I don't know cars but I can read an invoice, or, Why I Won't go to Pro Oil Change again

I'm really starting to wonder how I keep running into service companies that don't seem to understand that if you give someone a price on something, that should actually be what they pay.  Hell, just being relatively accurate would be great.   In the general ballpark, even. Whatever.

So, in preparation for an upcoming big-ass road trip, and in the name of general automotive maintenance, I decided to get my car's oil changed on my lunch break.  I've had friends offer to do my oil changes and sometimes I take them up on that but mostly I get lazy and impatient and end up going to a 10-min oil change place.  Usually Midas, but they are admittedly a bit pricey, especially when you start treating your motor-baby to synthetic oils.  Generally in the $90 range for a full-synthetic package.

So I decided to try a different place this time.  Pro Oil Change opened a franchaise near downtown about a year ago and lo and behold, they also had a ten-dollar-off coupon on their website and a claim to a 12-minute drive-through service, which seemed handy considering I get a half an hour for lunch.

Ka-ching.

Lunch time rolled around and I drove down to see what the pricing was like.  I asked the senior mechanic guy about pricing and if they did synthetic and he told me a full-synthetic oil change was 60 bucks plus tax.  I asked if the coupon was valid with that package and he said sure so I gave him my keys and hunkered down with one of the limited magazine offerings.

On a side note:  How much sense does it really make to have hot rod and other automotive magazines in a 10-minute oil change place?  Anyone interested enough in cars to want to read about them in magazines are probably doing their own oil changes.

But I digress.

Gripe Number One:  I waited a lot longer than twelve minutes.  I guess they were short-staffed, but I still feel the need to include that to give the fullest picture of my overall shitty experience dealing with this particular company.

Gripe Number Two:  My air filter needs changing, apparently.  I was offered a new one for 29.99 installed.  Now, I could be mistaken, but I have bought one of these before and I don't remember it being near thirty bucks.  And I don't know if you've ever seen where the air filter on a PT Cruiser sits, but a monkey could probably change it.  Hell, I'm fairly confident I could change it, and I'm sure there are monkeys with better automotive knowledge than I have.

Now, these first two gripes, I would let slide.  People get swamped, and understaffed.  Shit happens.  People are in the business to make money so they are going to try and upsell.  And honestly, my air filter DOES need changing.

However...

Gripe Number Three:  When I got the invoice, I saw that I had been charged 38.99 plus tax for service and 37.00 for the oil filter and about 5 liters of synthetic oil. 5W-30.

All told it comes to about $85 bucks after the tax.  After I had been told $60+

(for those unfamiliar with HST, the Ontario rate is 13% so after my coupon was applied, I should have been looking at about $58 bucks total)

I pointed out the discrepancy and was told that ".. that's how the computer rings it up.. you see, it's this much for the service and then this much for your oil."

To which I replied "I see that, but you told me it would be sixty dollars, not over seventy-five."  To which he again said that it was the way it comes up in the computer.

Once again, I reiterated that I was told $60 and that the price card I was shown when I came in also said $60 for the package.  If it comes up as over $75 on the computer, then that is what it should say on the price card.  That is what I *should* have been told when I asked about pricing.

I was also told that I needed to account for the tax.  Which pissed me off, because - as I pointed out on the computer screen - the price BEFORE tax was still fifteen bucks more than the price I was told.

The guy apologizes and says that he's run into this problem before and has told his boss about it a couple of times now.  I told him I'm not surprised he's had problems with customers over it because it's a shitty, dishonest way to do business.

I also told him that as a first-time customer this was a crappy first impression and that I felt I had been ripped off.  I agreed to let them do the oil change under false pretences, believing that I would be paying one price, and then being charged more after the fact.

He then apologized and offered to knock 15 bucks off the price, without the coupon.  He gave me the coupon back and said I could use it again the next time I was in.  I scoffed and told him to keep the coupon as I would not be returning.  I also suggested that he pass that message along to the company owner, once again expressing my opinion that theirs was a shitty, crooked way of doing business.

So yeah.  Will not be going back there.  I had full intention of going in this morning and speaking to the manager face to face, but... life.

For now, this will need to serve as my strongly worded letter and my warning to others who may be tempted as I was.. don't bother.  

Arglebargle ranty rant rant rant.

My phone has converted itself somehow to T9 typing, which is both irritating and useless.  By the time the T9 function offers up the word I am already finished typing it.  And it won't let me swear.

I love swearing. Especially when I have a shit-tastic day like today.  I also like to make up words.  But technology these days is determined to thwart my every attempt to fashion myself the love child of George Carlin and Dr. Seuss, linguistically speaking.

I decided to complain to the Well Travelled One.

"Duck this T9 bulldog."

*sigh*

Took my car in for work this morning.  The aforementioned man-friend and I decided to drop the car off and make the walk to the next town for work.  About a 90 minute walk, which wasn't terrible, aside from being humid as hell.  Oh, and the bugs on the trail deciding once again that I made a tasty feast. 

After getting my quote from my mechanic, and a minor coronary, I figured some creative banking would be in order, since my GST cheque had come in yesterday.  However, as I was leaving, I realized that my bank card was still in my shorts after buying gas.  So, great, I'll have to drive home to get it.

Only I don't have my bloody car.

So that's that.  Okay.  Not that it mattered, since I didn't end up paying for the repairs today ANYWAY, but I'll get to that.  My co-worker gave my a ride back to the shop, but thanks to people who think it's totally cool to call a company at five minutes to closing and ask inane, open ended questions with no answers, I was late getting out of work and didn't make it to the shop in time.  It was locked up tight, having closed at 5 and it was, at that point, about 5:10.

So S. offered me a ride to the house, which I accepted.  We were almost there when I remembered where my house key was.. 

That's right.  On my key chain.  With my car keys.  Which were locked up at the mechanic's with my car.  

Yup.

So I asked if I could get a ride back to town so I could get the man-friend, who had the other key.

Needless to say, any plans we had to go out of town tonight have been shot all to hell, and I've decided not to cook dinner since I have no desire to see what myriad ways I can fuck up dinner.  Last thing I need is to burn down another house, or give both the man friend and I acute food poisoning.  The kids are away at camp, so they get to escape my reign of terror.

Lucky kids.

And with that, my TV decided to channel Kurt Cobain.

I'm feeling rather grateful. It's been a stressed out week and a bit, but as the dust (and smoke and burning plastic smell - but more on that later) settles, I'm feeling immense gratitude.

