Letters From Heaven Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely, but rather to skid in sideways yelling "YAHOO! What a ride!"
"When I am no longer here and can not comfort you or touch you or wipe away your tears, remember that my soul will gently caress your heart through the soft breezes of springtime."
P. Schultz
The year was 1975. My favorite car for years had been the Pontiac Gran Prix and I finally had one. White with a black top, long and sleek and powerful. Three hundred plus horse power. I managed to get my first speeding ticket (and the second and third) with my high powered beauty.
If you asked my mechanic however, he would shudder at the very mention of the car. It did have a history of problems ... to the point where I would call Dennis and the first thing he would say is "Now what?" In spite of that, I loved the car.
Working for a now defunct consumer lending company, I had just been transferred to the downtown Redwood City office as Assistant Manager. As usual, parking in downtown was at a premium and I finally managed to find a space down the street and around the corner from the office.
At noon, I wasted no time grabbing my purse, fumbling for my keys and heading for the door.
Except I couldn't find my keys. Back at my desk, I emptied my purse. I rummaged through drawers. I checked all of the other desks. I tore apart the front counter. Checked the bathroom. Upstairs. Under desks. Employees pockets.
No keys. Okay, I must have left them in my car.
And when I finally went outside and walked down the street and around the corner, not only did I not have my keys, I no longer had my car.
Gone. Stolen. Kaput. Bye-bye.
My beloved 1968 Gran Prix was in the hands of strangers! My boyfriend picked me up after work and took me out to dinner, which turned out to be a celebratory dinner with my mechanic and several other people who were familiar with the car's history.
Two weeks later, I received a call from the Palo Alto police department. My car had been found, though not quite in the original shape it had been in when it was taken. The transmission was destroyed; two tires were flat; and one rim was damaged beyond repair. To top it off, and what really irritated me the most, was that my white linen blazer had been used as a rag for greasy hands!
Since this was in the days of no insurance required, and I was one of those who believed I would never need it anyway, I had no insurance. Not only was the cost of repairs out of my pocket, I had to pay the towing company for towing the car and the storage fees. Which it turned out was for three days because that's how long it took the police department to contact me.
In spite of Dennis' grumblings, he did fix the transmission for me. But I still think he had something to do with the police department taking their time to contact me. I'm pretty sure he tried to convince them to let the car stay there forever but they finally got him to hand over the paperwork.
See, not only was he my mechanic, he was also a Palo Alto police officer.
There's one of those banner-ad-thingies at the top of the page right now with a time line beginning at 0-10 and ending at 70-80+. The heading on this thing is "How old will you be in 2013?" See it?
^ | | | | |
Right up there
Now the funny thing is, flashing on either side of this time line, is "SUPER QUIZ!"
I'm just curious ... are there really that many idiots out there who need a "SUPER QUIZ" to figure out how old they're going to be in seven years?
Ok, I broke down and went to the doctor on Friday. After suffering in silence and not being able to sleep worth a damn, I figured why not.
So he poked and prodded and pushed and twisted and finally said "Hmmm ... well, you either have a strained whojiwhatzit muscle or it's something else that will only show up on an MRI or CatScan. Take this medication and if it's not better by Monday, we'll order an MRI. And by the way, you have an elephant growing in your ear."
Or something like that.
So I took the prescriptions to the local pharmacy and when asked if I wanted brand name or generic, my first response was brand name. Since I had never taken this particular medication before, I had no idea how I would react and since I have had adverse reactions to many generic drugs, why not start with the real thing.
Of course, since I'd never taken it before, how would I know if I was reacting to it because it was generic or just because of what the drug was. And the druggist was extremely helpful as I stood there with a confused and dazed look on my face, wanting only to get home, take my drugs and pass out.
"Well, most people get the generic. Let me look up the prices for you and then you can decide."
*Click, click, clack, click, click*
The druggist looked at me with eyebrows raised, a slight smile on her face and said "Ok, the brand name is $150; the generic is $19."
No, seriously ... not the kind that every body refers to when they have to deal with some bozo-boy, but a realpain in my neck.
Kinda like a crick in the neck except that it's not going away. It started as a sharp twinge every once in a while when I turned my head the wrong way. Now it has progressed to a steady sharp pain, especially when I turn my head to the right (yeah, I know ... so don't turn my head to the right!)
I only mention this because I decided to do some research last night and after reading everything on MedLine, I'm not so sure that the "information age" is a good thing. Self-diagnosis is bound to create a plentiful supply of hypochondriacs.
What happened to the good old-fashioned crick in the neck from sleeping upside down and sideways? Now, a pain in the neck can mean everything from Meningitis to brain infection to whiplash.
No where on MedLine does it indicate that a pain in the neck could be caused by the cat sleeping on top of your head or the dog kicking you or your partner who, in the middle of a dead sleep, decided to give you a bear hug and in spite of your struggling would not let go because after all, this is the guy who sleeps through freight trains and fire alarms.
So I'm going to stay away from MedLine but if it doesn't get better by, say, Monday ... then I'll go to a real, live doctor who hopefully does not rely on MedLine for his diagnosis.
I'm just glad it's only a pain in the neck.
You should see what MedLine has to say about a pain in the butt!
There was a story several years ago about a certain un-named package delivery service who was experiencing theft problems within the organization. Due to these Unknown Performance Standards and questionable employees, a sting operation was set up to catch these thieves.
This un-named package delivery service was known for not only loosing packages but also for late deliveries and damaged packages earning it the reputation of a truly Useless Package Service.
