When I was your age

These kids today, I tell ya.

When I was 16 and I fought with my boyfriend – which was, like, a lot – I’d go out with my girlfriends, and hope that maybe we’d meet up at some point with the guys and he could see how much fun I was having without him, or apologize or whatever. The second best outcome would be that I’d come home to find a message from him on my machine. (Kids? Do you even know what a “machine” is?)

Usually, neither would happen, and I’d have to call him. Punk.

So I’m having lunch last week (on a school day) and there’s a group of girls at a nearby table. A cell phone rings (as if cell phones ever actually “ring” anymore) and one of the girls steps outside to answer it. Distraught, she returns to her friends.

“What did he say?” they all ask.

As she begins to recount, the phone sings again. Disquieted, she takes the phone outside again. She’s like, having a girls’ lunch out and fighting with her boyfriend at the same time.

Dunno, I think maybe my generation had it better. At least when I was out with my girlfriends, I could entertain the fantasy that he’d called. Nowadays, I’d be checking my phone non-stop to see if he’d texted or called. (Actually, I did exactly that as far back as seven years ago.)

Good thing Rob and I don’t fight much (or rather, he rarely gets mad, and if he does, it doesn’t last very long), because he doesn’t have a cell phone and is therefore incapable of texting me his apologies.

Doggie Doggie Bone, Y’all

I’m a-tell you, like Isis told me,
Kibble rules everything around me.

Apologies to Wyclef. Rob starting singing those lyrics last night. Sweetest Girl is his latest fixation, which he plays over and over and over. Hey, it beats Britney’s “Gimme More.” (I’m not joking.)

To the issue at hand. We took Isis to a German shepherd expert last weekend, thinking he was going to tell us the secret to training her as the perfect companion/protection dog. You know, the kind that barks at prowlers, not invited guests; and bites serial killers instead of innocent passersby. (I’m not joking.)

The revelation, however, was that, “She is a really nice dog. You don’t have any real behavior problems.” To my relief, he did not tell us not to let her sleep on the bed, “On my pillow, wherever she wants” (as I described it to him). What he told us, and for this I’m glad it was a free consultation, was that we need to be consistent and work on her sits, downs and stays, which she knows, but has been deciding for herself when to apply.

He also told us (OK, I would have paid for this information) that making her do rapid-fire sits, downs and stays is more stimulating to her than doing laps around our yard with a stick in her mouth. Here all this time I thought that would wear her out. And that making her lie down for an extended period of time was as unstimulating as sitting in her crate.

Here’s the breakthrough – he took two links out of her prong collar. Now, I knew it was loose. The Internet told me it was supposed to sit higher on her neck, but I’ve only ever seen it that high on Boxers and Dobermen. The German shepherds I’ve seen have worn them lower on the neck. I’ve experimented with taking one link out, but worried it poked her too much and put it back.

With two out, the collar does seem quite snug, even before it’s tightened for a correction. But the expert insisted it wasn’t too tight, and he maneuvered her around his yard for 45 minutes with it that way. She showed no sign of physical distress and seemed perfectly happy, but boy was she obedient. She don’t pull on the leash no more.

So our current strategy is to put the training collar on her when we’re hanging around the house, instead of only for walks. And when she starts to bug us by dropping a ball in my lap, insisting we play; or chewing Rob’s feet; or barking at us because we want to sleep late on a Saturday – I just put her in a down-stay. And leave her there for a while.

Driving without feet

Afraid of exceeding the speed limit, but feel like those signs are sucking the fun out of driving? Bring back the joy of highway driving with Cruise Control!

Even crawling along at 60 mph is a hoot when you can accelerate or decelerate with the press of a button on your steering wheel.

We’ll see what happens next time I’m actually in a hurry to get somewhere, but for now, I improved my mileage from 30 miles per gallon to 37.

Least convincing defense ever

“Your honor, I don’t speed. I’ve only ever had one other speeding ticket, um, prior to that one.”

(Looks down) “It says here you have two.”

“Yeah, that’s because I got another one after the one I’m here for today. But I totally use cruise control all the time now.”

Everyone in court today was there on a speeding violation. Nearly every single person “deferred” their findings for $100, which means it doesn’t go on their records. That’s what I did with my first ever speeding ticket in 2003. It only cost $75 then.

Today, however, I was the only one ineligible for deferment. The good news is that he reduced my fine to $75…the bad news is, I’m totally screwed when I go back for the second ticket.