I'm grateful that a week and a half after my sciatic episode, I'm pretty much pain-free. I've known people with sciatic injuries who have suffered for months and years on end. To be about 99% recuperated before I even had my first physio appointment, is pretty A-okay if you ask me.

I'm grateful that when my car started needing work, I had friends who were willing to step in and help with advice and work. I'm also grateful that when the need became especially urgent and said friends were unavailable due to circumstances beyond their control, financially I still had the option  of going to a shop and get the work done, armed with the advice given me.

I'm especially grateful that my pain-in-my-broken-ass kept The Well Travelled One and I home last Thursday night when my 6 year old Electrohome CRT television decided to literally go out in a blaze of glory. Let's be clear, when I say it was 6-years-old I refer only to the timeline in which I bought it. I wouldn't be surprised if they stopped manufacturing them much sooner. Its time was due. So as I sat there watching season 4 of Newsradio, Phil Hartman's head got really skinny, then kind of fat, then a little of both. I wondered if it was the connector and the WTO, who had a side view of the set from the vantage point of the computer desk calmly stated "actually, no, it's a small fire" before jumping over to quickly unplug it from the wall and disconnect all the peripherals.

So I am grateful that we had turned down the chance to go to karaoke, otherwise the girls would have been home, probably watching My Little Pony, wondering why Rainbow Dash's face was distorting when the set went up in flames. Thank Gord for oddly timed coincidences. Putting aside the most obvious, horrific possible outcome of that scenario.. Well, one traumatic house-fire is enough for any kid. But since my broken ass kept us home, the fire remained contained to the back of the casing, the only evidence a lingering smell of scorched plastic.

Better to burn out than fade away indeed. Tell that to all my other electronics that simply stopped working and didn't feel the need to get all showboat-y about it.

Parenting Win plus Other Things.

Oh Hallowe'en.  Just because I've been slow on the uptake as far as preparations go, doesn't mean I don't love you as much as I always have.

I usually take this holiday pretty seriously.  My kids take the brunt of it.  The oldest one mostly just humours me but the youngest has taken my enthusiasm for blood and creepiness and run with it.  I dropped her off at a Halloween party at her friend's place today.  At the door we were greeted by a Little Red Riding Hood, and a cute little skeleton and an adorable cowgirl.

And then there's my kid, looking, very much of her own accord, like something coughed up from the very bowels of hell.  Gray, pasty skin, scraggly black hair and blood dripping from her eyes.

I'm so proud.

**********************************************

Back in 2004, I took a road trip to Fort Frances, Ontario which is roughly a 20-hour drive away from where I live.  On the way, I stopped for the night and slept in the back of my car in the back of a Ford dealership outside of Wawa, Ontario.  In the cramped backseat of my 1992 Ford Tempo, I had dreams of my children turning into werewolves.

As of yesterday, a good chunk of that dealership has been washed away with a stretch of the Trans-Canada highway.  It no longer exists.

Yeah.. I was parked right around there.  - Source

I'm thinking that's a metaphor for something, but I don't know what.

700km, an Off-Roading PT Cruiser and the Faint Sound of Banjos, part 3 (the not-so-dramatic conclusion)

Part One

Part Two

So it looks like this, the third part in my "What I Did A Few Weeks Ago" trilogy will likely be the shortest of the series, as my memory is getting increasingly fuzzy. But, hey, I don't want to leave anyone hanging. In other news, holy crap! TWO posts in one week. How about that??

So Sunday we woke up by the faint light of the sun rising over the blueberry stand across the highway, groggy and stiff from trying to stay comfortable in the back of the Cruiser. Not an easy feat, as he's not one to be scrunched up to sleep and although i generally tend to curl up in the fetal position to sleep, I was trying to remain somewhat conscious of not kicking or hitting the poor man in my sleep. Which I am told, I have a tendency to do.  Sleeping me is quite violent.

This is possibly the shittiest sunrise picture ever taken.  I took this one.

Watching the condensation slowly evaporate, we had a pre-breakfast breakfast of coffee from the Tim Hortons in whose parking lot we spent the night and glorious sweet chelsea buns from the bakery in Bancroft we had visited the previous day. Finishing up, I got tired of watching condensation evaporate (because yes, that IS as boring as it sounds) and rather unsuccessfully tried to dry it up with my t-shirt.

Pre-Breakfast Breakfast.  Tim Hortons, I want some royalties for this.

After getting on the road, our first stop for the Morning was at Cordova Falls, which is just outside of the little mining town of Cordova Mines. Cordova Falls, to date, has probably been the least Impressive of our waterfall hunting excursions, but that may be a result of it being both a dammed (as opposed to damned) waterfall and it being later in the season. I will say I was impressed seeing the pennstock for the dam. Impressed that it had not burst, as this old wooden contraption looked about 60years old and was sprouting leaks all over, some of which had been lovingly and not-at-all-half-assedly patched up with various bits of wood, some of which were jammed right into the leaky spots.

That's Reassuring.

Once we had fully explored the Upper and Middle Falls, we decided to skip the Lower Falls and head to town to see if we could actually locate THE Cordova mine. The town of Cordova Mines, Ontario is a fairly small one, almost a ghost town now. We knew the mine had to be about 4km from the dam we had just visited, as that was what the sign at the dam had told us.

If you can't trust a historical plaque, who can you trust?

One trail that we found almost took us all the way there, we discovered upon checking the maps at home. It started out near a small community hall, the type with a park and picnic benches and tables under shady trees, the type of place one could envision town picnics being held generations before. We braved the path as far as Petey would take us, at one point traversing a ground level river crossing. But beyond this we found a heavy gate with a variety of "No Tresspassing" signs. Later we would find out that what we were looking for was just on the other side.

Those aren't puddles.. that's the river creeping across the path.

...Just in case you didn't believe me.

Giving up on finding the mine, we headed to Peterborough for Actual-Breakfast and to see the Peterborough lift locks.  I can't remember all the ins and outs of how these locks actually work.. it has something to do with water displacement is all I recall.  I'm going to let the wonder that is Wikipedia fill all the dirty details in for you and just say that they were impressive and cool to watch.. we got there just as the first boat of the day was crossing.

See? Impressive.

Breakfast was had at one of GFWIHNCUWAGBA's (okay, acronyms clearly aren't an option here) favoured establishments.  Good potatoes, good eggs.. toast was a little too dark, bacon too crispy.  Good coffee and I got to find out just what in the hell 'Beaver Balls' were.

