Head-turners

Every car we drive gets a reaction. Some cars get a reaction from everyone, some just from middle-aged men, some mostly from women and children and some from the select few with a keen eye for a rare classic. 

The head-turning isn't always a positive, as sometimes Colin and I are cast a scolding look due to "unnecessary" exhaust, speed or tire squeal. But, in general, when we take our cars

 out, more often than not they receive approving gestures. These gestures come in the form of waves, whistles, thumbs up and the ever popular light 'em up motion made by making a circular gesture with your hand that loosely resembles spinning rear wheels. 

In fact, one of my favorite memories of such said reactions took place when my younger sister, Rachel, met Colin for the first time. Rachel found herself fortunate enough to be a passenger in Colin's Jeep Cherokee. There are two key elements you must know, first, Rachel's favorite marque is Jeep, and second, this is no stock, run of the mill Jeep Cherokee. Oh no, but rather a supercharged SRT 8. So as Rachel fastened her seat belt she was surprised to be met with such a monstrous rumble as Colin turned the key. That deep growl from the exhaust must have awoken something inside Rachel as she proceeded to say quite loudly to Colin, "Light em' up, bitch." Colin handled being called a bitch better than most and even appeased my sister with a little tire squealing and what some more conservative types may have called excessive acceleration. Not sure whether he was trying to impress my sister, or me. 

Not everyone has the same appreciation for the Jeep as my sister. But there is one car in our arsenal I've found to universally turn heads. This car alone has the power to bring 

poised, sophisticated men to their knees, turn classy ladies into giggly school girls, and put the spring back into the step of an arthritic elder. The Ford GT. 

Every time we release the Ford GT from it's prison that is the garage, driving down the road is like watching a parade unfold in front of our eyes, but we're the only parade entrant. Pedestrians hear us coming. We see them stop. Turn. Look. And then their eyes get wide and their mouths fall agape. Soon both sides of the street are lined with onlookers who resemble Venus fly traps. 

The Ford GT not only stops people, it stops traffic, and may even have been

 the cause of a minor fender bender. I can't say for sure, but we were at a stoplight a

nd the oncoming car was stopped waiting as well and we see him staring at the car (familiar Venus fly trap face), and then the light turned green and we started to go. That's when we heard the unmistakable sound of bumper meeting bumper. Our onlooker had been rear ended. Now I can't say for sure what the cause was but I'm guessing he was busy looking and he didn't go when the light turned but the guy behind him did, or the guy behind him was busy looking and forgot about the car in front of him.

Hopefully we weren't the cause of that unfortunate meeting of Detroit fiberglass, but we were definitely the cause of a temporary traffic delay. This guy gave one of the most colorful reactions, and it was fun because you could see he was just thrilled to be even in the presence of the GT. He was so effected I couldn't help but think one day he's going to tell his grand kids about the day he saw the elusive Ford GT. We pulled up next to him and I saw him see us and then there was a delayed reaction. He looked away  and then paused, I could see his mind processing what he'd just seen. He then looked back and smiled. His smile was that of a child who had just been giving a bowl of ice cream bigger than his head and told there was more where that came from. Then he started shouting things I couldn't hear with his window up, then as we pulled away he got out of his car - in the middle of traffic, mind you -  and started yelling, "That car is f*^%ing nice." All while laughing as though the meaning of life had just been revealed and all the while the cars behind him are honking and yelling their own thoughts about things. If this was his reaction at just seeing the GT, I think if Colin had given him a ride, it may have been more than his system could handle, resulting in Milwaukee's first case of human spontaneous combustion. 

All the wonderful entertaining head-turning gestures aside, there is one reaction I'm most thankful for. As the Ford GT is the car I was driving when I almost learned the meaning of "felony speeding." I will forever be indebted to the kind stranger who saved me from jail with a quick flash of his lights.  

The joys of vacationing

In our realm, January means auction time in Arizona. Barrett-Jackson, Russo and Steele, RM, Gooding all in the same place during the same week. Colin can reflect on the market and what that means for his business and maybe add some things to his inventory. Which in turn means leaving the winter wonderland of Wisconsin for a warmer climate. And not just for January. We stay all the way through mid-April. What more could a girl ask for? A nice place to stay while we're there, if I may be so bold. That doesn't seem like too much, does it? 

Naturally we plan in advance. Colin likes things to be "turn-key." Just show up and go. We have the advantage of Colin's mom living in Arizona. Couple that with the fact that she's a real estate agent you would think finding a house to rent for the winter would be a breeze. That being said...

Call it karma. Though I don't know that Colin and I could both have been so awful in former lives to deserve the road blocks we seem to encounter so frequently. I prefer to think we simply just both have bad luck. Everything seems to be a challenge. Even finding a place to stay on vacation.

And we did find a house. Colin paid the security deposit, cleaning deposit and first months rent before we even arrived. Our decision to rent this particular house was based on the pictures and listing description provided on the real estate website. The house was listed as "show model quality."  Amazing, fully furnished. Luxury rental. All sounded good. And the pictures seemed to support the description. However upon arrival, the house was not as it was purported to be in the listing.  I felt like a balloon being deflated, and not just for the fun of sucking out the helium so you can talk like a chipmunk! Walking in and looking around it was such a disappointment. This often happens with high expectations. But when you're paying more than the per capita income of an entire third world country for three months rent, the house damn well better exceed expectations. 

