Sunday, December 28, 2014

The New Car

The mileage police were hot on our trail.  For months now, we knew we were getting dangerously close to going over the 12,000 miles-per-year limit that came with the lease of our 2012 Toyota Camry.

But we didn't care.

We drove that car from New Jersey to Tennessee.

We drove that car from New Jersey to North Carolina.

We drove that car from New Jersey to Philadelphia and New York and Washington, DC.

We drove that car everywhere.

And finally, we crossed the line.  The point of no return.  The danger zone.

We (egads!) surpassed our allotted miles...with eight months still left to go on the lease!

We knew we could only evade the mileage police for so long before we would have to pay. The time had come to evaluate our options:
1. Ground the car until the lease expired and use my husband Bob's car, a 2005 Mercury with over 100,000 miles to its name.
2. Keep on driving, throw caution to the wind, and pay the mileage fees when the lease expired.
3. Go to the dealership and play "Let's Make a Deal" in the hopes of returning the car early and driving away with a newer model.

We chose option 3.

Upon arrival at the dealership, we were greeted by a red-haired, blue eyed, muscular young man in his late 20s whose sexy accent nearly put me into a hypnotic state that would have resulted in the purchase of every car in the show room.  Fortunately, reality came back to me in the form of my much more sensible hubby, who reminded me to play it cool, don't show too much emotion when taking a test drive, and let him do the negotiating.

Turns out Mr. Red Head hailed from South Africa, which turned out to be quite the conversation starter as I posed question after question about his homeland.  He responded with humor and smiles (I know....I know...of course he responded with smiles, he did want to sell us a car after all!)

Mr. Red Head escorted us to a cobolt grey 2015 Camry, which from the outside, seemed to mirror the 2012 version we were attempting to trade in.   The inside, however, not so much.

"Wow, you can see the outside temperature on the dashboard!" I exclaimed with glee.

"How many miles to the gallon does it get?" asked Bob

"Wow, you can program up to 36 radio stations!" I exclaimed with glee.

"Does it have four wheel drive?" asked Bob.

"Wow, it's got a hands-free phone system!" I exclaimed with glee.

"What's the horse power on this thing? asked Bob.

"Wow, I want this car!!" I exclaimed with glee.

"What's it gonna cost?" asked Bob, thus initiating phase two of the car-buying process....

THE NEGOTIATIONS. (Cue twilight zone music)

Mr. Red Head sat us down at a desk, offered up some cookies and coffee, and started punching the numbers. Now, had I been soley responsible for phase two of the car buying process, the negotiations would have gone something like this:

Mr. Red Head: "Well Lisa, here's what I can do for you.  I'll make you a great deal. You only have to pay $9,473 per month, plus your entire wardrobe, your home, all of your furniture, and your first-born.

Me: "I'LL TAKE IT!"

Fortunately, this is where Bob's expertise came into play, so the neotiations went something like this:

Mr. Red Head: "Well Bob, I can give you this car for the incredibly low payment of one dime per month, plus we'll throw in a free oil change every six months."

Bob: "Make it a nickel or we walk!"

And so on it went.  As my Bob played hardball with Mr. Red Head, the sun sank lower and lower on the horizon.  Finally, we all came to a mutual agreement!  Mr. Red Head even threw in two free diet cokes that I demanded, using my powerful negotiating skills!

But wait.

We had to sign our name on 3,276 pieces of legal documents. Then they had to call the bank, and the insurance company, and the credit bureau, and the leasing company, and the secretary of transportation, and the President of the United States....

Finally...we were escorted in to see the finance manager, fully prepared to use a credit card for the down payment, only to learn that they refused to accept anything but cash or check.

Oh no!

We had left our check book at home.

Would this tragic turn of events bring the negotiations to a screeching halt!

NO!

Mr. Finance Manager came up with an ingenious plan. He proposed that I stay at the dealership and sign my name to the remaining 274 documents, while Mr. Red Head drive Bob to our home, where Bob would hand over a check for the down payment.

Crisis averted!

By now the sun had truly disappeared, and the staff of the dealership had all but gone home.  Mr. Finance Manager walked me outside to my new car, which sat parked next to my old car....a car I no longer owner, but still bore the marks of the two years we had spent together.

Alone, cold, and in the dark, I began the arduous task of transferring all of the accumulated stuff from my old car into the new, including:

-A dirty towel used for ridding the windows of the dew and frost that forms in the overnight hours.
-A 2014 road map of every state in the country, along with individual maps of Virginia, Pennsylvania, and Washington D.C.
-Discarded envelopes that once held hated bills.
-Newspaper circulars boasting of coupons long expired.
-A broken ice scraper.
-A musty old blanket that became the saving grace for my 17-year old daughter Melissa when her menopausal mother blasted the air conditioner in the middle of January
-A brochure from Gatlinburg, TN, where we had taken Melissa, and my dear friend Angelica's teenage boys Chris and Brandon on vacation the previous summer.
-A GPS Unit
-A note pad
-A CD featuring a recording of one of Melissa's original songs

Anxious to get out of the cold and on my way, I hastily threw everything in the front seat of the new car.  I expected to be thrilled, but meloncholy took hold.  The pile on the passenger seat was just a bunch of stuff, wasn't it?  The old car sitting there, alone and abandoned on the lot was just a pile of metal, wasn't it?

Or was it?

My old car, along with two year's worth of junk that had littered the interior, had represented something more to me.  That car was where Melissa first got behind the wheel and pressed on the gas pedal, nearly crashing through the garage.  That car took us to my step-daughter Jessica's wedding to her husband Brian.  That car traversed back roads and highways, enroute to visits with grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins. That car helped us enjoy some spectacular vacations.  That car set the scene for some major arguements, most involving Bob's unwillingness to listen to my driving directives.  That car played host to laughter and, yes, even some tears.

