it's ok to be a quitter

"you're like a frog with a lighter under you ass."

that's what my brother told me 6 years ago when i left my corporate job.

i'm sure he'd say the same thing to me today if i told him i left my non-corporate job too.

because i did.

i turned in my resignation today. tomorrow will be my last day at work.

this is a hard one. i've been with the company five years. i'm good at what i do. i like half the people i work with. i appreciate that it's a small woman owned business. i appreciate that it's a recession proof job. i appreciate that they paid me well, i had 401k, benefits.

i did not appreciate the hatred and bigotry and prejudice.

i've listened to it for years.

i've tolerated it. i've complained to friends about it. but i didn't stand up against it.

i dismissed it as just how the industry is. it's blue collar. it's old school small town white men. they have their opinions. me saying anything to them is just going to cause a rift in the office, i can take it. i'm tough. water off a ducks back. be the bigger person. it's not like they're directly attacking me. they don't even know i'm bi. they must have forgotten i'm a single mom. they must not realize. they don't know that what they're saying is offensive to someone they work with and sit next to every day.

i ignored the inappropriate jokes. i brushed off the sexual harassment. what was i going to do? that guys are the guys. most of them have been there forever, skilled workers are scarce, nothing is going to change, so just get over it.

i've looked for other jobs in the past. i've thought about leaving. i always just decided i could deal with it. you know. it's fine. i'm just being too sensitive. that's just the way the industrial field is. i'm not going to make waves. i'm not going to be "that" person.

but then last week, a brand new co-worker, someone who's only been with the company part time for a very short while, felt comfortable enough, in the office, in front of the owner to say "i'm prejudice. i'm not afraid to say it."

just bold faced out there.

and i hit my wall. 

it wasn't directed at me. it was a shotgun blast at whatever situation she was frustrated about. but the bigger issue is that she felt comfortable to say it. just bold faced drop it.

THAT got to me.

that means that the whole environment is that way. even still being new, she felt comfortable enough, felt like she was in a group of people where she could just drop something like that. flat out, bold faced, I'M PREJUDICE.

and i can't be a part of that. i can't be in an environment like that. i don't want to be associated with that mindset. i don't want to be around it, and i shouldn't have to listen to it, even if they don't know I'M the one they're talking about.

people are so emboldened lately, they don't care WHO is listening. they don't care if they offend someone. HOW COULD THEY? everyone else HAS to share their opinion.

i shouldn't have to hear about how they would never, ever allow their family to be around someone gay.

SORRY ABOUT THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. HOPE I DIDN'T GET MY BI COOTIES ON YOU.

i shouldn't have to hear about how single moms are single handedly destroying the government by milking the system and cheating to get more money than a hard working regular person.

oh really. i'm just ROLLING in all my single mom/government wealth. LOOK AT ME SCROOGE MCDUCK INTO MY PILE OF SINGLE MOM MONEY. make it rain food stamps bitches!!

oh wait. i put myself through college. i worked since i was 17. i only took assistance for a very short time after leaving an abusive marriage. AND IT DOESN'T FUCKING MATTER ANYWAY BECAUSE BEING A SINGLE PARENT IS FUCKING HARD AND MAYBE A LITTLE HELP ISN'T THE WORST THING ON EARTH.

it's really fucking hard for me to say. really fucking hard. but i deserve better.

fuck i hate even saying that. i feel like an elitist whiny little bitch saying that.

but really. is it too much to ask for coworkers that respect me and don't talk shit about the core of me? is it too much to want to be in a work environment where i know my coworkers have respect for other people? ESPECIALLY IN THE SERVICE INDUSTRY? do i want to worry about sending a worker to a clients house because they might say something? and i know that's not on me, it's not my company, but it is, because i work there. and i want to be able to tell people where i work without having to apologize.

i don't expect my coworkers to share all my opinions. i don't expect them to agree with me on every topic. or really, considering the group, any topic. but i do expect respect. i do expect to not have to listen to hate all the time. i won't shove my ideas down your throat if you don't loudly proclaim yours across the office, agreed?