Remember Pig Pen from Charlie Brown? Well if he was a grown bachelor, this could be his house. There was dust and dirt and dinge everywhere. Upon opening a closet I was caught off guard by a dust bunny the size of a mouse, which is what I mistook it for at first. All the walls and floor boards were banged, scuffed and gouged as if someone had let a hockey team practice in the house, which we later learned wasn't too far from the truth. The family that had previously rented the house had four rambunctious young boys who did in fact play hockey in the house.  

And as far as being fully furnished and completely stocked, I guess it's all relative. But I don't consider four severely chipped plates, a  box of plastic forks and a couple of threadbare towels fully furnished.  

But really, all this is manageable, with perhaps a reduction in the rent and the help of a cleaning service. However, dirt and less than ample supplies is not where the sham of this "luxury rental" ended. Sadly, the crème de la crème was a curious spot on the living room couch. As Colin so eloquently put it, "If our living room were a crime scene, there'd be plenty of DNA evidence." And he wasn't referring to blood, if you follow. Due to some tightly budgeted family road trips, I've built up a tolerance for staying in some pretty, um, interesting places, but even I draw the line at couch stains of the male reproductive variety. 

So I refused to stay there. Who knows what else was a recipient of such deposits? We didn't unpack and were forced to find some place else to stay. Which we did. Though Colin is still trying to resolve the lease/misrepresented property issue. 

That all said, if needed I'd go through it all again because as far as I'm concerned the headaches, and possibly the extra three and a half months of rent (plus security deposit plus cleaning deposit) for a house we're not occupying, are certainly all worth my being able to sit on my back patio in Arizona and bask in the sunshine in a near 70 degrees on January 9th typing this blog post. 

Come visit. 

In care of: Passive aggressive

Before I continue this post, let me just say, I love my mother. That being said...she possesses an uncanny talent to irritate me. 

When Colin and I got engaged, Helen (my mom) was very excited. She really likes Colin and seems to be proud of the fact we're going to be married. So she decided it was important to her that we carry out the custom of having an engagement announcement published in the local newspaper. And she volunteered to take it upon herself to write the little blurb.

My mother, my stepfather, Colin, Colin's mother and myself happened to all be together and so Helen decided it was a good time to get the details necessary to include in the announcement. Typically included are parents names and locations and the couples education credentials and occupation and maybe location and wedding date. Seems straight forward, however, when it comes to my mother nothing is ever straight forward. 

First a little back story. When I met Colin I was working at a radio station (WBKV/WBWI) as a copywriter. My mother considered this a real job. 

After awhile I wanted to try something else. Something more journalistic. So I took a job as a writer and sports reporter for a web site company. My mother did not consider this a real job. Writing for the Internet? Who reads anything on the Internet? 

The web site job didn't work out as expected and so after careful consideration and discussion with Colin, we decided I could leave the web site company and try my hand a working for myself as a freelance writer. This my mother didn't understand. To her I was simply unemployed, which caused her some discomfort, though she's not much for working herself. Go figure. 

So the point of all that is this. When it came to the part to list my occupation my mother suggested we put "Formerly employed as a copywriter as at WBWI/WBKV." (If she wanted to use my last occupation, she would have used the Internet based company, but you can see, that really didn't count.) Colin and I said my occupation should simply be listed as writer. And so she tentatively made a note of my occupation as writer.

And so a few weeks go by and my mother calls to ask if we have the picture of us that is to accompany the announcement. I tell her no and ask her to mail what she has written up to me and when I get the picture I'll handle sending the announcement and the picture the newspaper. (Sidebar: Now when I said mail, I meant email, but my mother doesn't have the Internet, silly me, so she typed it in Word, printed it and mailed it to me, as in postal mail.) 

Before I get into how she butchered the announcement, let's start with how she addressed the envelope. At this point, I'd officially moved in with Colin for just around six months. I'd done a change of address with the post office, given everyone my new address, and had had no problem receiving my mail. However, that did not stop my mother from addressing the envelope to Cana Tinkle

In care of Colin Comer

As though I were just a guest in his house instead of it being our residence. So that was jab number one letting me know she didn't quite respect where I was in my life. And if she hadn't have addressed the envelope that way, maybe what was inside the envelope wouldn't have affected me so much. 

The announcement started fine. Parents blah blah blah, Colin graduate of blah, works at blah, Cana a graduate of blah, and then BAM! There it was, her little passive aggressive jab number two: "Cana is currently pursuing a career in writing." Currently pursuing? As though the last five years where my job title included the word writer, as in copywriter, sports writer/reporter, were insignificant and didn't warrant my mother believing I already had a career in writing. 

If she wants to say I'm pursuing a career, or hobby even, in racecar driving, I'll give her that. But I am not pursuing a career in writing. I am a writer. Yes, Mother, that's a legitimate job. Even if it's freelance and even if it's only for the Internet.