Turns out, they're basically like Beaver Tails (which I think may be known to people in other countries as Elephant Ears) but in ball form.  The More You Know.  At least they aren't some bizarre Fear-Factor inspired delicacy.  Although I still say that eating bull testicles would have been child's play had Joe Rogan just battered and deep-fried them.

However, I digress.

This was my first ever visit to Peterborough (with the possible exception of visiting my grandfather in hospital shortly before his passing, but that may have been Bancroft hospital) so he took me on a bit of a tour around the downtown and through some of the riverfront parks.  Having been up since about 6am we had made fantastic time to get to Peterborough, look around and still have time to visit my Nanny on the way home.  We got hit with the rain about 40 minutes before Nanny's house, after a weekend of otherwise lovely weather.  So that was lucky.

**************************************

In other news, I'm making a concerted effort to post more.  I've missed it.  I kind of put myself on hiatus writing at Different Paths, Same Destinations when I ran out of fucks to give in regards to my weight-loss efforts. I get the feeling I'm not the only one on a break.  Hopefully the other girls will come back and start posting again.  But we all have lives, and busy ones at that.

My posts here will probably focusing on my day-to-day stuff for the next little bit as I will be saving some of my social-issues ranty type stuff for a two-week guest blogging stint at Feministe (*geekyfangirlsquee*).

Say it with me, Sally Field.  "THEY LIKE ME!"

I'm ridiculously honored to have been asked to submit.  Like, stupidly so.  Like being asked to the cool girls house for a sleepover.  Except I get to write a lot.  So look for my posts over there during the last two weeks of July.

700km, an off-roading PT Cruiser and the faint sound of banjos part 2 (NOW WITH PICTURES!)

Wow. I'm really sucking out at this regular-blogging thing. Looking at part two of my mini-road trip post and it's been two weeks already.

I've been trying like hell to get some stuff done today and it's just not happening so I figure I'll blog a bit and completely unapologetic in my utter laziness today and then stress later when I don't have shit for time to get stuff done.

Sound like a plan? Thought so.

So after leaving Musky Bay, we got back in the car and headed for Egan Chute, which is a collection of falls in an inactive provincial park surrounded with old mines and quarries.

The area is known for a wide array of mineral deposits and the Rock Jamboree is a big thing every year. Funnily enough, tourist sites encourage rock collectors to the area but The parks department really really don't want you to do that, because of the eventual degradation of the area from people chipping away at the cliffs and caves and whatnot. It's not cool.

Oh, here's the road we had to go down to get to the chute.  Original 100 series highway.. this is proof positive that 'Paved Road' and 'Sketchy as Fuck Road' are not mutually exclusive.

"Do you hear banjos? I hear banjos."

I had made previous allusions to my vague fear of heights. I can stand at the top of the CN Tower and look straight down withougt blinking an eye, but I'm not so hot with climbing.. Especially climbing DOWN stuff. So Guy For Whom I Have Not Come Up With A Good Blog Alias™ got to be witness to me having a full on panic attack trying to scale down a loose dirt path with a steep drop on one side after stupidly trying to follow after he says "I'm going down here, you don't have to follow me.".

Because, you know, I'm a sport.

Harrowing, but totally worth it.  This is me getting my heart rate back to normal.

Got down eventually, with much whimpering and crying and shaking. Thankfully, the scenery was well worth my sheer terror and the climb back up after looking around was much easier an quicker. At the end of the chute was a pond and a small sandy beach so I was inclined to get the kit off and go for a swim. It was glorious, although I decided to come in when it was pointed out that the current was still strong enough to carry me off my path. The sand in the water was flecked with bits of what may have been fools gold but it sparkled amazingly when you stirred up the dirt.

Glittery.

We made a few attempts to locate some of the old mines in the area, but since we were losing light and the bugs were coming out (after I pulled about six dead deer flies from my hair) it was time to press on and find somewhere to sleep for the night. Somewhere came in the form of a Tim Horton's parking lot in Madoc. We had originally stopped for coffee in Kaladar but the only coffee we found was a gas station Country Style with a self serve carafe that looked a safe bet to have been sitting there since morning. So on to Madoc we went, drinking coffee and discussing the best part of the parking lot set Petey for for the night while we slept in the back, unnoticed by passers-by.

Class Elitism, Thy Name is Tiny Beaches

I live in a small town with a lot of waterfront property, yet a proportionately small amount of public water access.  We have one small beach, two public docks and a small number of 'public' boat launches - somewhere in the area of 2-3.

It really frickin' grates my cheese that in a town that is surrounded by water, it is so bloody difficult to find a decent place to swim, especially with small children in tow.  Our public beach is a bit of a mess.  To get to a decent spot to swim, one must first wade through a couple feet of muck, then navigate a trail of slippery, moss-covered rocks before hitting a sandy bottom.  At this point, you may be able to wander out another 50 feet or so before hitting a bed of weed.  At this point, I'm maybe waist-deep in the water if I'm lucky.

Of the two public docks, one is surrounded by weed beds, and both garner a fair amount of boaters and/or anglers which make swimming hazardous at best.  There's one boat launch that has half-decent swimming, but little to no beach to speak off.  About 20 square feet of beach, I'd wager.

The rest of the water front that is taken up by cottages, waterfront homes, and luxury condos the latter of which not only restrict water access to the very wealthy, but also serves to prevent the rest of us from really even enjoying the view of the water.

So it comes that I have to venture out of town to find some decent swimming for my children and I.  About 20 minutes from us there is a long stretch of white, sandy beaches known as The Tiny Beaches.  Over the past few years, debates rages over the sanctity of public use of these shorelines as homeowners in the area attempted to subvert ability to access these public beaches.

This weekend it became clear that this fight for fair access is being lost.  My girls and I had been made aware of a beautiful stretch of beach at the end of the 6th concession of Tiny.  Crystal clear waters, sandy bottom with nary a rock or a weed in sight, water that stretched out for miles.  However, access to this 'public' beach is impeded by a severe lack of available parking.  That is to say, there is NO available parking.  For a while, we were able to park in a vacant lot about 500 meters from the beach entrance.  But this past Monday I was chagrined to find pink tape had been lined across the entrance to the lot and again we were thwarted, so off I drove to try and find parking that would result in less than a 20 minute walk with gear in tow.  Well, you know what?  The road that runs behind this beach, along with all the side roads, are lined with No Parking signs, or with Permit Parking only signs (a $60 fine for each three hour period).