and so i meditated on it this week. i wrote about it. i sorted all the different sides. i asked what would happen if i left? what would happen if i stayed? what fears went with it? were they rational? were they reasonable? was it something i could overcome? 

and you know what? i already did once. i already jumped. and it was rough. and i didn't handle it in the most responsible way. but i made it here.

and isn't that part of growing up? learning from what you did before and doing it better the second time?

and isn't this the year of the reboot anyway?
 
i'm so endlessly fortunate to have this opportunity. i have the safety net to be able to step away again. seven years later and my dad is still taking care of me. helping made hard decisions just a little easier. allowing me a way to learn and grow and be a better person.

i can hear him you know.

i can hear my dad talking to me.

"well, that didn't work out so well, did it. what are you going to do now?"

he's been watching me the last 7 years. i've made decisions. i've made mistakes. he's watched it.

and now he's nudging me to try again. it's what parents do. even parents who are gone apparently. they let you try. they let you make mistakes. they watch you plant your ass in the dirt a few times. then they help you get back up, brush the dust off, and come up with a new plan.

so what am i going to do now?

i don't know. i don't even remember what i used to want to be when i grew up. i gave all that up at 17 when i became a mom. taking care of that little person became more important than whatever it used to be i talked about. and then a second little person, and then 19 years later, here we are.

but i think it's about damn time to remember. i think it's time to figure out what i want to be when i grow up.

rebooting is cool, right?

everyone in hollywood is rebooting everything they can now days.

everything is being refreshed, reworked. newer script, better production, bigger budgets.

the stories you love, ENHANCED!

so. basically. i'm super trendy.

reboot: she was a single mom, struggling to get by, stressed out raising teenagers in an ever changing world. she was doing all the things she was "supposed" to do, NOW she's doing the things she WANTS to do.

chaos! drama! tears! painfully deep insights you wish you could pretend you didn't notice! emotional eating to the max! teenage eye rolling SO EXTREME you'll swear his eyes will get stuck in his head!

rated R for language.



well, it's all done. the house has sold, passed inspection, met appraisal value, and it's all over but the signing. 

the apartment is secured, deposit paid, rental insurance acquired.

boxes are packed, furniture sold/given away, rental truck reserved.

HERE WE GO: REBOOT TIME.

the teenager said about six times last night "I can't wait to see the new apartment!"

he's excited. i'm nervous. and sad. and...relieved?

is that the right word?

it's a strange moment for me. moving is nothing new. i've moved 14 times since being out on my own. but this is the longest we've ever stayed anywhere- 6 years. and we *thought* we'd be there forever. our house. OURS. owned outright.

but it just isn't us.

the teenager surprised me the other night- "i'd move all the time if we could."

gypsy blood runs deep.

trust kid- if moving wasn't such a pain in the ass, if jobs weren't required for living, if i could get over my emotional attachment to ridiculously large furniture, i'd move all the time.

living in an airstream and just...going...sounds AMAZING. just GO. throw a dart at a map. it hold a certain appeal for sure.

i'm trying to take the time in all the chaos to appreciate the house for what it's been. i did a final firepit in the back yard this weekend with friends and after everyone left, i took a moment to sit on the back deck and just...look. look at what i'd created, remember the last summer of book club, bbq's, conversations, dinners alfresco with the kiddo. i took the time to appreciate the work that got it to the point of being a place i enjoyed. the twinkle lights, the fire pit area, the calm feeling sitting out there provided. and i KNOW, i know that's not gone forever. i can recreate that wherever i go. yes, it will be smaller, but i can still create a space that has the same feeling, the lights, the calm. it won't be the EXACT SAME, but that's ok.

i took time last night to really appreciate- it's been a good house, despite all the stress and heartache. all the projects that went sideways, all the small things that have been a thorn in my side, all the project that never got started...it was still a damn good house. it was everything i could have ever picked. covered front porch, big back deck, fenced yards, old school architecture, the turret. it is everything. EVERYTHING i could have picked for a house. and it was mine. i got a chance to try it.

remember the honda element? same thing. the car i wanted. i did my research, i picked it out. it was mine. i got a chance to try it.

in the end, neither worked for me, and that's ok. they served their purpose. my dad provided me a chance to TRY. how many people can say that?

i've been through...well...a few emotions. this is the house my dad gave me. this is what i was "supposed" to do. this was the "correct" step. the "adult" decision.

i've battled letting that go. i've battled the guilt and the feelings of failure.