Best roadside emergency ever

On my way to work yesterday, about two miles from my exit, the freeway started to feel extremely bumpy. “That’s strange,” I thought. “I don’t remember this much bumping.”

I kept on at full speed, before beginning to sense that the bumpiness might be originating from my car, and not the road. I slowed down, hit my hazards, and the thump-thump became more pronounced.

I blew out a tire once before, on a car much older than this one. It was a front tire and the second it blew, I knew exactly what had happened. I had just driven 2.5 hours south from Rob’s house and had almost reached my exit. That time I pulled over and called Triple-A.

This time, I kept going. I could have pulled over, but the exit seemed so close and the shoulder seemed so exposed. I thump-thumped to a McDonald’s parking lot, and before I even glimpsed the shredded rear tire, a man behind me said, “You got a spare for that?”

“I do,” I said.

And he changed it for me. Just like that. Said he has a daughter who’s about to start driving and he hopes that if she were ever in that situation, someone would help her out. A girl on her own, with all those crazies out there. He mentioned all those crazies a few times too many, but he had his wife with him, which gave him some uncrazy cred.

Seriously, though? It was 10 a.m. on a sunny weekday and I was in a McDonald’s parking lot approximately three blocks from where I used to live. I didn’t exactly fear for my safety.

The folks at Discount Tire said they didn’t know what caused the blow-out, but they sold me a tire and I made it to the office by about 10:45 a.m. Would like all my roadside emergencies to go so smoothly.

The night before, I knocked a water glass over on my bedside table. I do this a lot. I exclaimed, “Sh*t Motherf*cker!” which prompted Rob to call out, “Are you all right?” Because knocking over a glass of water really warrants that kind of expletive.

Twelve hours later, I got a flat tire (all alone, and with all those crazies out there) and was completely unfazed.

Blue is the new red

When I was young and rebellious (I was never rebellious), I heard that red cars were more likely to get pulled over.

Don’t believe it, kids.

I owned red cars for 16 years, and I was pulled over exactly once while driving one. I was pulled over twice in my dad’s blue jeep. (Plus, he got a photo-ticket in the mail once because I ran a light in his jeep, but I don’t think color was a factor that time.)

But get this, I have been pulled over twice in the past three months in my new little blue car. That’s right, I got another speeding ticket today.

I was so bewildered, I handed the cop my credit card instead of my driver’s license.

It was on a two-lane county highway and once again, I had no idea I was speeding. (That’s not going to make a very good defense, is it?) This is a highway I have driven many times during the past five years, and usually, I feel like somebody’s grandmother, because cars pass me all the time. So imagine my surprise to learn that there’s a stretch where the speed is reduced from 50 to 35 mph. (What? Like there’s a sign somewhere that tells me this?)

I was traveling 49 mph.

Now, I can’t say that I actually knew the speed limit was 50 mph on most of that highway, but I likely would have maintained that speed the whole rest of the drive, 1 mile under the speed limit. If I hadn’t been pulled over and issued a ticket, so that I had to talk on my cell phone to my Mom, crying, the rest of the way.

What did you do for the Super Bowl?

While other people were eating wings and shouting at their widescreen TV sets (I assume), I spent last Sunday becoming an accessory to murder. Of a mouse.

I don’t feel good about it, but then I work with people who go out with rifles and deliberately shoot deer and elk, so maybe my humane compass is a little askew.

Several weeks ago, I noticed a couple of teeny little turds in one of our kitchen cabinets. I cleaned them up and stuck some steel wool in the gap around some kind of tube coming through the back of the cabinet.

On Sunday, Rob said, “Can you come look at something and tell me if it’s mouse droppings?” Without looking, I was sure that they were. Under the sink and in the cabinets to either side. Including the one where we keep the dog food. There was no evidence of chewing, but I was pretty concerned that the mouse was actually inside the bag that I twice daily reach into without looking to scoop kibble for Isis.

“Do you want to help me clean this up?” Rob asked. Absolutely not. But I was willing to stand there and squirm as he pulled our collection of grocery store plastic bags out from under the sink. (Of course I have those reusable cloth bags, but do you know how hard it is to remember to actually bring them inside the store?) Rob wanted to throw them out, but I insisted that we put them in the recycle bin at the grocery store. Only after Rob cleaned it all up and taped up the various holes, was I willing to get close to the sink and wash every single pot, pan and serving dish that had been inside those cabinets. OK, maybe I was a little lax with the floral vases, but I don’t eat out of those.