Buy a permit.  That's reasonable, you say?

Sure.  Residents can get two permits for a cost of $15 dollars.  If you're from out of town, be prepared to pay upwards of $75 dollars for a permit.. if you can get one.

Once upon a time, access to these beaches were free for the public.  Then the property lining the shore began to get bought up by wealthy cottagers who did not want the great unwashed littering *their* pristine beaches. Anti-parking bylaws were passed, fences were built, and it became more and more clear that these 'Public beaches' - as are clearly posted - were only for the cottagers, the elite, and their friends... and for, perhaps, those hearty enough to walk or bike out to the far reaches of Tiny Township (which, if you are familiar with the area is a complete misnomer).

Last year one of the few remaining beaches with available parking implemented a 'Pay and Display' system, which is only a little less annoying than the permit parking.  Plans are in the works for next year to have the last remaining 'Free beach' at Balm Beach go pay parking, and restrict parking on the main road leading into the village.  Business owners in the area have protested metered parking, claiming it would cripple their business, which is a reasonable fear in my own humble opinion.

I can sympathize with some of the concerns of residents who pay property taxes to live in these areas.  When I was dating the most recent ex, who lived in the same general area, it was hard to even get to his place while navigating through the throngs of people and cars at the beach.  Thing is, the people, the crowds, the cars are hardly new.   It's not like these folks move in and go "Holy Shit!  People!" (well, maybe, if they buy during the winter months).  No, for the most part, they should probably know what they are getting into. But there seems to be an entitlement amongst the tourist class to come into an area such as ours and squeeze out the local lower-classes by changing the rules of the game to suit their comfort levels.  And of course Municipalities are going to go right along with it, because of the property taxes.

I guess what bothers me the most is that I wouldn't even have to deal with the bullshit parking issues in Tiny if my own constituency had a decent swimming area.  I know, I know.  First World Problems.  People in the world don't even have water to drink let alone swim in.  I know.  I'm whining.  But as someone who operates on a pretty strict budget and would like, once in a while, to have a fun day out at the beach with her children without settling for a mucky, boggy, rocky weedpatch of swimming hole, when there are white sandy beaches stretching for kilometers, if you only you can find somewhere to put your damn car, well, it's pretty frustrating.

*In the name of full disclosure, I should divulge that our family moved to this area from a suburb of Toronto after camping in the area for a number of years.  However, our move was based less on needing a 'summer home' to 'get away from it all' and more on 'Wow, Aurora sucks and living here is expensive as hell!'

"Excellent" she says, fingers steepled in classic C. Montgomery Burns fashion...

Must post quickly before I head home.

Great News.

Recall a while back when my car got totalled, and the friend who was driving (in one of those 'can you move your car I have to go to the store' 'Oh, just take mine' moments) got a bogus careless charge despite the fact that the woman she t-boned was trying to make a U-turn out of a parallel spot and was not looking where she was going?

Well, her court date was today and the charge was thrown out.  As it should be.

Huh.  ZAH.  Vindication, y'all.

There will be some calls to my insurance company, and there will be drinks in celebration.  Today is a good day.

Sweet Jesus! It's Reverse Objectification Wednesday!

.. and goodness gracious me, I'm not drooling over some obscure indie musician! Okay, in fairness, some of my previous posts weren't terribly Indie, and one was a T.V. guy (albeit a rather obscure one) but mostly I have a soft spot (or a wet spot.. tomato, tomahto) for the musicians.

I'm not much of a sports gal.  I'm definitely not much of a racing gal.  But I have long harboured an unapologetic dirty crush on Quebec race car driver Jacques Villeneuve.

Let's get to the objectification, shall we?

Source

Source

Source

So I was far more excited than any 30 year old woman should ever be when I saw the following:

Jacques Villeneuve to appear in Disney-Pixar’s CARS 2

Yeah, I'll be seeing this. It's definitely getting a pass on my moratorium on sequel making even though out of all the Disney Pixar movies, Cars was probably my least favorite (which is to say, I still liked it).  But I'll make an exception in this case because I'm a bit of a sucker for a good French-Canadian accent.  They'll make anything seem like a good idea, whether it's seeing the sequel to a film that may steal 90 minutes from my life I'll never get back, or making out with a 50-something Revenue Canada worker while on vacation.

Uhm... yeah...

Let's just forget I mentioned that last part mmmkay?  It'll be our little secret.

So yeah.. Apparently he'll basically be playing himself.. but.. as a car.

A pretty good-looking car, if you ask me.  How wrong would it be to fantasize about sprawling Whitesnake-video style across an anthropomorphized, animated version of a nummy looking race-car driver from Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu, Quebec?

...

Don't you judge me.

Stop touching your crotch, sir, and an update on the vehicular situation.

Last night I went to a show/cancer benefit down in Toronto at the El Mocambo with some friends.  The venue was pretty cool, I'm told it was quite the rockin' place in its time.  Since my friend worked until 9, we ended up getting into the Tdot around 11ish, in the middle of one of the bands sets.  I don't know what they were called, but they were fronted by a very small woman with a very big voice and they ended with a pretty kick-ass cover of the Beastie Boys' 'Sabotage'.

Second band was a group called BlindRace, and hell, I didn't know what to make of these guys.  I wanted to like them, but they couldn't seem to make up their mind as to whether they wanted to be Creed or Sepultura.  I'd like them for a bit, then get a distinctive Creed vibe and I could see that although I may enjoy them now, they were probably destined for Creed-esque future suckitude.  And the singer came across like a rather mysogynist douche of Scott Stapp/Chad Kroeger proportions. 

And he kept touching his crotch while he was singing.  All.  The Fucking.  Time.  It's distracting as hell.  After the show I went up to him and told him "Good set, but you need to stop touching your crotch when you sing."  He laughed at this and said he couldn't help it and without considering the awesome double entendre I said "Yeah, I imagine it's probably hard."  He then proceeded to try chatting up T. and I we were just like 'Eep, okay let's get out of here.'

The headliners, Goldie Luxx I found fairly unimpressive.  I think the singers vocals threw me off.  They weren't laughably bad like the previous band, just kind of didn't do anything for me.  Maybe I'm just getting old, who knows.