IT'S OK. i didn't fail. i tried. it didn't work for me. that's not a failure. that's learning. that's growing. that's experience. none of that is failure. my dad wouldn't be ashamed or mad. he knew i was a quirky duck. he knew i didn't fit the "supposed to" mold. that's why my brother exists. he's the round peg in the round hole. he knew what career he wanted when he was a kid. he's had his future planned since...forever. he's happy and content in a planned, routine life, structured.

i never fit that. dad wanted me to be a nurse. i can't handle blood. injuries gross me out. do. not. talk to me about surgery unless you want to see what i had for breakfast.

dad wanted me to settle down and have a good corporate career. i don't do well as a cog in a machine. i like a job where i make a difference.

dad was annoyed by tattoos and colored hair.

but, at the end of all of it, he loved me, he respected me decisions, he learned to trust my abilities. he was always nervous seeing what new apartment i had rented, but always came back a few weeks later proud and impressed by how i could make any place home. i scared him, but i think it was more as a parent not wanting harm for his daughter than actual fear of what would happen.

i know right now he'd be shaking his head and asking WHY???? and ARE YOU SURE?? a hundred times, but he'd also be there to help pack the truck and cursing a blue streak helping me assemble new furniture.

*side note* hey dad, i can afford to buy REAL furniture that doesn't need assembled now. no more impossible instruction books and alan wrenches and scraped knuckles.

well...mostly...there may be a few things still in my future...i'll keep my collection of alan wrenches just in case.



SO. here we go. the truck comes tomorrow. well, i go pick up the truck tomorrow.

everything is pared down, packed, ready to go.

here's to the next chapeter.

where did alice go when she left wonderland?

wherever. the. fuck. she. wanted.

it's a mystery

in a strange moment of bravado, i signed up for a weekly writing prompt email.

yesterday the first assignment arrived, early in the morning giving me plenty of time to get started and write something amazing and poignant and creative.

but i just stared at it.

i'll just take some time to think about it.

which i did. honestly. all day. i even bought new journals. and a new pen.

SEE HOW PERFECT THEY ARE FOR ALL SORTS OF CREATIVE THINGS??

i even went to a nice, quiet bar for a drinking and writing session. write drunk, edit sober, publish posthumously, isn't that how it goes?

and i did. i wrote. i wrote some starts, some ideas, different directions i could go.

but i keep coming back to the same one. the same idea. BUT I DON'T WANT TO WRITE ABOUT IT. it's the hardest. it's the most real. it's the most painful.

it's also the most dark, the most depressing, the heaviest one.

I DON'T WANT TO START OUT A NEW WRITING TRACK ALL SAD AND MOPEY!

but i keep coming back to the same idea and there's something to that trust your gut thing. so. here it goes.

this weeks writing prompt:
"write about a personal riddle- fact or fiction- something you will never know the true meaning of."

i don't know how or why my dad died.

i'll never know. 

i could ask a LOT of questions.

i could rattle some pretty high up cages.

i could get into some DEEP, DEEP conspiracy theories.

but i'll never know the truth. i'll never know how. i'll never know why.

for anyone playing a little catch up, in August 2010 my dad died in a house fire. total loss. 3 people killed. house was gone. everything was gone.

BUT WAIT- DIDN'T YOU JUST SAY YOU DON'T KNOW HOW YOUR DAD DIED? YOU JUST SAID HOUSE FIRE.

yeah. technically a house fire.

3 people: my dad, his wife, another young state trooper staying with them while he build a house.