That car had been a part of our family.

New memories would come, I knew.  But for now, I simply drove out of the dealership parking lot, pushed the meloncholy aside, turned onto the open road, and continued on my way home.

Behind the wheel of my new car!

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Sunday, December 14, 2014

Tooth Aches and Chocolate Pudding

Yesterday my husband Bob arrived home following his weekly pilgrimage to the supermarket.  As I dutifully helped him unpack, I pulled out not one, not two, not three, not four,  but at least 12, yes, 12 containers of chocolate pudding from the depths of the plastic bags.

At this point,  I turned to my husband and exclaimed in exasperation:

"WHY DID YOU BUY SO MUCH CHOCOLATE PUDDING?"

Sigh.

The poor thing did not deserve my wrath.

He had only been following instructions.

As the "survivor" of recent dental surgery, I had requested chocolate pudding, one of the few foods that could safely by-pass my swollen gums.

I just didn't expect 12 containers of said chocolate pudding.

Allow me to explain!

About 4 weeks ago as a lay in bed, eager to welcome the dreams that would carry me through the overnight hours, a sudden, incidious throbbing in one of my upper front teeth jolted me out of my impending slumber.

Clad comfortably in my cozy comforter, I weighed my options:
   1. Ignore it. It's nothing. It will go away.
   2. Take Motrin.
   3. Call the dentist first thing in the morning because it could be a very serious issue that needs urgent attention!!!

Guess which option I chose.

That's right.

Option number 1.  Until 45 minutes later when I decided to re-evaluate my original choice.

Time for option number 2.

And so on it went, for several days.  The pain was not nearly bad enough to force me to (egads) voluntarily schedule an appointment with the dentist!  That would be preposterous!

In the meantime, drug stores in southern New Jersey experienced an alarming shortage of pain medication as your's truly popped pill after pill, hoping the throbbing would subside.

Alas, t'was not meant to be.

With reluctance, I finally found myself sitting in the dreaded "chair" as Dr. Dentist poked and prodded, expressed sighs of concern, and then jabbed me with a shot of novacain.

"You need a root canal," he said, matter-of-factly.

Wait. WHAT?

I need time to digest this information!

I need time to prepare!
I need time to panic! To worry! To fret! To scream!

Too late!

The root canal had already commenced.

A few hours later I found myself at the dinner table, barely able to swallow mashed potatoes.

The pain would eventually subside, my dentist had assured.  In two week's time, as I was told,  the temporary crown that kept my smile intact would be replaced with a permanent model....and I'd be good as new and pain free!

Alas, t'was not meant to be.

Post root canal day one  - throbbing pain.
Post root canal day two  - throbbing pain.
Post root canal day three, four, five, six, seven.....you guessed it, throbbing pain.

Back to the dentist, who poked and prodded, changed my medication and sent me on my way.

Fast forward one week.

Once again, stuck in the dreaded "chair", Dr. Dentist assured me that the insertion of the permanent crown would leave me good as new and pain free.

My dentist lies.

Fast forward another week.

I found myself stuck in the dreaded "chair" of a dental specialist called an endodontist who examined my xrays with the deepest of frowns and threw his hands in the air in resignation.

Watching a specialists use this type of body language did not induce confidence in the quaking, quivering patient.....me!

"You have a fractured root," he said with a tone of seriousness that led me to believe I might not survive long enough to even call Bob and tell him what was going on.  "The tooth has to come out."

"So, what are my options," I tentatively asked.

"I could pull the tooth right now, but because it's Friday, I couldn't refer you to someone to make a temporary crown until Monday. You'd have to go the weekend without a tooth."


I weighed my options:

1. Go to my company's holiday party sans my front tooth.  My company's fancy holiday party, with cocktail dresses, dinner, and dancing!
2. Raid every drug store within a 10 mile radius for enough Motrin to get me through 'till tooth-pullin' day.

Fast forward yet another week.

I chased down my bowl of cereal with two valium and floated to the car on the arm of my "oh so patient" hubby.  Upon arrival at yet another dental specialist, this one called a periodontist (the tooth-pullin' dude), the friendly office manager explained to Bob and me about insurance coverage and payment plans for my dental implant.

Insurance coverage - 0 percent
Responsible by patient - Everything

Through the fog of the drug-induced haze that had set up residence in my brain, I dutifully signed on the dotted lines, giving away my first-born giving Dr. Tooth-Pullin' Dude permission to charge my credit card the $1,975,262 it would take to restore my smile, leave me good as new, and pain free.

While Bob went home to look for hidden treasure to cover the cost of my procedure, I floated to yet another dreaded "chair", where I readily accepted the offer of nitrous oxide, allowing me to observe the drilling, pulling, grinding, and sawing from some distant, far away planet.

Two hours later (or several days, I really couldn't tell) Bob picked me up and took me to my original dentist, who inserted a temporary crown to cover the grand canyon size hole in my smile.  Then Bob took me home, made sure I took all of my meds and put me to bed, where I stayed for several hours (or several days, I really couldn't tell).

Since that fateful day, my sweet Bob has catered to my every whim, wanting nothing more than to rid me of my post-op pain.  And how do I respond to this wonderful man? I yell at him for buying too much pudding.  I felt so badly, he didn't deserve my anger.

Bob, thank you for putting up with me. I am so lucky to have you in my life, and I love you more than anything.

I'm feeling a bit better now, and even a little bit hungry.

I think I'll have some pudding!

Bob and me at my company holiday party at the Camden Aquarium in Camden, NJ You'll see my teeth are still intact!
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