On the way home we stopped at the King Road truck stop for gas and coffee and some guy in a Corvette came up to us and was trying to sell my friends car parts (They're both Neon Racing enthusiasts and do a lot of customization to their respective vehicles).  Out of nowhere, at a gas station at 3:30 in the morning.  Totally random.

Then between the south end of Barrie (you know the place, where all things good and pure go to die) and roughly Horseshoe Valley road we were being tailed by a douchebag in a giant pick up truck who was, I don't know, trying to goad E. into racing or something?  Slow down until we pass him, then zoom past us, then hit the brakes and slow down until he was beside us again, riding along side.  At one point I wondered if the jackass was going to try and run us off.  It was pretty scary.  A couple of times he pulled over until we passed him, then would speed up to pass us again.

Finally we got up right behind him to take down the licence and call the cops.  I guess he figured it out because soon after that he got off at Horseshoe Valley Road.  Some people.

So with that segue, a quick update on the car buying situation.  I put a deposit down on a 2007 PT Cruiser, after much deliberation and meeting with more car sales people than I could ever possibly want to.  I plan on having a giant bonfire with all the business cards and brochures that I've amassed over the last couple of weeks.

New wheels-to-be.  Tentatively named Petey.

I still stand to be vehicle-less for a few days, since I haven't gotten the insurance money back yet and the rental is due back on Monday.  I'm waiting on a check, which I then have to send to my loan people so they can take their chunk, then they put the remainder in my account.

Then i am motherlovin' CAR-LOAN FREE!!

So, I tend to anthropomorphize my cars (previous vehicles being Bessie, Lurch, Betty and Mabel the Sable) and my friend suggested the name Petey, relating it as a tribute to another friends late rabbit.  I didn't quite get what that had to do with anything.  Being the quick one I am, it took me a full 24 hours to make the connection

PT=Petey.

Car shopping is bullshit.

I have a confession to make.  My close friends and family will already know this about me.

I am cheap as all hell.  Stingy.  It's sad.  I could give you all the reasons why, but here's the long and the short of it:  I just don't like putting down large sums of money for anything.  I don't like being in debt, so I try to live well within my means.

My means, meanwhile, are not fabulously abundant. 

There's food on the table, my rent is paid, my bills are (mostly) caught up.  There's not a lot left over, but it's not dire.  But it has been.  So now I'm extra careful not to get to that point.

I have to buy a car. 

*cue massive coronary*

I got the call back last week in regards to Betty's ultimate fate and the insurance company's final decision was to put the poor girl out to pasture.

Now, it's not all bad.  On some levels this helps me, financially (when you put aside the potential to get screwed on my next insurance renewal).

You see, I have a cunning plan.

"You wouldn't know a cunning plan if it painted itself purple and danced naked on top of a harpsichord, singing "Cunning plans are here again!"

I've looked it up and since I have full-replacement coverage, and my loan is half-way paid off, I should be able to pay it right off, thus ridding me of a $300+ monthly car payment (which can then go towards my downpayment fund and paying down student debt) and have a decent amount left over to buy a good used car. 

... did I just say 'Used' car?  As in.. driven by others?  As in, potentially unknown maintenance records?

*hyperventilates*

Fuck. 

Thing is.. me with cars?  They're not my strong subject.  People know this, friends and family know this and God Bless 'Em.. they seem to like me and have concern for my safety and even want to help me.

Thing with cars and buying cars is, everyone seems to have differing opinions.  Where to buy; where not to buy; what make to go with (and NO ONE will have the same answer for this, TRUST ME ON THIS ONE); which one's not to go with; Private sellers are a rip-off; used-car dealers are a rip-off; get an extended warranty; no don't they're a waste of money.

Sensory motherfucking overload. 

And I start worrying that I'm going to make the wrong decision and pick a car that will:

• Rust out within a month
• Spew flames upon ignition
• Refuse to start at any temperature lower than -5 celcius
• Randomly shoot lugnuts at my children when my back is turned
• Secretly change all my radio presets to Country, Talk Radio and Contemporary Christian stations.   

 And I'll discover that it's the car rated most likely to spontaneously drive itself off a cliff so my insurance premiums will be 500 dollars a month, and all the parts will need to be ordered in from Kazahkstan.

"Dammit Thelma, I told you that wasn't the I-95 exit!"

You know what happens then?  My brain, the car-buying portion of my brain SHUTS DOWN, and the only thought I can process is "Ooooooh.. pretty.  Is it certified?  E-tested? Within budget?  Let's just drive this fucker home NOW, thankyouverymuch."

"But it's PINK! and it's great on gas!"

I do want to point out to all the people who have offered to help, I DO appreciate it greatly and I love yas for it and I will definitely be taking some of you up on your offers of assistance (because God knows, I'm probably going to need it).  All I'm saying is, I'm not good with large purchases, so if we're talking cars and my eyes start to glaze and my bottom lip starts to tremble and I keep glancing at the door like I'm going to make a run for it.. well, don't take it personally. 

Just change the subject.  Trust me.  We'll both be better off.

Photo Sources:
ShareTV
Living Stingy
Bin Bin

The upside is I've been having fun with my 'Car-Shopping Music'.

 



Ahh, Blind Melon. Still so under-rated, in my humble opinion.

Do other people refer to their vagina as Betty?

Because I don't.  But people seem to think I do.  But no, as I've mentioned previously, Betty is my cute little 2008 Aveo.  This doesn't negate the fact that when  I say that I've hurt my Betty (or in this case, a friend hurt my Betty) there is a decent amount of inappropriate giggles that go around.

But yeah, she's hurt.  Hurt bad.  It may be terminal, we don't know yet.

Long story short.. Last evening, there was a car, a what-I-would-believe-to-be-a-rather-illegal U-turn, a swerve and a slam of brakes, a crunch, a sketchy eyewitness account that has led to a possible conflict over fault, and now my car is waiting to be appraised to see if it's worth fixing or if it's a write off.  I wasn't driving, it was my friend that had my car at the time.  No one was seriously injured, although my friend is rather sore today.

So it's been a long day of talking to my insurance company, talking to the rental company, and trying to get a copy of the police report that hasn't been filed yet. 

I'm not going into great details, well.. because.. well you know when something happens and you just get sick of re-telling it over and having people offer their well-intentioned but often conflicting and rather overwhelming advice?  Yeah.  Since there's not much to do until the adjuster gets there Mondayish and until the actual police report gets filed I'm just going to try and enjoy the pretty rental car and wait and see what happens.