1:15ish am: a phone call to 911 that the house was on fire and they were trying to get out.

none of them made it out.

of a 2 story house. with plenty of windows to crawl out of.

with stairs that literally led straight out the front door.

with a large basement slider for the officer staying down there.

an officer who had just graduated first in his academy class for physical fitness.

not only did they not make it out, they had to use cadaver dogs to find the remains and then dental records and bone marrow to identify the bodies.

how could they make a call but not get out? not even one of them?

how could a fire burn so hot and so fast that in the short time it took agencies to respond they had to use dogs to find the remains?

how could the complete and total house be GONE. not a cross beam, not a joist, NOTHING left, but the garage 5' away is still standing and the grass in the front and back lawn didn't even singe?

they investigated.

by they i mean a bunch of acronyms.

people with a few tricks up their sleeve.

like one of the guys that investigated the oklahoma city bombing.

and no one knows.

no. one. knows.

no gangs took credit for it. no accelerates were discovered on scene. no household appliances were under recall.

i waited a year. i waited until the gag order was released off the case.

i waited until the investigation had been completed and released.

official report said: "NO KNOWN CAUSE."

i'm sure someone knows. i'm sure an investigator somewhere has an idea. i imagine somewhere there's a file with more than a cover sheet that says "NO KNOWN CAUSE" with a stack of black papers behind it. 

maybe i haven't asked the right person.

maybe i haven't asked the right questions.

a mystery is only a mystery because we haven't asked the right question yet.

and i could ask questions. i could call my brother over and over asking if he knows something i don't. i could ask the people that were there in town while they investigated. i could dig around and find old coworkers, old commanding officers. i could demand to see files. i could...the list goes on and on.

but it won't change the ending of the story, will it?

even if i get the answer it isn't like the prize would be my dad coming back to life. if i ask the right person the right thing and get the key in the lock and get nicholas cage to follow the trail to the secret underground cave in mount rushmore my dad isn't going to be waiting at the end of the chase for me.

and what would i do with the information?

what if it was a gang hit? am i going to vigilante and take on the mexican drug cartel?

what if it was the illegal immigrant drunk driver that came back after being deported and threatened my dad and threatened me and my dad took out a restraining order againt?  am i going to find random guy and ask for him to be deported, again, since it worked so well the first time?

what if it was some conspiracy theory game plan tied to the younger officer just getting off service as security at the governors mansion? am i going to wade into whatever cover up already got three people killed and go all olivia pope scandal on them?

whatever happened, why-ever it happened.

i don't need to know. it's my mystery. it's a part of me. it's a part of my story. not all stories have a happy neat tied up ending. this one didn't.

what i DO need is to go forward from where that story ended.

i'm working on loving my house that my dad provided for me.

i'm working on being ok with knowing there won't be new memories. there won't be my dad walking me down the aisle. there won't be any more christmases. there won't be my dad at my kids graduations. there won't be four generation pictures with great grandkids. there won't be family reunions. there won't be the scary "meet the parents" moments.

but there will be moments of knowing my dad is never gone.

there's moments of chewing on my knuckles while i'm driving when i'll suddenly start laughing remembering my dad doing the same weird thing.

there will be calling my teenager "son" when i'm particularly frustrated with him the way my dad used to do to my brothers.

there will be the reminder every time i get my hair cut that my dad was just starting to grey at 55 and there was no sign of thinning on the horizon.

there will be times i look in the mirror and see an expression that is all too familiar.

there will be endless, obnoxious crying at john denver songs from now to the end of time.

there will be me saying "yup, my legs go all the way up to my hips" like my dad once said when  he noticed my gangly stork legs as a teenager.

i will call my boys both fuzz nuts until they're grown adults with children of their own.



i don't know. i won't know.

maybe some day i'll take my giant dog that looks shockingly like scooby doo, get a mystery van and go investigating.

or maybe i'll just  have some scooby snacks and sit on the couch staring at my dog imagining we're going investingating.

i think the second option is more likely. it has snacks.

where i get it

my dad was born april 5, 1955 in akron, ohio.

