Breakdown

It always seems to be the case that everything is working just fine. And then it isn't.

(Never fear, Mom, this post is not about my mental state. Refer to the earlier posts this week, I'm doing great.)

Nope. Instead it is about the sheer fact that everything seems to breakdown just when you need it most.

How is it possible that I have two window air conditioning units, and the one that is old as the hills, and looks to be on its very last breath, seems to work just fine...and the newer one that is shiny and white, that sits in my living/dining room, doesn't want to work?

I haven't turned it on since at least September, and I did so on Saturday to cool the place off for a bit since it was 85 degrees out, and what would you know? Nothing. Nada.

Not even a hint of a breeze, cold or lukewarm. I had maintenance in my condo building come check out both of them yesterday, and to my dismay, the newer of the two is kaput. Finished. I have to get it replaced.

And, it is slated to be near or above 90 degrees all week.

Delightful. Did I mention that I'm 13 floors up, and the window unit fits into the small space in the radiator, which seems to require someone with the appropriate skill level (and brute strength, I'd imagine) to remove the existing one and replace it with the new model that I've yet to purchase?

Which leaves me to ask the obvious: Can I hire a husband for the day?

To make matters worse, in May, I just made my very last car payment on my little beloved Jeep Liberty. Proudly, I can attest that I have not had to dump any money into her for the life of my ownership - which is just over 4 years, mind you. The 2003 model has served me well, and hasn't cost me much beyond the occasional oil change and a monthly (or so) tank of gas.

Until now.

Right as I consider the option to sell her (egad!) because of how rarely I drive, and the unnecessary nature of those three or four trips per month (can anyone say needless Target trips? Outlandishly silly IKEA visits?), the computer in the car seems to be on the fritz. It was approximately 85 degrees on Saturday when I ran out to aforementioned Target and the in-dash thermostat read 74 degrees. Now, I am a true southern girl who loves her mid-seventies days as well as anyone - but I''m no fool.

74 degrees feels a whole lot different than 85 and humid. It wasn't even close to the more affable mid-seventies range on Saturday. But my Liberty insisted it was. The compass seemed to be on track, facing West as I caroused down Addison to heaven, I mean, Target, and East as I made my way through the Wrigley Field throngs past the stadium towards home, but the temperature? Stuck at 74.

I'm devastated.

Either I have to plunk money into a car that I really ought to sell (only to sign up for Zipcar for Target runs), which just is no fun at all, or I have to sell my "excellent condition" Jeep for something less. I'm still hoping for a computerized miracle - that she was just in a mid-seventies kind of mood on Saturday and that the next time I climb inside her and nestle on the lovely leather seats, that she'll have readjusted to the normal temperature. And temperament.

But given my recent luck with electronics/machinery (you remember the Tivo fiasco, don't you?), I doubt it.

It breaks my little car and condo owner heart to admit that things just have a way of breaking down when you need them the most.

In the immortal words of Alanis, 'Isn't it ironic? Don't you think?'

The Garbage State

So, I know that I've renamed this blog AWAY from strictly commuting stories, but seriously, with all the travel I've been doing lately, I am going to have to have to regress for a moment.

Indulge me, wouldja?

Tuesday night, after a very hectic and long day at work, I raced in a cab, in the pouring rain, to O'Hare to catch a flight to Newark. My second one in two weeks.

I was optimistic that this one would be on time. We boarded on time. We pushed away from the gate on time.

Things were looking up.

That's when the airplane decided to do a driving tour of the airfield surrounding O'Hare international airport. We visited, driving slowly and stopping ever so often (photo op?), at not one, or two, or three, but FOUR runways. The pilot even chuckled a bit when he announced the fourth change.

Even he wasn't optimistic anymore.

We landed in Newark, eventually, and it was after 11 pm again. I'd been up a long time, and had miles to go before I slept.

Next stop? Hertz. I trot out to the parking lot, thankful my new #1 Club Gold status had finally kicked in. This was going to be fun!

Again with the unbridled optimism. You'd think I'd learn already.

I see my car. Or was it a toaster?

It was a Prius. I'm sure these things do great things for good old Mother Earth and all, but they sure do nothing for me. I got in, read the instructions on how to turn it on (a la a Toaster) and got it into gear, finally.