*sigh*

Luck of the Irish, indeed. 

my poor girl

Navigating with Herbert and why I'll never get sick of saying Rainbow Butt Monkeys

So last night was the Finger Eleven show in Kitchener.  I'm running on about four hours sleep as, being badass that I am, got to bed at 3am and went to work the next day.  I don't even know how T (the friend that accompanied me) managed to function today, as she has to get up WAY earlier than I do.  After work I hit Wal-hell, which I have been doing way too much of lately, so I could buy socks, painkillers - wisdom teeth are a bitch and a half - and a bathing suit bottom for my upcoming trip to the Dominican.  I had lost a pair earlier in the summer in an incident that was a lot of fun at the time, but now I just wish I had those bottoms back.  They fit really well.

So we left for Kitchener around 6 with me assuring T that although the doors opened at 7 (it's a 2.5-3 hour drive to KW) they never start at seven, and besides, there are two opening bands that we can miss if we have to.  We left guided by a GPS system that spoke to us in the voice of Herbert, the perverted old man from Family Guy.

Herbert had some interesting ideas about travel, because a few times he had us travelling down some godforsaken twisty-turny backroads, and at one point we nearly hit two very young deer.. maybe not babies, but certainly preadolescent deer.  There were a few instances of 'Fuck you, Herbert' when he'd tell me to look up ahead three hundred meters, and go straight.  Really, Herbert?  Was that necessary?

So as it turns out, we had cut it a bit close as when we got there, the second opening band was on their third last song.  Between their set and F11's I laughed at some guy behind us trying to convince the chick he was with of how indie he was (like, look at this fucking hipster).. talking about how he doesn't like 'mainstream' music.  That mentality pisses me off to no end.  The 'OMGZZ THIS BAND MADE MONEY THEY SOOOO SOLD OUT AND NAO I DON'T LIKEEE THEM!!" mentality.  I listen to a lot of pretty obscure shit, but the thing is, when a band like the Burning Hell makes it big and can quit their call centre day-jobs, I'm still going to like them if they keep making kick-ass music.  Music fans are so fickle.. and stupid (keeping in mind that I'm fully aware that I'm one of them).  But that's a rant for another day. 

Oh, quick customer service tip.. even though $4.75 is a relatively good price for a mixed drink in a bar,  it's no excuse to be skimpy.  If you serve someone who discovers that their drink is leaking through a hole in the cheap plastic cup, and a good third of their drink is now on the bar please just pour them a new drink.  Don't just toss the remainder in a new cup and hand it back.  You can bet your arse that I took my tip back after that scene.

During the break, we travelled out to the vendors so I could add another shirt to the collection.  They also had CD's for sale, which I'm glad I didn't buy any since I had forgotten that along with the passes to the show, I also have a complete discography coming in the mail.  That would have been a waste.  Chatting with the cute T-shirt selling dude, I suggested that they should have been selling copies of Letters from Chutney, since I would have totally picked that one up.  This was the CD they put out while still performing under the name Rainbow Butt Monkeys.  I guess Finger Eleven was more sellable, and less snicker-inducing.  Still, Chutney was a pretty strong album. Cute T-shirt guy informed me that the idea had been brought up, but apparently the album is no longer in print and the label that it was released under isn't even in business anymore.

Add one to the pile.

F11 put on a pretty fantastic show.  I fell a little bit in lust with the guitarist, James Black.  He was ridiculously energetic and on his game the whole set.  Dude was covered in sweat by the end of the night.  I love bands that seem to be having a loads of fun when they're playing, not treating it like a job or an obligation.  It's a great, infectious attitude.  I think Scott Anderson may have been having some vocal issues because throughout the night he got a little quieter and was making "Holy shit that hurt" faces after some of the more difficult parts.

 

My Camera = Teh Suck

Although I like them, I can honestly say I've never thought of myself as a huge fan. So it came as a surprise just how many songs I recognized and thoroughly enjoyed. They played a few of the ones I knew I would know, like Above, One Thing, and Paralyzer (great choice for a second encore) but I had forgotten about other tunes like Drag You Down and Broken words. I had really hoped to hear Bones + Joints but I guess it's kind of slow for a pretty high energy show. I'm really looking forward to this discography showing up so I can revisit some of this stuff. (P.S. they do an awesome cover of Depeche Mode's Walking in My Shoes)

So after the last song we headed out to begin the long drive home. Now, going into the bar I had a distinct memory of getting out of the car, and asking T if she needed anything before I locked it. Returning to the car, the first thing I noticed was the interior light on. I wasn't worried because my battery usually lasts quite a while. THEN I noticed the doors unlocked. THEN I saw my KEYS sitting on the seat.

Nothing was touched. We were flabbergasted, first because I had done something so dumb as leaving the keys on the seat of the unlocked car and second because NOT A THING WAS TOUCHED. Hell, the fact that the car was still there at all was pretty impressive in and of itself. All my CD's, All T's CD's and even Herbert were still there.

I am one LUCKY Dumbass. Kudos, Kitchener, for not being populated by car-thieving douchebags. KUDOS TO YOU.

So this may be my last post for a bit, as I'll be MIA for the next week or so. Sunny tropics, here I come.

One last weird random thought I had during the concert.  All band members?  WEARING PANTS THAT FIT!.  Thank you, Finger Eleven, for wearing pants that fucking FIT.  I thank you, the world thanks you.

Yeah, ill fitting pants are a *thing* of mine, especially after the age of oh, say, 25.  No visible underpants, please.  No baggy-assed hood jeans and no emo-fucking-girl pants.  Thanks.  Grr.

Take that, Canadian winter - another half-assed post

I got my snow tires today, finally.  It meant spending a good two hours in the seventh circle of hell that is Wal-Mart, but holy crap it's done.  Just in time to drive two and a half hours to Kitchener on Tuesday night for the Finger Eleven concert.

I also auditioned today for a local production of The Vagina Monologues that's being put on for our local women's shelter.  I think I did pretty good, and it was fun trying out.  I got to say fuck, cunt and vagina a whole lot.  I think my chances of getting even a small part are pretty good.

I was listening to our local station's classic rock Saturday night and I'm reminded once again of the under-rated talent of the Animals and of the equally under-rated hotness of the young Eric Burdon.  In my very honest opinion he should have easily taken Mick Jagger in a battle of British Invasion hotness.  Jagger looks like a troll.

Burdon in foreground - Photo Credit

Holy crap. Loverboy. Classic rock night is AWESOME.