he would have been 59 this year.

almost 60.

i honestly don't know what 60 looks like. it seems like people are either close to my age (27-69) or OLD (70+). i'm lousy at guessing ages. but 60. my dad would have been 60. 

i don't know how he managed to be born in akron, ohio but raised in anaheim, california. i don't know way too many things about him. i do know his dad died in 1962 when my dad was 7. i know he was an eagle scout. i know he was part of a baptist church youth bell choir.

that's about it.

what i DO know is that my dad would drive from the yakima valley to spokane every year for my birthday in my adult years and take me out to a nice dinner. since his death i've claimed april 5 as steak and beer day in his honor. he can't take me out to dinner on my birthday anymore, but i sure as hell can enjoy his favorite meal on his birthday for him.

i never appreciated his driving 2.5 hours each direction for my birthday when he was around to do it. this year the small spawns adopted grandparents drove to spokane for his school concert/birthday dinner. about 2.5 hours. i truly appreciated it. i managed not to snot myself during dinner, but i sure snotted all over the car on the way home from dinner.

some people are just...amazing.  you know?

my dad was a grizzly bear. as kids we had to draw the short straw to wake him up for work. he was not a morning person.

that's where i get it from.

he also snored like a cartoon character. i still swear that if he wore socks when he slept you would have been able to see them blow back and forth when he snored. you possibly could have seen the walls of the house flex in and out too.

that's where i get it from.

one of the very last things i learned about my dad was that he loved musicals- chicago in particular.

that's where i get it from.

that whole side of the family- the miller side- not exactly a petite genetic structure.

that's where i get it from.

my dad loved all things related to a good steak dinner.

that's where i get it from.

my dad had some great sayings too-

"close the door, you're letting all the bought air out."

"wow. your legs go all the way up to your hips."

"i don't mind if you work at a stip club. just let me know which one so i'm not surprised."

he always called my brothers either "fuzz nuts" or "son" without exception.

he whistled john denver songs on car trips.

he always stopped at long horn bbq on his way out of town.

and best of all- he knew he had made plenty of mistakes in his life like we all do. he told me his job wasn't to judge me, it was to be there and help pick me up when i fell on my face.

i hope i get that from him.

happy birthday dad.

the stupid tax

i'm not the smartest of people. i don't mean that in a mean, self destructive way. i mean that in a "REALLY? DID I JUST DO THAT AGAIN?" kind of way. not always the sharpest crayon in the box, but damn it, i'm still fucking pretty!

the corporate world has a nifty thing built into it that i like to call the "stupid tax." it's also called the "too poor to be poor" tax, the "broke ass bitch" tax, and a million other things. these taxes come in the form of bank over draft fees, credit card over limit fees, late fees, disconnect/reconnect fees...you get the general idea.

i shudder to think how much money i've wasted on the "stupid tax" over the years. i would probably throw up if i ever saw the actual number in print in front of me.

i discovered another fee tonight- the READ THE FUCKING PAPERWORK YOU DUMBASS fee. this one is to the tune of over a thousand dollars. FUCK ME SIDEWAYS.

see. i bought a house last year. nifty and all, but there's this thing called property taxes- i ASSumed that all the taxes were paid for the year when i bought the house. i didn't receive a bill in the mail last year, so i didn't pay attention to it. i've never owned a house before. i've never had a mortgage. i've never had anything besides rent. property taxes are a new world for me. and i'm a fucking idiot. not only were the second half of last years taxes NOT paid, i didn't plan ahead to pay the ones for this year. WELL- not totally true. yes, i didn't plan ahead, but i also made the mistake of dumping ALL my savings into working on the house and didn't leave any set aside for the taxes. this year has been an adventure with jobs and paychecks and covering my ass- more than slightly humiliating to be broke as fuck but own my house and car outright. not sure how that works, but there's pretty but not sharp crayon thing kicking in again. so. i've been slightly back-burner stressed out all year about my property taxes. didn't pay the first half, and here it is october and the second half is due. FUCK ME RUNNING. i'm just now getting leveled out on paychecks and bills and things and not only do i owe property taxes for this year, i'm a fucking idiot that didn't read the paperwork and i owe the property taxes for LAST year (the second half) as well.

