Parenthetically Yours

There Goes the Neighborhood

There was no warning, it just started happening. My aunt Lynette is in town with two of her girlfriends to see Yo-Yo Ma perform with the symphony so we met them along with another aunt for dinner. It was fun and afterward they all wanted to see the Loveshack (our little cottage) so we headed for the house with the ladies following behind.

Then it happened. We ran over the slightest pothole where some unfinished road repair had been professionally left unmarked so as to test the limits of the suspension and maneuverability of various passersby and/or swallow small pets whole. Before our Jeep’s shocks even had time to recover, a sound so unnatural and frighteningly loud began reverberating through the entire neighborhood.

We pulled over quickly, partly to check things out, partly to just stop the horrific noise. It was definitely coming from the front right wheel so I got on hands and knees in front of the car while trusting Katie to let the car roll while I looked and listened. If you didn’t know what was going on it would’ve appeared as though she was trying to run over me at > 1 mph.

I couldn’t see anything so we had to tough it out. Just ahead was going to be our most difficult obstacle. Downtown. If you’re familiar with downtown Franklin, you know what I’m talking about. If you’re not, let me set the scene for you. Picture the most quaint, perfect small town village you’ve ever seen. Ok, take that scene but take out all the hardware and appliance stores, the pawn shops, and diners. Now, replace them with boutiques, gourmet cupcake shops, fine dining, expensive ice cream, high end (very) furniture stores…now you’re getting the picture. Very quaint, very posh, very white.

There's our scene. Enter the Clampetts with a Holy Mother of Pearl noise screeching from underneath the jalopy. The close proximity of all the buildings and the general quiet of the square amplified the noise even further. I’m not exaggerating—it was SO.LOUD. The villagers were already taken back by this (gasp!) American car driving through their velvety smooth streets. Now they had this noise to contend with. Normally subdued gentlemen threw their National Reviews down and ducked for cover under bistro tables, parents pulled their children closer, lovers’ gazes were broken, the stock market crashed—It was pandemonium.

To be honest, that's a bit of an exaggeration. The stock market had already closed by this point. No doubt people were stopping and staring, though. Then came the giggles. My laughing starting as we made our first turn onto the square. Katie nonchalantly rolled up our very dark tinted windows. I knew exactly what she was doing. She wasn’t going to let anyone recognize us. Have I mentioned how LOUD it was? Hahahaha. By the time we were stuck at the light by Starbucks Katie was laughing so hard I had to remind her to breathe. Six blocks later in our driveway our sides were sore.

Postscript: I woke up at 6:15 this morning to take the Jeep in to have the noise checked out. 10 minutes later the mechanic came back and said, “Well, I could tell you ‘you have a broken hub,’ or ‘your axle is cracked,’ but I won’t do that. Here’s your problem.” He then tosses the tiniest of rocks onto the counter.

“No charge.”

(rw)

Neck Cramp

Another busy day today, but in the spirit of self-deprecation and transparency, you should all know that I've been experiencing something incredibly rare, strange, and funny this week.  Every time I sneeze (which has been probably 50-75 times in the past four or five days thanks to middle Tennessee's unusually high allergen count) my neck muscles have been getting charley horses. Cramping. It's all the tiny little muscles surrounding my windpipe and it's not comfortable. I typically swallow following a sneeze (never knew I did that until this week) and it feels like I'm trying to swallow an unmoistened tortoise. I don't know what could be causing this except maybe I've strained myself from rubbernecking as I drive past gas stations to see if there's any fuel in Nashville yet. 

(rw)

* photo from the Hillsboro Village Shell next to Fido taken a few weeks ago.

Further explanations as to why men do what they do

GPS receivers make me an emasculated idiot. I used one recently on a trip to Seattle and had several near-mishaps because of the thing. I nearly drove my rented minivan into several vehicles, up a service ramp, exited a parking lot going the wrong way on a one-way street and nearly missed ramming my vehicle into Nordstrom—the actual structure.

I must be too literal of a person because when that soothing woman’s voice (I call her Claire. Reminds me of a sweet British nanny who’s only here to serve me) coming from the gadget tells me to turn left, then I’m going to turn left. NOW. There’s a scene from an episode of last season’s The Office where the hapless boss Michael Scott drives into a lake because his GPS was telling him to turn. I thought it was an absurd scene but now I get it. At some point I realized I was no longer looking for signs or landmarks but rather staring at the tiny digital map for navigational clues. It was like cheating on a test and I LOVED IT!

But after a few wrong turns and bathroom exits I wanted to strangle Claire. She wasn’t so soothing anymore. The word recalculating never sounded so arrogant and condescending. I know what you’re saying Claire. I made a wrong turn and you’re having to go back and figure out a way to get me out of this mess. I’m pretty sure I heard her sigh after the fourth or fifth wrong turn, as if to say, “Here we go again. I’ve done all the work for you and continue to get it wrong. You’re doing this to yourself, you know.” Pompous Brit.

If a gadget company wants me to buy their GPS unit, they need to do something about the little voice inside spewing out directions. Give us some options. For instance, who wouldn’t want Sam Elliot telling you how to get home? I’d respect that voice. Plus it would feel like maybe we’re on horses riding through the prairie. Or maybe Luanne from King of the Hill. That way if you get lost she would blame herself. Or Robert DiNero. I’d simply do everything he said and not ask questions, even if the directions included knocking off someone on the way to the mall. Just do what he says and no one will get hurt.

