Hurriquake 2011

You know you want to do it
every single year,
this time i think you should--
the end just might be near.

Mother nature's crazed;
something's in the stars.
September's not too early
to buy those fun-size bars.

Make Lemonade.

In 1985, my still-married parents decided it was a good year in which to buy a Subaru station wagon. My brother and I were around seven and four. We had outgrown my dad’s 1969 Firebird, which may mean we spilled enough ice cream cones in the back of it to make him finally break down and cry, and—even more uncharacteristically—buy a brand-new car.

For a few weekends we hung out in car lots. We learned about features. Sun roofs and power windows were the thing (our Subaru ended up with neither). Consumer reports rated my dad best kid-car consumer 1985. It was fun.

You are astute (and approaching middle age) if you have been thinking why, in 1985, were we not early adopters of the brilliant Dodge Caravan (wood paneling) or Plymouth Voyager (less wood paneling). I don’t know. I can only suspect that my dad felt there was an artistry to packing the back of a Subaru station wagon for a three-week camping trip with two grammar-school kids. After three to four hours it really would be stunning to behold, how the stuff he put in formed perfectly to the curved shape of the door that would nestle down on top like putting a tarp on a burial mound. We were to learn about patience, perseverance, and rear-view mirrors. Also that “I’m going to pack the car” meant to show up in the driveway around six hours later and be very, very quiet.

The Subaru was a nice shade of light blue, which matched 1982-1986 pretty well. It was only slightly less periwinkle than the shade of our later-purchased used Toyota Tercel station wagon (later named the “butt-car” for reasons that I will now be compelled to write about at a later time).

Before one camping trip, my mom decided to preserve the brand-new car by installing home-made seat covers on the backseat. By seat covers I really mean twin sheets. By installing I mean cutting holes in the sheets with pinking shears at approximately the places were the seat belts would come out. Inevitably, on a long car trip, or just by the end of Rochester Street, the sheets would shift completely and the seatbelt holes would be forever lost, so that upon re-entering the car we would hear four to six minutes of “Mom, I can’t find the seatbelt.” “Just reach in the hole.” “Mom, it isn’t in the hole.” “Yes it is, reach farther.” “Mom, I can’t find the seatbelt!” Etc. I suspect that at the beginning of the trip we made every effort to find the belt before taking off. Towards the end, my dad would probably just head right back out to the interstate and save that extra five to six minutes.

Unrelated to the sheet-covers, the seatbelts (only lap belts in those days!) were the first indication that something may not be right with the car. On occasion, once you found the belt in the nether-regions of the sheets (an exercise that would sometimes reward you with a fruit roll-up or a Kavli cracker) the belt would stubbornly refuse to come out more than a foot from the seat. We tugged and pulled. “Mom, I can’t get the seat belt out!” “Mom, the seat belt is stuck!” “Mom, I can’t get the seat belt out!” Etc. At which point my dad would get out, grit his teeth and slowly feed the belt back into its lair, after which he would pull it out at varying speeds until it yielded into his hands. It was like yoga for seatbelts. My mom, viewing the belts as less of a man vs. car challenge, was less patient with fixing the belts and at one point just gave up and told me to hold on to the foot length of belt sticking out of the hole and not let go until we got home.

I have heard that women’s hearing is more attuned to high-pitched frequencies, which is why they are more adept at hearing a baby’s cry at three in the morning (BULL). What this research failed to take into account is a man’s ability to discern the slightest squeak from the inside of a brand-new but suspiciously temperamental Japanese car. At times we would pull over in Nebraska in order to identify the origin of the squeak. Generally it was never pinpointed, but would either move or be canceled out by a different squeak emanating from a different spot, leading me to believe it was just the same phantom squeak moving from vent to vent looking for Kavli crackers. (One time, while camping, we actually did have mice in our engine, which my dad threw out by their tails. I thought that was awesome.)