*sigh*

 somewhere out there my dad is shaking his head at me. and bailing my ass out one more time. somehow, some way a check came in the mail today. one more pay out from my dad's estate. it's been over two years. i have no fucking clue where this last check came from. and wouldn't you know it, it's enough to cover my property taxes.

 it's enough to make a girl cry while laughing while missing the fuck out of her daddy.

32 damn years old enough to know better, he's been gone 2 years, and he's still being patient and teaching me.

SO. i'm writing a fucking huge check to the county tomorrow and writing another check to my self to start saving up for NEXT year's taxes. here's what i've learned: even when you don't have rent or mortgage payments, you still have to pay yourself. and probably not just for property taxes. if i had any sense about me, there would be a house fund for when things eventually hit the fan like they do in every house- water heaters, roofing, electrical, etc.

thank you dad, for bailing me out once again. i'm still learning.

the good, the bad, the excited

well, there are MANY updates waiting to happen- don’t worry, i’ve kept a list of all the goings on so you won’t miss out on all the shenanigans.

BUT: the biggest update:

I BOUGHT A FUCKING HOUSE!

that’s right- me, the gypsy, the girl who has moved 11 times in 11 years (soon that will be 12 for 12). the girl who swore buying a home was not in any plan in any future in any way.

A HOUSE. a real house. a 1901, covered front porch, back deck, 4 bedroom, 2 bathroom, dining room with a small bay, purple kitchen HOUSE.

i’m still a fuck-ton scared of it. i mean- this means if the water heater shits out _I_ have to replace it. if there’s a leak in the roof _I_ have to repair it. when the lawn needs mowed...well, you can bet your fucking panties i’m calling someone else to do that last one. but it’s MINE. i can knock out walls or rearrange the kitchen (both of which i’m planning). i can PAINT it, rip up carpet, dance nekkid, ANYTHING I FUCKING WANT TO.

but. you know me. for every good there has to be a wrench in the works...here it is:

i called my brother the other day to wish him a happy birthday and he mentioned that one of his friends had let him know i bought a house. why hadn’t i let him know myself? well, because i knew something like this would happen. i’m chatting along, telling him a little about the house, how i’m nervous to buy it, how it’s a TON of money to spend all at once, and he drops this bomb:

“well, it’s not like it’s your money anyway.”

yes, asshole. i realize it’s not _my_ money. i realize i did not earn this money, this is not a nest egg that i saved up for years to make a purchase like this. i realize that this is my fucking lottery ticket. LUCKY FUCKING ME. you fucking asshole. i’m damn well aware of where this money came from. and, more than anything, that makes me extra nervous to spend it because i means that much more to me. i’m that much more on alert about buying a house my dad would be proud of. he always said he wished he could buy me a house and take care of me, and now he’s doing it. i want to make sure to pick out the best house i fucking can and make the best use of the money he left me. it’s been a HUGE pressure to me to not let my dad down. i realize that this is death money. i realize that several people died to provide me this opportunity. i’m more than well aware of that fact EVERY. FUCKING. DAY.

i remember more than once when my dad helped me move he would just shake his head and look around and be SO UPSET looking at the places i was going to call home. more than once he chewed my ass for picking a place he thought wasn’t up to his standard. he was always worried about me having a nice roof over my head. this is his way of taking care of me. it’s a shitty fucked up way, but it’s happening. and i want to make damn sure that it’s one he would approve of. in my head i know he’s still skeptical. he’s a dad. i know he would be looking around, poking at things, worried about something or other falling apart on me. but i also know that he would be so proud that i’m giving my boys a place of their own. i know that after the last two moves he learned to trust me that i can take ANY place and make it a good home for my spawns.

“it’s not like it’s your money.”