Then I pulled out of the space. With the noise it was making, I was just sure I was dragging a dead grandma around under the car. It was horrendous. I had to re-read the instructions to make sure I'd not accidentally turned on the Hovercraft feature of the automobile. Nope. Just put it into Drive.

I promptly put it into Reverse and backed it right into the parking spot. The old me, from high school, would have been far too shy to go back and admit I didn't want that car, and ask for a new one.

Not the new me. I walked in, confessed my fear and loathing for the Prius, and got a new car.

Aha! A Subaru! Fantastic. At least it didn't have instructions. That will be a key ingredient as the following story unfolds.

Confident in my new wheels, I leave the Hertz lot, clutching my directions and heading for the first stop light of many. I quickly notice, however, that the car is not shifting into the higher gears. It sounds, instead, like it is going to explode. Or lift off into space. One or the other.

I realize that it is an automatic, with a fancy little shifter for manual gear changes. Uhm, hello? I don't drive a stick shift! I never learned how to "listen to the car" and "shift when it is ready!"

Good grief, this was not going well.

I notice that the gear shift has a little + and a - on it. I push it towards the +. It shifts. Great. Noise abated.

For now.

Then I accelerate onto the highway entrance, still clutching my directions, and hit the + again. Aha! I can do this!

Then I notice that I'm not shifting fast, or often, enough for little Subaru to keep up. I can barely hear myself panic over the dreadful noises it was making. Poor little Suby...don't die on me now!

Oh. Crap.

I just missed the exit towards Elizabeth that leads me to 95 South which leads me to the NJ Turnpike (aka the Freeway from Hell).

Grrrrreat.

Now I'm shifting, freaking out, panicking, shifting, looking for an exit, and Oh. Crap.

Now I'm on another highway. No exits in sight. I have no idea what highway I'm on, or where I'm headed. All I know is that it is now 11:45 pm and I'm exhausted and (shift) freaking out and lost. In Newark.

Oh. Crap.

I'm headed (shift) towards the Holland Tunnel Bridge. Into New York Freaking City.

The last place on earth that you'd ever want to be driving a car you don't know how to drive.

Am I sweating? Why is it so hot? How do you (shift) turn this heater down (shift) already?

I see an exit. I exit. Shift. Sweat. I figure out how to turn down the heat. I slowly stop sweating, as I rip the scarf off from around my neck, practically blinding myself in the process.

Now I'm in downtown Newark, I think, which I've heard isn't a "lovely neighborhood." And, it is midnight and I'm alone. Shift.

I do a ridiculously bad U-turn, and make it back onto the highway and follow the signs back to Newark Airport.

I exit, shift and guide myself back to Hertz.

Square One.

I realize, while at a stop in the Hertz parking lot, that the shifter has two choices. You can be in automatic automatic, or the sneaky little manual automatic. Gratefully, I change over to the trusty auto auto choice.

I pull back out of the lot, follow my directions, and MAKE the exit towards Elizabeth.

Success would be fleeting.

I somehow miss/overlook/ignore the sign that says which way Princeton is on US-1. (It is South, by the way). I go North, and realize that NOTHING looks familiar from last week's visit. Oh. Crap.

Now I'm heading the wrong way again. I stop and flag down two guys in a gas station parking lot, only opening my window an inch or so, and find out that yes, Princeton is the other way.

For anyone that has ever driven in New Jersey, you know that the roads have these strange and awkward rules about U-turns. They are like real turns, and then they circle through a neighborhood before dumping you back onto the street from which you came, going the other way.

After all of that, I finally head the right way, and begin to recognize things again. I practically sang the Hallelujah Chorus when I saw a movie theater that I recognized.

That song would have been in lieu of the Hispanic songs that were playing non-stop on what felt like every channel with decent reception. What is it about New Jersey? I grew up in Atlanta, with a huge Latino population, and we only had one or two Hispanic radio stations. Here I am, right outside New York City, and I can't get a decent (depends on your definition) pop song to save my life?!

I pulled into the hotel parking lot about 25 minutes later at about 12:35 am, and parked near the back. I make it to the front lobby of the Westin where the guy at the registration desk says to me, in all polite seriousness, "Good morning."

Yes, I suppose it is morning. It was hardly good though, buddy.