We learned to love the car. Somehow it lasted longer than my parents’ marriage. We lived with the quirks. We got old enough not to need seat covers in the back. At this point the back seat was in terrific shape (as expected), but the front seats were so worn that we bought seat covers in matching blue fake shearling (I’m guessing around 1993). We filled it up with napkins and sugars from McDonalds, including one or two stirrers for a stirring emergency. My dad ingeniously (well, not according to my stepmom) “installed” a cardboard tissue box to the dashboard with a piece of cord. It remained long after it contained tissues. It remained long enough to become a family joke. When it was finally thrown away (because my stepmom rightfully couldn’t tolerate it disintegrating before her eyes) I couldn’t put my finger on why the car didn’t feel quite right. Something was different. I was in college.

Recently, my dad bought another car. A used car this time, because let’s face it the squeaks aren’t so bothersome in a used car. The Subaru was long gone (I told my stepmom I would support her if she drove it into the Iowa river). Around this time, my husband and I had finally decided to get rid of our beater car. We decided a convertible didn’t look very cool with a Graco SnugRide in the back. My dad generously offered us his old car, a 1997 Nissan Altima. Old but in great shape, good for the city. He had the brakes fixed and the oil changed. He put some new tires on. Re-taped the driver’s side mirror that somehow got broken off and then taped back on with some super-sticky and cheerful yellow tape. My husband, son and I drove it from Iowa to New York and read kids’ books at rest stops. We don’t drive much, so we don’t accumulate napkins or stirrers (though you might find plenty of whole grain goldfish crackers and probably an organic fruit leather). We haven’t had a tissue box spark of genius. It has a few dents and rust spots. I thought I would get that mirror fixed when I got it back home. I haven’t, and I probably won’t. I sort of like it. I’ll tell my dad to bring out some tape next time he comes.

Matzo Education Continues.

My down the hall neighbor just introduced me to matzos with candy coating and chocolate frosting. Move over, Cadbury mini-eggs. Happy Passover!

Passover Surprise!

I am Greek Orthodox and from Iowa. Despite these facts, I love matzos (pronounced "matzas"). They are right up there with other joyful signs of spring, like black jellybeans, motorcycles, and people in shorts wearing winter coats. I like them with butter, or jelly. I like them right out of the box. I even like that they leave little rounded crumbs everywhere. I'm not sure when or how this love affair started. When was it that my Catholic but multi-culti mom (she was a Unitarian at one point) bought one of the six Manischewitz boxes at the grocery store? Only one store had them, at the seasonal end of an aisle, along with the three jars of gefilte fish that they pulled out of storage each year. In Iowa City, the Jews (of which there were approximately nine) did not buy their gefilte at EconoFoods. I suspect they had a Passover hook-up somewhere legit, like New York, or Chicago, or Moline. So apparently I was the only person buying those matzos, which further means that I was probably eating and enjoying last year's matzos and that is all OK.

So, naturally, I was shocked by a few things when I moved to New York. First, it is possible to buy an industrial-sized lot of matzos at Fairway. It must have approximately 100 matzos, 5 boxes of 20 wrapped in plastic wrap. You would have to decide between this and toilet paper if you were taking the bus or booked too late and got one of the small crappy zip cars. This is heavy. This is double-bagged. This is the door-buster sale of passover.

Furthermore, one can buy regular, low-salt, whole-wheat, spelt, egg, onion, egg & onion, thin salted, thin unsalted, thin tea, yolk-free and everything varieties. I am told they come in chocolate-covered, but I haven't seen those lately.

My second shock was that Jews don't like matzos. It is apparently part of their cultural heritage to point out that matzos taste like cardboard. No they don't! They just look like cardboard! I understand that they are missing out on the joy of matzos because matzos are mandatory and they can't eat bagels and pizza. OK I will buy that. I get that they symbolize hardship. OK. All I'm saying is, appreciate what you have. They aren't that bad. It could be worse. You could have peeps.

Job Searching Poet.

I need to find a metaphor,
Or simile is better,
To illustrate the agony
Of drafting cover letters.

In other things I write,
I sometimes have some luck.
When it comes to cover letters,
I just can't give a darn.

Big-boy bed.

$500
Sleep next to it on the floor
Should have bought a tent

Sydney's Question

The city is really a fright.
A toddler summed up the sight;
My little friend said,
With a tilt of her head,
Mommy, I thought snow was white?