get when you combine a halter-top dress pattern with very stretchy qiana fabric. And yes, those are braces shining on my teeth. I finally got them off my SENIOR year in high school.

When I got suspended from school the very week of the prom, there was a slight possibility that I wouldn't be allowed to go. There was an even greater possibility that I wouldn't be ALIVE to go. He saw me in the hall right after I was suspended, and when I told him the news, his reaction was a poor one. I don't remember what it was exactly, but I smacked him on the arm. I think it was along the lines of, "Ha ha ha ha ha, you finally got caught skipping." He sobered up quickly when he realized the whole prom thing hung in the balance. I don't think he would have been heartbroken; he just would have had a hard time finding a date on four days' notice.

When I was a senior and Figment was a sophomore in college, I returned the favor. That's when I wore the beautiful dress that Katydid painstakingly made for me and then told me to throw the pattern away. He said he hoped it was okay if he DIDN'T rent a tuxedo, and surprisingly it WAS okay. He bought me a wrist corsage when all of my friends got nosegays (what the hell IS a nosegay, anyway?), but that was okay too. At least I didn't keep misplacing my flowers. And since my corsage was on my cigarette hand, I didn't have to worry about setting them on fire. Classy, no?
By this time my step-father had died, and Mother was too tired to care anymore if my dress stretched and showed things it shouldn't.

He went away to college, and we kept in touch by letters. One Valentine's Day I received a card from him that said on the front, "One night I dreamed about George Washington and I found a dollar. Another night I dreamed about Abraham Lincoln and I found a five dollar bill." On the inside of the card it said, "The other night I dreamed about you, and I woke up with heartburn." I was puzzling over what it could possibly mean when I read what he had written: "This can be taken two ways. I hope you take it the right way." Well THANKS FOR CLEARING THAT UP. I kept the card for years, but I finally threw it away. Probably in one of my many moves or marriages.

One night during the disco era I had (for once) dressed up to go to the ........ nightclub ........ oh what the hell, it was a bar ...... where I was a regular. A regular to the point that the bartender had my drink ready when I got there. Sad but true. I wasn't sporting the whole disco outfit, but I had on platform shoes, a skirt, and a snug sweater. Forgive me, but due to the structure of certain parts of my body (two of them), EVERY sweater was snug.

I saw Figment walk in, and I just about fluttered myself to death. Yes, I am aware that I have used that meaningless phrase two blog entries in a row. We ran into each other there all the time, but on this particular night I was aware that I looked better than the typical jeans and shiny blouses I wore. I decided to take the initiative and let him see how glad I was to see him. He stood by the bar, letting his eyes get used to the dimness, when I approached. Remember that I was wearing platform shoes. High-heeled ones. And I forgot to remember that where he stood, the floor sloped upward.

I literally fell at his feet. He helped me up, but I could tell he was A) embarrassed that he knew me; and B) struggling not to laugh. I said, "You can pretend you don't know me if you want to." That's all I remember about that night. If I had any sense, I would have left immediately. But I was never accused of having any sense.

One night when I was living alone in an apartment (God, I loved that apartment), I was headed home after a night on the town when I saw blue lights behind me. Now I have to admit that it is only by the mercy of God that I never got stopped the whole time I was in college and ripping up and down the road at all hours of the night. Thank you, God. Again today. These blue lights got behind me when I was less than 100 yards away from the entrance to my apartment. "Great," I thought. "Busted this close to home."

Behind the wheel of the cruiser was Figment. He had become a police officer briefly in his quest to discover exactly what he wanted to be when he grew up. He had night duty, and when he saw my car out at that time of night, he just had to throw a scare into me. I loved him for it. Really. He said he might swing back by when he got off duty, and I hung all my hopes on those words. I went to sleep on the sofa with all the lights on, so if he came back by he wouldn't see a dark apartment and think I'd gone to bed.

Eventually I gave up. I went to his wedding (after which I attempted to drown my sorrows); I THINK he came to mine. He married a nurse, and he became a physician's assistant. [My MOTHER has gone to see him before for some illness or another. Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!!!!!!!] I got a doctorate in education. So we both sort of became doctors after all.

I don't know why it makes me sad to think about Figment. I'm pretty sure we wouldn't have lasted. In retrospect, I don't think he was really all that shy. He was just too calm for me. I think he would have crushed my penchant for risk-taking. And I am pretty sure I would have crushed his mother by now. I ran into her outside the pharmacy when Sweet Girl was two weeks old. She looked puzzled for a moment, and then she said, "Gosh ....... somebody told me you'd already HAD the baby."

Yeah, we're much better off the way we are. Especially his mother.