This One's On Me

I didn't even recognize it at first.

It had been so long since I've heard it or seen it in action. I wasn't sure it still knew how to find me. The echoes of the doubt and questions in my mind had drowned out anything like it. Weeks had passed with none of it in my life.

When I was with my girls the other night, it appeared. Surprised us all.

I laughed. Out loud.

True, real, genuine laughter.

And I look forward to the day that it isn't rare, unusual or symbolic.

I should probably admit that the laughter came as a result of Comcast OnDemand TV Karaoke.

But that may be embarrassing.

Almost as bad as getting my Jeep Liberty stuck in a huge pile of snow today after an interview. I mean it. It is downright humiliating to drive what is probably the only Jeep vehicle in the Midwest that isn't equipped with four-wheel drive.

I bought it in Atlanta, get over it.

Anyway, teetering across the railroad tracks, after leaving the warehouse loft the design firm occupies, I slipped, slid and careened to my car, which was not so delicately entrenched in about 14" of snow, ice and general asphalt-grime. (Chicagoans know what I mean.)

I tip-toed through the snow, trying to avoid my heels digging in too far, and finally flung myself against the doorframe. Wiping the salt and snow dust debris from the front of my wool overcoat, I opened the car door and settled into the leather that was practically still warm.

It wasn't a long interview, thankfully.

I turned the car on, and put it into reverse. Turned around to back up, only then realizing how closely the yahoo behind me had parked. See how he likes a spare tire nudge. (Again, Chicagoans know what I mean.)

I gassed it, and went absolutely positively nowhere. I could feel the tires spinning in place. Since it is not my first rodeo (aka Winter), I put the car in drive and lurched forward. Or attempted to. I knew I needed to create some motion, to rock myself out of the miserable spot I'd landed myself into.

Drive. Gas. Brake. Reverse. Gas. Brake. Drive. Gas. Brake. Reverse. Gas. Brake.

The tires were useless. Is this thing on? Anyone?

Finally, I get out, wielding my plastic scraper (yeah, that's for windshields, Blondie) and headed to assess the back tire situation. There appeared to be a lot of snow everywhere (well duh) but nothing particularly icy or precarious or deep or treacherous blocking the tires.

I looked like a fool trying to scrape and hack my back tire out of the icy nothingness it was lodged into, but I had to try. Otherwise I'm helpless. In heels.

Then I get back in and repeat the method/madness again.

Drive. Gas. Brake. Reverse. Gas. Brake. Drive. Gas. Brake. Reverse. Gas. Brake.

Then, on one of my many forward motions, I actually caught myself lurching, leaning and stretching MY BODY forward to see if that would help. You know, like when you scoot forward a chair and use your body weight to help it move across the floor.

Yeah. Blondie? You're inside a 4,000-lb Jeep. I know you've eaten a few "I'm feeling sorry for my unemployed self and am lonely and bored too" candy bars, but come on sister.

You're not moving the Jeep with your BODY WEIGHT and will power.

I laughed out loud.

The sound rang out. The surprise must've caused a brief interruption in the drive/reverse/gas/brake method, and the car literally sprang out of the parking spot, and dismounted the mountain of hard-packed and slippery snow I'd gotten myself into.

The laughter bubbled up inside again when I realized I'd been parallel-parked in front of the back door of a police station. Complete with a window with lead-plated glass. And curtains. They probably were all inside munching donuts laughing at me.

But, I was laughing too, so that's okay.

This one's on me.

When Out of the Country...

...obey all traffic signals. Just a word of advice from your friendly commuting Chicagoan.

In honor of my trip to Costa Rica, I figured I'd re-post two blogs from after my trip to Mexico in the Fall. For you traditionalists, the original post is found here, but I figured I'd save you the trouble and post the text here instead. Another one will come tomorrow, so stop back by for that. Then, you'll just have to wait until I return, all tan and obnoxiously rested.

Driving in Mexico
Originally posted Tuesday, November 13, 2007

I've been back from Mexico for less than a week, and I'm still prone to breaking out in giggles over the absolute nightmare that driving was in Mexico.

We were in Puerto Aventuras, which is about 45 minutes south of Cancun. Straight down the coastal highway. Sounds simple, right?

Wrong.