The sting was set up to have a highly insured package delivered to an undercover-type person. Inside the box was some type of camera and recorder which was designed to activate when the box was opened, thus catching the thieves in the act.
At least that was the plan. Until this Utterly Parodistic Service managed to loose it's own package.
In the meantime, a small jewelry store in a small strip mall in Pleasanton received a highly insured package from an unknown source and upon inspection, they realized the package was ticking.
They did exactly what any normal person would do ... they called the police. Who in turn called the bomb squad. Who evacuated the strip mall, shut down the highway in front of the mall and set off to defuse the package.
To say the least, the un-named but Undeniably Pathetic Service came out of this situation with rather red faces and vowed to change their reputation.
Over the years it has worked on doing just that, though I still have my doubts because they have now managed to loose the birthday present I sent to Michelle. The good news is that there was nothing ticking in the package.
And of course, I would never name this Useless Package Service.
When I called a friend of ours yesterday to get some ideas for a birthday present for his wife, I was secretly thrilled when he suggested a gift certificate at her favorite store. Not that I've ever been in this particular store, but it was located in a mall that I had never been to.
This was my chance to browse the place. Not that I expected it to be unlike any other mall I've ever browsed, but it was a good excuse to find out.
I have a habit of casing malls before I actually park, driving around the entire perimeter. Not that I know where particular stores are located inside, but it gives me an idea of the size and where the anchor stores are located.
It also helps me remember where I parked. Not that forgetting where I parked has been a huge problem in the past, but there was one time, many years ago ... well, let's just say there was a bar involved and it was very late at night.
Anyway, after choosing a parking spot close to both an anchor store and a mall entrance, I set off to complete my mission. Normally there are 'Store Locater' maps at all of the mall entrances. Not that I ever use those maps, but I guess they would come in handy if you've never been to the place and you know what you're looking for.
As it turns out, this mall was much larger than I thought it was and much to my delight, there were more home decorating type stores than most malls. Not that I need any more chacka in my home, but it does make the whole browsing experience a tad bit more enjoyable. For me, anyway.
After a couple of hours of browsing, I remembered why I was there and finally went in search of one of those 'Store Locater' maps. Not that I really needed it but in all of my wanderings, I had not seen the particular store I had originally set out to find.
As I stood there running my finger down the list of stores, a clerk from one of the stores close by asked me what I was looking for. When I told her, she gave me a rather odd look until I said I was shopping for someone else. Not that I would shop for myself in any place that includes "Petite" in the name ... and she then informed me that the store had gone out of business.
So I left the mall, shopping bags in hand, no gift certificate and a failed mission. Not that I didn't spend money, just not on what I intended to spend it on.
Today, I get to do it all over again, this time looking for a different store. And this one just happens to be one of my favorite places to shop. Not that I need anything from this store, but they do have a few things that are really nice and would look great in the living... NO! I am only going to buy the gift certificate.
I mean, it's not like I can't discipline myself. Right?
It was still dark. The sun hadn't even considered raising it's shining face yet. The obnoxious buzzing sound of the alarm clock was enough to make me want to throttle the first living thing I saw and Tom was smart enough to stay out of sight.
As I felt my way into the kitchen, groping for a cup of coffee and sloshing it all over the counter in the process, I remembered why I hated to go hunting when I was young. It wasn't just the fact that some poor, innocent, cute animal was about to be turned into dinner ... it was the god-awful hour required to "start the hunt."
Supposedly, hunting at the crack of dawn gives the hunter the advantage. To me, they have the advantage no matter what time of day it is ... after all, they have a gun. The animals don't. How fair a fight is that?
In any case, I had agreed to go along. I had even bought my hunting license the day before. When the clerk asked me if I had "bagged" many birds last year, I politely informed him that I had never shot a living creature in my life ... And, I probably never would, unless it was the two legged variety in a forced situation.
Since these birds won't fly in the rain, I spent most of the evening praying for rain. Even the weather reports had stated it as a possibility.
Now it was 5:00 in the morning and the sky was clear. No rain. At this point, I figured I would just make sure I missed every shot. The limit was 15 birds per hunter and I had no problem wasting fifteen shotgun shells.
With coffee in hand, shotguns and ammo in the trunk, Angel in the backseat pacing from window to window, we were off to the wide open ranges along with hundreds of other macho dudes willing to wake up before the birds in order to prove their hunting ability, and I'm sure, the bragging rights that go along with it.
We found our spot, settled into our very comfortable folding chairs with shotguns at the ready, sipped coffee and waited. And waited. And waited. There might not have been rain but the birds must have heard my prayers and decided to stay home.
Angel had fun running from hunter to hunter, nose to the ground inhaling new smells, chasing dragonflies and butterflies. Eventually she tired out, jumped through the car window, curled up in the backseat and went to sleep.
After two and a half hours and one bird flying over (which everyone missed), I turned to Tom and said "Yep. This is really exciting, honey. I can totally understand why men like to wake up in the middle of the night and go out to kill something!"
Oh, the final count?
Four dragonflies, five butterflies, a cricket ... and two hay bales.
For all those who died and all those who saved; For the countless heros of that day; For the courageous passengers on Flight 93 who tried to thwart evil; For the survivors who will relive that day for the rest of their lives; For the families and friends; For the men and women who may not agree with war But believe that freedom is worth the fight; For every religion In every country And to preserve our right To believe in whatever God we choose ...