A few hours later, I paused “Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew” and went into the kitchen. I looked in the cabinet and there were four little turds very close to the edge. Stupid mouse. If he’d been more discreet with his poop, he might have survived the night.

We drove to the store, I in my bedroom slippers, and Rob went inside to recycle those grocery bags and buy some traps. Which he carried out in new plastic bags.

He had eight old-school snap traps, two glue traps and a $20 “humane” trap that was supposed to electrocute the critter, but seemed to be defective when we put the batteries in.

Again, I didn’t feel good about this. But I was so scared. I didn’t know how many of them there were, and where they were, and I didn’t think to look up the Humane Society’s position on rats and mice (which is to catch and release whenever possible, or to use “humane” traps like the electronic one and snap traps, but never glue…)

Rob deployed all of them. Almost. I thought six snap traps were sufficient. Two in each cabinet.

I checked them repeatedly throughout the evening and during the night, and in the morning, one of the snap traps had snapped. Dangerously close to the dog food. (Why didn’t I take it out of the cabinet?) The thing had flipped over and I could see the little belly and feet and tails.

“We got one!” I said, waking up Rob. Who got up leisurely, ate his cereal and showered before he even looked at it. After removing it from the premises, he brought the trap back inside. So we can reuse it! It’s still sitting in the utility sink underneath some paint supplies.

The other traps remain empty, so it seems that little guy was the only one inside the house before we closed up some of the entry points. Or at least, the only one in that particular location.

I’m not what they say I am, except I sort of am

Things were humming along with our travel plans for India and Nepal in April. Still having some trouble booking airline tickets. While I was successful in booking one flight on a website, the next day that very same airline wouldn’t accept my credit card. (And it’s not because my credit card company is looking out for me, I checked.) Another airline offers a great rate on their own website as well as on Orbitz, but when I select the flight, I’m told it does not exist.

However, the greater peeve has to do with our visas. I filled out our applications and sent them to the outsourcing company in San Francisco that processes the info and passes it along to the consulate. I got a call asking me to define just what kind of “writer” I am, because they want to make sure I’m not a journalist. Nooo problem. They sent me a form. And since I no longer work for a newspaper, I went ahead and circled the box that said “No, I am not a journalist.”

I got a confirmation email that the applications for our multiple-entry tourist visas were passed along and on Monday the Fed-ex envelope was waiting on our doorstep. I took out our passports and looked at the pretty stickers, feeling so proud of my efficiency.

But wait. Mine says, Type: J, No. of Entries: S, and Rob’s says, Type: T, No. of Entries: M.

Now I’m no investigative reporter, but I had a hunch that the letters translated to Journalist, Single; Tourist, Multiple. Seeing as we had planned to stay one night in Delhi before heading to Kathmandu, this posed a slight problem, since with a single-entry visa, I might have a little trouble crossing back over the Indian border from Nepal.

Here’s where the logic of the situation is inversely proportional to my level of frustration. The outsourcing company says, “Yeah, the consulate gives single-entry journalist visas to all writers, actors and artists.” Why? They didn’t say.

I said, “But everything you sent me confirming my application said multiple/tourist.” And they said, “That’s what you applied for, but it’s up to the consulate’s discretion what they issue.”

Can I appeal? Explain that I am not a journalist at all? Never mind what my master’s degree says.

No.

What if I’d put “information officer” on the form? Would that have slipped through? Rob’s said he is a “corrections officer.” It’s only a one-word difference. And how much sense does it make to give two people obviously traveling together two different types of visas?

We may never know. But I went ahead and canceled the hotel reservation in Delhi and booked the earliest flight to Kathmandu. Assuming our first flight is on time (for the first time ever, I’m hoping for a 5-hour delay), we will be spending approximately 10 hours in the Delhi airport. Instead of resting from our travels in a nice hotel room.

Although there are alleged plans to “modernise” the international terminal, and maybe we can pay $20 for a little “retiring room,” all the Internet will confirm is that the Indira Gandhi International Airport won the 2006 Poopy Airport Award.

Pretty sure the flight to Kathmandu leaves from the same terminal where our flight from Chicago arrives. But I plan to worry between now and about 9 p.m. April 11 (India time) about whether they’re going to stamp my passport on my way to the gate.