This video embodies every terrible 80's cliche imaginable, while having the added panache of being a CANADIAN 80s rock video. Can-rock in the 80's was a very special kind of terrible. Like Enid says in Ghost World "This is so bad it's gone beyond cool and back to bad again."

Anyhoo folks, this has been another half-assed weekend post, brought to you by myself and the Simple Dude in a Complex world.  Go give him some love.

Slip slidin' away or Winter Driving in Canada

I've spent a good portion of my day thinking about tires.  Talking about tires.  Getting quotes for tires.  All because I live in Canada, and our winters are a giant pain in the ass.

I hurt my Betty.  And for those who are under the impression that Betty is a code word for the lady bits, I will clarify that Betty is my car, with whom I am currently spending my third winter.  I hurt my Betty because I didn't take the time to remember that I live in Canada and our winters are a giant pain in the ass, especially where driving in snow is concerned.

Bessie and Lurch, my two previous vehicles had been outfitted with All-Seasons, so the issue of whether or not to get winter tires put on was never much of an issue.  For three years I did the 40 minute commute to school without incident.  However, my Betty came straight from the dealership equipped with plain old summer radials, and she has lumbered through the past couple winters with them, without incident beyond a good amount of fishtailing and a whole lot of gettingstuckage.

This year I said 'Not again.  I'm not going another winter with these damn radials on.'  But November became December, which became January and once again I found myself hemming and hawing, thinking 'Winter's halfway through.. what's the point now?'  A friend, much more automotivally inclined than myself, expressed concern not three days ago about putting it off, basically telling me I've just been lucky so far and it was a matter of time.

Did she ever call that one.

Yesterday it happened.  I hit someone.  Thankfully, that someone was in a car, but it was an eyeopener.  I was driving through downtown Barrie and came to a hill with a stoplight at the bottom.  Knowing my shitty tires, I started braking as early as I could, but halfway down the hill I could feel the ground sliding beneath me.  I tried to aim for the snowbank, but the car and the road had other plans for me, and I ended up rear ending the silver sedan that was waiting at the red light. 

I pulled off to the side of the road, threw the hazards on and fumbled with my seatbelt in an effort to get out of the car and see if she was okay.  The lady driving the car was shaken, and obviously none-too-pleased by the jolt.  On the verge of tears, I gave her my insurance information while apologizing profusely The damage, which was minimal thankfully.  I had hit her square in the bumper and nary a scratch could be seen, that we could tell.  My fender is slightly bent, (giving meaning to the words 'fender bender') but nothing that I need to rush right out and fix.

I got the call tonight that the full amount of the damage was a busted brake light.  She's decided not to go through insurance, has asked if I would pay the cost and time to get the brake light fixed.  I figured for her trouble, and considering how much much worse the whole thing could have ended up, this was a pretty negligible price to pay.

So today has been a day of quotes and questions and tomorrow I will go get the damn tires put on.  Because some close calls are too close for comfort.

Someone might have saved my life....

My car is not in great shape. I drive a four-door white 1991 pontiac sunbird. It currently is without it's left headlight.

The other day as I travelled down to Barrie, I noticed up ahead of me, turning onto a concession road from the opposite direction, another white fourdoor 1991 pontiac sunbird on the road, also missing the right headlight.

The thought occured to me: What if I just witnessed myself from the future, or some other alternate reality driving down that road? What if it was me in the future, attempting to save my life in some way.. maybe they were driving back to my house to change the batteries in my smoke detector, or making some effort to change the past to save me from calamtity. and in my/her travels took back roads in hopes that I wouldn't see, and possibly tear a hole in the time space continuum. Maybe future me was travelling to midland to take out a mugger or rapist would have otherwise attacked me later that night had my futuristic doppelganger not intervened on my behalf.

This fascinating and surreal supposition gave way to a more depressing possibility. In the future, when humankind holds the power of time travel in it's hands... Am I still going to be driving that damn SUNBIRD???? (considering I don't think I'll be harnessing the power of timetravel in the next year or two).

Geeez. In that case, the future SUCKS.

Cue the Go-Gos Day five and six

Okay, so Monday was pretty uneventful. I get up, say my goodbyes to Sammi and Anthony, and head off down the road so I can return the rental car. Place isn't open yet, so I go grab a starbucks (okay, but it's got nothing on my timmies) and drive around looking for a gas station. By the time I do all that, the rental place is open.

I get to the airport to discover I miscalculated when my flight left, it was at 11:20 instead of 10:45. No biggie, just meant I had an ass-load more time to kill. I almost got in shit at Customs because I claimed to have no liquids of any sort with me, but I forgot about two tubes of lipgloss and a thing of wedding bubbles. I didn't get in any trouble for it.

While I sat at the gate and read my book, I was witness to a older man in a nice suit going to sit down and missing the chair altogether. It was funny and disturbing at the same time.

Flight was long, needless to say. Someone fainted while on board so they had the attendants all up and down the aisles for the last hour and a half of the flight.

Got back into TO and back to my car and set out to find a hotel room for the night, which I eventually did. After checking in and calling my mom to let her know I was alive and well, I went out to eat. I could have ordered room service but it was from MR. Greek, and A) It looked Expensive, B) I'm not big on greek food and C) I had the kind of hunger on that could only be satiated by hard core fast food.

While on my way to find a McDonalds, I observe that the car in front of me is very loud. I figure this is on purpose, since it appears to be one of those souped up little civics. Then I realize, that's not the car in front of me.... It's ME.

Now, when the bearer of a loud effin engine is some sort of cherried out hot rod of some sort, it's cool. When the bearer is a rusted 91 Sunbird, it's merely another thing to draw attention to how fucking shitty my car is.

I get back to the hotel and look under, and sure enough, my muffler has detached from the exhaust pipe. Not cool. I'm in Toronto, I still have to go to U of T the next day and I'm thinking it's gonna be at least a 500 dollar repair.

The next morning, I head down the 401 to the University, and my motor is drowning my already poor stereo that is no longer enhanced by the power of my missing MP3 player. I can hear the clank of metal on concrete every time I hit a bump, and in my rearview, I can see the look of terror on the drivers face, as I am sure that I am sending up sparks with every bump.