Maybe it is a national joke they play on the tourists, or just some crazy old-fashioned, contrived way to maintain control, but they put SPEED BUMPS on the highway. Yes, speed bumps.

Some are humps, some are those rounded parking-lot style cement knots on the ground, all lined up.

Some just damn near take out the undercarriage of the car.

Or maybe that was just with me at the wheel?

Let's just say this. While I was careening down the Mexican highway, trying desperately to figure it all out, they would crop up out of nowhere. Before I explain the bumps, let's talk about the confusing speed limits. Not to sound totally blonde, but come on.

The speed limits are obviously posted in kilometers, and the rental car was clocking my speed in kilometers, but the sheer math of it all was just too much. You expect me to drive, sing, entertain my fellow passengers AND do math? Yeah right.

I, for one, didn't go to math camp.

The conversion of MPH to KPH is not easy. Something about multiplying by 2, adding 7, subtracting 11 and topping it off with a green X, and there you have it. Your speed. Tu velocidad, if you will.

Now, let's say this. The speed limits went up and down up and down up and down with little to no regard for what was going on. It seemed like the construction guys just got bonuses for every sign they installed, so they went nuts. 80 KPH, 90 KPH, 60 KPH, 100 KPH, all within the span of about 1/4 mile. Or kilometer. Or whatever.

So, in between speeding up and slowing down, I thought "Okay, maybe I'll get the hang of this."

Not so fast, my friend.

Now, add into the mix that the construction guys clearly didn't care much for lines. Lanes be damned. There were NO lane markers in most places. No little friendly white or yellow dashed lines (or solid for that matter) to let you know if it was a two-laner, or a three-laner or a one-laner. Nothing. Nada.

So, the end result was that every driver was all over the place. Feel like passing? Go ahead! Feel like taking a left here? Fine by me - just hit up the Retorno for a trusty U-turn. Feel like driving three cars wide? Have at it.

Then, there were the buses. Apparently the buses pick up and drop off the local workers (construction of the major resorts, mostly) along the road, and there doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason (and sure as heck there were no bus stops) to when they stopped, or why. All I know is that you'd be riding along doing just fine in the right lane, tucked in nicely behind a bus, and all of a sudden, he'd careen off to the right, ending on the shoulder, kicking up dust and slowing at a rapid pace (does that even make sense?)

And when they entered back onto the highway, it was all I could do to swing wide into the left lane(s) to get out of the way.

Being the organized Capricorn that I am, it was all a bit too wonky for lil' old me.

Which brings us back to the speed bumps.

They call them topes. (I have no idea what that translates to, but we decided it was "boobies.") Let me explain.

The signs that they post to indicate a speed bump have either two bumps (boobies) or three bumps (medical mystery). They have a down arrow pointing at the street, where the topes are located. Yeah, that helps. I'm already flying over them at 100 KPH at that point.

Occasionally, there was a topes sign about 100 yards in front of the second one (featuring the aforementioned arrow), and this was your warning. Since I spent half the time worrying about my speed, and half the time worrying about the lanes, this left no brain capacity for Topes Watch '07. So, we coined the phrase "Boobies!" to indicate that there were bumps ahead.

I know, totally mature.

So, the backseat drivers (or front seat passenger, when her eyes weren't squeezed shut in fear) were charged with hollering "Boobies!" at the top of their lungs when this first sign was spotted, giving me time to slow down appropriately, so as not to shred the bottom of our little blue Altima.

Worked great. Just grand. Then, for whatever reason, my Topes Watch team was otherwise occupied, and I didn't see the sign. Maybe that sign wasn't installed yet. But, alas, we went flying over the topes at about 60 KPH (I saw it at the last second and it was just too late). I think that is about 40 miles per hour, but I have no idea (see note about math camp attendance).

Heads hit the roof. Jaws hit the floor. And shit hit the fan. We died laughing. "BOOBIES!"

Hole in One (Street)

A 36-inch, 100-year-old water main burst overnight, leaving a 15-foot-deep hole in Montrose Avenue that measures about 80 feet in diameter.

This could be blamed for some of today's horrendous traffic. Or, it could be that people took MLK day off, and somehow, over the course of the 3-day weekend, totally forgot how to drive?