FUCK YOU. fuck you for shitting on such a big event for me. fuck you for not realizing how much time and thought and emotion i’ve put into this. i know it’s not what he wanted me to do with the money so therefore it must be the wrong choice. i know i was supposed to not quit my job, invest in college for the kids, make smart decisions.

WELL GUESS WHAT: THESE ARE FUCKING SMART DECISIONS. and they’re the RIGHT decisions for me. NOTHING can replace time with my kids. nothing can replace having a whole summer with them. NOTHING can replace giving them their own spaces to OWN.  they won’t have to move again. they won’t have to share a room. they can decorate, paint, make it THEIRS. i never had that when i was a kid. sure, my mom bought a house, but i wasn’t allowed to decorate it or put up things i wanted or make it my own space- i want that for my kids.  i want the quintessential hollywood kids room with wacky paint and posters all over the wall and a mess that keeps you from seeing the floor. i want them to have ownership and security.

and i ran out of steam about half way through that.

brass tacks: it’s the RIGHT FUCKING DECISION FOR ME.  IT’S A GOOD DECISION FOR MY KIDS.  i am damn well aware of where the fucking money came from.  i’m well fucking aware of how it isn’t really mine, and i’m making the smartest use of it that i can. i KNOW, hands down, that my dad would be proud of me for doing this.

back to the excitement:

I BOUGHT A HOUSE! i’m writing the check out for it today and i will OWN it, free and clear! i’m so excited

so THAT'S why they call it carma...

what did i do this weekend? (now that it’s wednesday…)

well. since you asked…

come on down bob barker…IT’S A NEW CAR!!

that’s right. I BOUGHT A CAR. *heart attack*

and bought as in BOUGHT, no payments, no mess, just all mine. *sigh* oh happy new car, how i love you.

let me introduce you: this is bonni-

and that’s bonni with an _I_ not an _IE_. these things are important. and bonni speaks with a british accent and say s things like cheerio and top notch. yes, my cars, talk, they have names, and they have personalities. my last little girl was annie- of course she was…what else do you name a red head?

so. NEW CAR.

and i have a feeling this may change SEVERAL THINGS.

let me explain: i don’t have very good luck. not luck as in “hey look, i found a $10 bill on the side of the road” but luck as in life in general going smoothly and drama free and low stress. my life is pretty much the exact opposite of all that.

i believe in karma. i believe in a balance in the world. i try to do good things. i try to keep my positive side above my negative side. i try to help others whenever i can (except panhandlers…you’re not getting any change from me!), i try to do the right thing, i try to always be honest and forthright and all that. but it seems that no matter what i do, my karma never really pulls through for me.

or so i thought.

i haven’t owned many cars. my first car was a p.o.s. 1988 GOLD (mr t would have stepped back and said WHOA) chevy beretta. it didn’t work more than it DID work- something about the starter chip and they didn’t know how to fix it and whatever. not a fan of that car. had to change out when the kiddo came along, bought a 1992 saturn sl2, drove that and LOVED it until the ex husband decided it was time to trade it in on the biggest piece of shit i’ve ever owned, some kind of isuzu rodeo that had stripped 4x hubs, a radio that had been stolen and patched back in, a starter that didn’t work, and a rear tire that had to be held shut with a bungee cord. oh my god. i HATED that car. thanks, hubby, for making sure i had a nice reliable car. fucking asshole. in the divorce, the judge gave me his truck that i had just paid to put a new engine into- a 1996 dodge ram extra cab long bed…HATED that truck too. it was a monster. impossible to get a 5 year old and a brand new baby in and out of the flip forward seats, impossible to drive, even more impossible to park. BUT, i’m realizing that’s where my good CARma started.

i took that truck after the divorce and needed to trade it in on something practical. so my dad had his buddy pick out a car for me from his lot, i drove my truck to grandview (yakima valley), and traded the beast in on my little annie. now. if you’ve ever driven to the yakima type area, you know that it’s long stretches of highway with NOTHING and the trip in total is about 3 hours depending on how you roll. i took the truck by myself, drove down, managed 80 most of the way, stopped for food/gas once, and pulled into the lot in grandview. the truck drove great, new engine was working smoothly, not a hitch along the way, never a whisper of trouble at all with that truck. it was reliable, i’ll give it that.