By the time I get to the Campus, the metal on concrete clanking is almost a constant. Pulling up to the parking arm, I am appalled to see that the fee to get in the lot is TEN EFFIN' DOLLARS. I pull back, throw my hazards on, and take a look under the car again. Sure enough, now the muffler is hanging on roughly a 70 degree angle from the car. It is at this point I sit down on the curb and weep, while rummaging through my wallet, hoping to god almighty that I have ten bucks in change. When I put my 10 dollars in, nothing happens. A campus cop comes up to me and asks me if everything is okay.

I LOST IT.

"NO! EVERYTHING IS NOT OKAY, I JUST PUT TEN DOLLARS IN HERE AND THE ARM WON'T GO UP AND MY MUFFLER IS HANGING ON BY A THREAD. EVERYTHING IS NOT OKAY!"

To his credit, he calmly says 'I'll lift the arm' and I start through. There is a beep behind me, and I notice the conspicuously absent clanking noise. Looking back, there is a sad little rust-brown heap in the middle of the road, the pathetic remains of my muffler. I park, and walk back to retrieve it, as I hate to litter.

Incidentally, the fact that it fell off in the parking lot and not on the 401 was not only a possible lifesaver, but it also allowed for the little bit of comic relief when I finally got to my mechanics place, walked up to the counter, plopped the piled of rust down and said 'JiM! I think there's something wrong with my muffler!"

Yeah. 260 dollars (thank gawd it was so much less than I had anticipated) and a visit with my friend Becky to kill time later, I finally got my kids from their dads and got home. I delivered souvenirs to the family and went to bed.

Thats my story. Cheers.

Lovely.

So yesterday I had a lovely morning getting my children ready to go to my mom's so I could head down to Toronto for Sammi's bridal shower at Wendy's place. After a lovely drive down where I didn't even get lost and I only got honked at once, I got there. I had some lovely food and a lovely time with the girls while we had conversations about boys and toys and all manner of things. A lovely time, and I'm very glad I went, it was quite fun.

So I had a lovely drive home, only taking a half hour to get from the Danforth area, across the Don Valley Parkway to the 401, and then to the 400. I got to my sisters to pick the girls up and discovered she was having a lovely dinner party type thing with friends and lots of food (hot dogs and crabs legs!), so I had a lovely time socializing while my children played out side with the other children were there.

I drag myself away, get the girls all packed up to go home for the rest of what has been an absolutely lovely day, and My FUCKING CAR IS DEAD.

Frank, my bro-in-law type guy, and his friend check the car out. Shawn (Franks friend), his ever so cute 3-year-old son comes in and informs me again that 'you car is dead. Uncle fwank twied it and it's dead. It not workin.' My worst fears confirmed by a preschooler. It was upsetting and cute at the same time.

My mechanic just called. The starter, as was suspected. 350 bucks with parts labour and taxes. should be ready in about an hour and a half. Gignac's auto service kicks ass for being quick.

Question of the day is...

Can somebody please tell me why Dave Mustaine is on Duck Dodgers? Yes, THAT Dave Mustaine. From Megadeth. On Duck Dodgers in the 24th and a half century.

Am I the only one who finds that bizarre? Of all the possible obscure celebrity guests imaginable they pick.... Dave Mustaine? For a children's show? What's next? Is Axl gonna do a guest spot on Sesame Street?

I think this is gonna be a weird day.

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So, once again, my car has become my hair-shirt. Coming home yesterday, car is getting all wobbly around the 40k mark, and doesn't seem to want to accelerate much at all. Take it to the wee little gas station in Apto and the general 'hanging around the gas station' consensus is...

Catalytic Converter. No gauges came on, and my transmission fluid, coolant and oil were all up to snuff, and water in the gas tank was ruled out.

Soooo today I am gonna call around to car parts dealers to get an idea how much this shite is gonna run me, if that indeed is what it is. Gonna try to avoid driving anywhere until I get it fixed on Monday.

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Oh yeah, my top two wisdom teeth have gotta come out. Gonna run around 1100 bucks. Gah. Between that and the car, I'm thinking there's some cosmic force, some money god, that does NOT want me to go to Nova Scotia this summer.

Well Screw you Cosmic Forces! (whoooo, THAT was probably not the brightest thing I could have said.)

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Some bright news in the financial department though, I got an email saying there was a cheque waiting for me in the financial aid office, one that I was totally not expecting, I think now that it's an extension on the Canada Study Grant (maybe from the strike).

600 bucks. I love random, out-of-nowhere money.

And 'Harper's hundreds' start next month I think, so that'll be an extra 200 bucks a month that I can put straight into savings. 

Scrapping the National Daycare plan and implementing a childcare allowance in it's place?

Bad for the country, but fucking AWESOME FOR ME! (still think Harper is an idiot for scrapping the plan, but who am I to turn down 200 bucks a month?) Feel kind of bad for those people who's kids are on waiting lists still.

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Nineteen more sleeps until Melissa is Here!! WHEEE!

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Next weekend is gonna be frickin' crazy. Gotta write a final on friday in Sociology of Aging (got my presentation done for that class, I hate public speaking), then I am driving down to Toronto, meeting my friend Simon who I haven't seen for 9 years for a drink, then meeting Sam and Ian at Ian's place so we can do the Pride Day Bar Crawl. I have been informed to be prepared to see some fucked up shit. 

Yay Pride day.

THEN, the next day, Me, Sam, Ian and Ian's cat are driving out to Harriston (about 2 hour drive) to attend a bush party. 

Then it's getting everyone home again on Sunday. Whoa eh?

Anyway, so that's me at the moment. Craziness.

Tow truck? More like SLOW TRUCK

I hate my fucking car. Still love the interior (what with the nifty makeover) but otherwise it is a fawking PIECE OF SHITE.

Went to Grandma Ruth's today. Battery light came on about 3/4 of the way there. Car died about 3/4 of the way back.

120 bucks for a tow to my mechanic in Penetang. Would have been cheaper to tow it to Barrie (From Horseshoe Valley rd.) but more of a headache... finding a mechanic, getting home (or finding somewhere for me and the girls to stay) then getting the car monday or whenever it's fixed. Yup, better to shell out the cash, than to deal with all that.

Fucking car. I'm feeling isolated already. Stupid automotive industry.

On the bright side, we had a really nice visit with Grandma, chatted, had dinner I beat her twice at cribbage. She asks me "don't you feel bad for beating your grandmother?" To which I replied "No, because it's not like you're frail or feebleminded. The day I start to feel bad about beating you is the day you need to start worrying about your age. I have a difficult time believing she's only a few years shy of 80, but it's true.

Tomorrow is mothers day. Happy mothers day, moms.