Because it just couldn't be the not-even-2-inches of snow we got last night.

Could it?

Driving in Mexico

I've been back from Mexico for less than a week, and I'm still prone to breaking out in giggles over the absolute nightmare that driving was in Mexico.

We were in Puerto Aventuras, which is about 45 minutes south of Cancun. Straight down the coastal highway. Sounds simple, right?

Wrong.

Maybe it is a national joke they play on the tourists, or just some crazy old-fashioned, contrived way to maintain control, but they put SPEED BUMPS on the highway. Yes, speed bumps.

Some are humps, some are those rounded parking-lot style cement knots on the ground, all lined up.

Some just damn near take out the undercarriage of the car.

Or maybe that was just with me at the wheel?

Let's just say this. While I was careening down the Mexican highway, trying desperately to figure it all out, they would crop up out of nowhere. Before I explain the bumps, let's talk about the confusing speed limits. Not to sound totally blonde, but come on.

The speed limits are obviously posted in kilometers, and the rental car was clocking my speed in kilometers, but the sheer math of it all was just too much. You expect me to drive, sing, entertain my fellow passengers AND do math? Yeah right.

I, for one, didn't go to math camp.

The conversion of MPH to KPH is not easy. Something about multiplying by 2, adding 7, subtracting 11 and topping it off with a green X, and there you have it. Your speed. Tu velocidad, if you will.

Now, let's say this. The speed limits went up and down up and down up and down with little to no regard for what was going on. It seemed like the construction guys just got bonuses for every sign they installed, so they went nuts. 80 KPH, 90 KPH, 60 KPH, 100 KPH, all within the span of about 1/4 mile. Or kilometer. Or whatever.

So, in between speeding up and slowing down, I thought "Okay, maybe I'll get the hang of this."

Not so fast, my friend.

Now, add into the mix that the construction guys clearly didn't care much for lines. Lanes be damned. There were NO lane markers in most places. No little friendly white or yellow dashed lines (or solid for that matter) to let you know if it was a two-laner, or a three-laner or a one-laner. Nothing. Nada.

So, the end result was that every driver was all over the place. Feel like passing? Go ahead! Feel like taking a left here? Fine by me - just hit up the Retorno for a trusty U-turn. Feel like driving three cars wide? Have at it.

Then, there were the buses. Apparently the buses pick up and drop off the local workers (construction of the major resorts, mostly) along the road, and there doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason (and sure as heck there were no bus stops) to when they stopped, or why. All I know is that you'd be riding along doing just fine in the right lane, tucked in nicely behind a bus, and all of a sudden, he'd careen off to the right, ending on the shoulder, kicking up dust and slowing at a rapid pace (does that even make sense?)

And when they entered back onto the highway, it was all I could do to swing wide into the left lane(s) to get out of the way.

Being the organized Capricorn that I am, it was all a bit too wonky for lil' old me.

Which brings us back to the speed bumps.

They call them topes. (I have no idea what that translates to, but we decided it was "boobies.") Let me explain.

The signs that they post to indicate a speed bump have either two bumps (boobies) or three bumps (medical mystery). They have a down arrow pointing at the street, where the topes are located. Yeah, that helps. I'm already flying over them at 100 KPH at that point.

Occasionally, there was a topes sign about 100 yards in front of the second one (featuring the aforementioned arrow), and this was your warning. Since I spent half the time worrying about my speed, and half the time worrying about the lanes, this left no brain capacity for Topes Watch '07. So, we coined the phrase "Boobies!" to indicate that there were bumps ahead.

I know, totally mature.

So, the backseat drivers (or front seat passenger, when her eyes weren't squeezed shut in fear) were charged with hollering "Boobies!" at the top of their lungs when this first sign was spotted, giving me time to slow down appropriately, so as not to shred the bottom of our little blue Altima.

Worked great. Just grand. Then, for whatever reason, my Topes Watch team was otherwise occupied, and I didn't see the sign. Maybe that sign wasn't installed yet. But, alas, we went flying over the topes at about 60 KPH (I saw it at the last second and it was just too late). I think that is about 40 miles per hour, but I have no idea (see note about math camp attendance).

Heads hit the roof. Jaws hit the floor. And shit hit the fan. We died laughing. "BOOBIES!"