i pulled into the parking lot of the car dealership, parked the truck, and took my new (to me) little ford focus. easy peasy. all picked out and decided for me. well, bud (the dealer) walked over to have a look at my truck. here’s how it went:

bud: what’s that? (pointing to my tailgate)

me: um…road grime? i didn’t have a chance to wash it before getting here.

bud: that’s not road grime, that’s oil.

me: where would oil be coming from like that?

bud: your rear axle…did you have any problems?

me: not one. drove fine- did 80 down here and not even a hint of a problem.

bud: hmmm….

turns out, in the rear axle of those trucks there are 12 ball bearing in the whatever dealie thing that makes the read end work- differential maybe? not a car girl. anyway…out of those 12 ball bearings, 8 were ground to powder, 2 were shattered, and only 2 were left in good condition. they had to tow the truck across the street to the repair shop because they couldn’t even move it off the lot. umm…HOW DID I DRIVE IT THREE HOURS? how did i stop for gas and food and manage to keep going? how had i been driving it for weeks before that? WHAT THE HELL?

score one for good CARma.

so. i had my little 2002 ford focus to replace it. things were good for a while. that little car did a LOT for me. drove her for 6 years. the last 2 years she’s been getting tired. my dad was set that i needed a new one. every time i talked to him he told me i needed a new car. every trip to his house he would clean her, check her over, and remind me that i needed a new one. he and my brother were going to help me pick one out for my 30th…much like vegas with dad, that never did and never will happen. but i knew it was time for a new car, with or without dad. i’ve been shopping for a long time. i’ve been doing research, looking at what i like, tracking consumer reports, prices, used cars, everything. i knew eventually my little girl would need replaced. the last two years she’s been making some pretty strange noises- every time i would hit a bump or a pothole in the road she would chatter pretty good. i’ve had les schwab check her out the last three times they changed the tires- everything looked good to them. i had a mechanic friend drive her and check her out- i was just making up the noises and the problems. but i knew she was getting tired, i knew she was running rough. i knew the transmission fluid needed changed, the air filter sensor was throwing an engine error light, the rear struts needed changed, there’s a few dents and dings on her (not too bad), she was getting tired.

so. it was time. i shopped, test drove, haggled, had a nervous break down, and finally bought a new car. thank you dad- you helped me get a new car, just in a very different way. i was able to take part of his estate and just pay cash for a new car. no worries about payments. no worries about anything mechanical for 8 years (or 100,000 miles), brand new, all the bells and whistles maintenance/road side assistance/safety wise (EIGHT airbags up in there people. EIGHT!). a GOOD, reliable, safe new car that isn’t making any strange noises.

there was some talk for a short while about the then boyfriend taking my little red car to drive. but we all know how that worked out. so NOW what do i do with a second car? i asked a mechanic friend if he wanted her, free and clear, to fix up and sell. whatever he makes can go in his pocket. i know she needs work and he’ll have to pay out that way. i wouldn’t have gotten much trade in wise- so this just worked well.

so. he took annie on sunday. and drove her. and complained about how rough she was running and all the strange noises she was making. YOU THINK? shit…i’ve been saying that for years and he told me i was crazy!

come to find out, he took some time to look over her yesterday- there’s a ball joint type thing in the front of the car that’s (from my understanding) the car version of a truck’s u-joint (i know what THAT sounds like when it goes out). the ball joint is almost completely separated. NOT GOOD. so. basically, like with the truck, he has no idea how i’ve been driving her around this long. he said it was BAD up in there.

so. turns out my CARma was working. it was keeping my car running…as much as possible. TWICE my carma has pulled through that way.

so. here’s my theory: now that i have a good, reliable, brand new car, my karma can return to normal things and maybe life will level out in other areas for a while. it can change back from CARma to karma and maybe other good things will start to happen.

here’s hoping…