But Claire? By the time I got to my destination, she had me so flustered and emasculated that that I was craving a soy chai latte while discussing my favorite era of Meg Ryan haircuts. It took three hours lifting weights and a rare T-bone just to shake the effects.

No wonder men don’t ask for directions.

(rw)

As per usual, today's entry is part of Watercooler Wednesday over at ETHOS.

Perception is Reality (part 1)

I was driving Katie to work this morning and something happened along the way that, quite frankly, is making me question everything from whether or not I am at this very moment sitting on a brown couch to the Second Law of Thermodynamics. Until now, both have been uncontested and thought of as “truth.” What is truth? I knew before this morning.

We were driving along and I was defending my reasons for listening to Soundgarden at such an early hour (because they’re awesome). “Yikes, there’s a cop,” said my beloved as she reached to put on her seatbelt. I would like to pause our story to make the subtle point that KATIE DOESN’T WEAR HER SEATBELT BUT SHE REALLY SHOULD BECAUSE #1 IT’S SAFER AND #2 IT’S THE LAW!! Subtle message to my wife out of the way, back to our story. She puts on her seatbelt and I drive through the intersection slowly. As we passed, I looked the car over and realized it wasn’t a cop—just a guy in a white Crown Victoria. My first impression was that he was a sales rep of some sort because he had on a white oxford, a tie, and there were some cardboard boxes (samples perhaps?) stacked in the back seat. There were no lights hidden in the grill, no markings, and most importantly, no public service license plate. Yeah, in that second or two as we passed, I noticed all of those things. I’m curious that way. It’s a debilitating condition and it’s annoying. I drew my conclusion and said, “It wasn’t a cop after all.” Katie looked at me in horror, confusion, and pity and said “It was too, it had lights on top and said Franklin Police on the side.” To which I politely replied, “You’re insane. It was just a dude in a white Crown Vic.” To which she calmly rebutted, “Are you out of your mind? I looked in the mirror and saw the writing as he was turning.” Me, “You’re on crack.” She, “You’re old.”

So now I can’t do a thing for fear that what I’m seeing either doesn’t exist or my eyes only perceive part of the whole. See how this changes everything? I don’t know what to believe anymore. As convinced as I am of what I saw, she is equally convinced of what she saw. Maybe all those Bigfoot people really are seeing something. Most likely it’s their drunk uncle in a homemade Chewbacca costume—but they see it, so they believe it, even to the point of ridicule and public humiliation. I know what I saw (or didn’t see), though, and I’ll risk ridicule and public humiliation to defend it. Thankfully I have a healthy ego coupled with an overblown sense of self-importance so I know I’m right.

What was that? Something passed by the house that looked a lot like a chupacabra chasing a goat. Let me investigate this further. Oh, wait, that was just the neighbor pushing his kid in a stroller and walking their black lab.

Or was it?

Tune in tomorrow for the not-so-thrilling conclusion to the mystery of the changeling Franklin cop car.

(rw)

A SAAB STORY - How Swede it is

What are Swedes known for? The Alps? Chocolate? Little functional knives? No. No. No. That’s the Swiss. I'm talking about Swedes. The Swedish. From Sweden. The best I can come up with is Ikea, meatballs, and a really creepy Muppet. Is there anything in that combination that would give you the assumption they would make a reliable vehicle? Oh, one might assume that based on Ikea’s functional furniture they could design functional cars. Unfortunately, Ikea furniture looks great in the expansive showroom, but once you get the bloorg-ing box home, you realize you need a PhD in dead Nordic languages to read the manual. Then in about seven months (sometimes to the day) the Obervlask shelf you spent two months putting together just falls over without explanation. You spend another day propping it back up with prayers and Gorilla Glue, only for it to end up at the curbside on trash day. Not that I’m bitter.

Katie and I went to see her parents in Texas over the weekend. We drove her Saab since it gets around 32 mpg on the highway. We can travel the 688 miles on a single tank of gas so the trip is relatively inexpensive. It’s doubled in price the three years we’ve been making the trip, but still, seventy-five bucks is cheap fare to Dallas. On the way I noticed the car slipping out of cruise as we climbed the smallish west Tennessee hills. Not a good sign. Then the occasional slippage in third gear. Two bad signs. Let me just skip to the end: clutch goes out at 2:45 a.m. (!) as I limped back to her parents’ house after traveling to play a show in Shreveport. So, it’s the holiday weekend, no local garages are open, and the Saab dealership estimates $1,800 to fix. That’s $340 for the part, $1,460 in labor and tax. Turns out, you have to have a PhD in dead Nordic languages to read the bloorg-ing manual.

So, we're selling the Saab. We’re really torn because when it’s running well, the car is so fun to drive, but we’ve had to endure some sort of repair issue about every 7 months (just like the Ikea furniture). That’s all fine and dandy if you have a warranty. Ours ran out in April. It’s a concept the Swedes call faarfromdrivven. Loosely translated, it means “goodbye savings account.”

Long story short, we left the car in TX with a trusted (read: cheaper) mechanic, rented a car home, and will be car shopping this week. Preferably something anyone with a general command of English can work on.

Anybody want to buy a Saab?

(rw)