Moving Violations

What is it about shopping for a new car that makes me feel violated?

There are a lot of people who actually enjoy this process. Alas, I am not one of them.

Last weekend, I girded my loins and headed out to shop for a new mode of transportation. The plan was to turn over the keys to my current car to my kid. And, because misery loves company (and he's a good schmoozer), I took the lad with me to help me manage the sales pitch.

Which backfired. More on that later.

We entered the Toyota showroom and waited for one of the birds of prey to begin circling. We didn't have to wait long. I almost felt sorry for the young man who approached us. He looked twitchy and uncomfortable in his role. But, bless his heart, he worked it the best he could. I explained the car was for me, and that my son would be getting the current vehicle.

He proceeded to show us the Corolla, the only car in my price range that Toyota ever wants to sell me. I asked to see the Yaris, which is low man on the totem pole in the showroom. He showed me one they used as a loaner but said they didn't have any for sale on the lot, so I was discouraged from buying one. He also offered up the Scion, which I discovered they are trying to get rid of because they're not making them anymore.

Mr. Salesman then trundled off to crunch some numbers to compare the Scion and Corolla purchase price and monthly payments. It took him about 15 minutes. I'm not sure why, because he came back with a handwritten list that was probably copied over from something they have in the back office. There were no extra offers, just the manufacturer's current perks and a reduction for the amount I intended to put down.

He asked if I wanted to test drive the Scion. Sure, why not.

He couldn't find the keys. None of his cohorts could find the keys. After about five minutes of Keystone Cops, it was determined someone else was test driving the car.

I was tired and discouraged. I told the salesman I had to be somewhere soon, and could I please take the numbers with me. He said he had to xerox them first. We waited while, out of nowhere swooped another bird of prey, introducing himself as our salesman's father.

"How's he doing?" I was asked. I didn't realize I'd have to complete a performance appraisal. I murmured his son was doing just fine. Then he committed the cardinal sin, the one thing guaranteed to send me running for the door.

He started selling to my kid.

He assumed. Having ascertained my son recently graduated from college, he said there was a rebate for that. Also, special financing. He learned where my son went to high school and asked him if he knew Sam Schlabotnick. My son murmured yes, he did. Mr. Salesman Senior then went on to tell him he could ask Sam to tell him what a great salesperson he was.

This is why I'm not allowed to carry a gun.

Mr. Salesman Senior, getting desperate and obviously not understanding my increasing annoyance, ramped it up some more. He started talking to me about restaurants near the campus of my son's former college. I said, yes, I'd been to them both, and yes, they were fine eating establishments, as I grabbed the sheet of numbers from his son and edged my way toward the door.

Over his shoulder, I could hear Junior asking for my kid's phone number. A couple of "have a nice days" later, we finally made our escape.

I went home and did the Consumer Reports thing on the cars I had seen. (Yes, yes, I know I should have done that first.) Reluctantly, I had to admit, the Corolla was the best car for the money. Which is why it is Toyota's bread and butter.

Two days later I went online and made an appointment at a different Toyota dealership. I got a woman salesperson. Good move. She was professional and mature. Not too chatty. Not smarmy at all. She knew her stuff.

The funny thing was, she sliced the numbers in a completely different manner, but the monthly payment came out about the same as the first place I'd shopped.

No matter how comfortable I may have felt with the salesperson, when I finally emerged after signing all the paperwork, I still had the uncomfortable sensation of being eviscerated.

To top off the whole wonderful experience, I received an email from the dealership where I finally purchased the car saying, essentially, could I please shit or get off the pot and let them know if I was interested in buying a car from them or not because they wanted to update their records.

My response wasn't snarky at all. For me.

P.S.  Just picked up my new car...all is forgiven!

Shadows in the Classroom

We wandered the old classrooms, partly in search of mementos, partly in search of old memories.

Yesterday, Mr. Ginley's old grammar school began selling off old desks, chairs, textbooks and other classroom materials. They closed the facility a few years ago, and we weren't sure if the sale signaled the end of any hopes of another school coming in. If new owners had other plans. Or if it meant the building was going to be demolished.

I took the day off so we could take a look-see.

Mr. began pointing out the classrooms he had been in. The cloak room where he removed his soggy boots before class. The windows that used to be casement style and opened in the early fall and late spring, now permanently sealed shut. Bits and pieces of memories. But mostly, he walked through deep in thought.

I trailed, feeling sadness at the silence. No shuffling of feet. Or chalk dust. (Just dust.) No cacophony of young voices. No lingering energy. Just classrooms filled with chairs tucked neatly under desks. A former science room. A music room that housed percussion instruments and a box filled with sheet music. A primary classroom with blocks and bric-a-brac for creative learning. All of it for sale.

We had decided ahead of time to select a couple of chairs. We'd picked up two of them from another sale at another school many moons ago and found them to be very useful around the house.

So, as Mr. reminisced, I began to search. At the end of our journey, we found stacks of old wooden chairs with metal legs. We selected three, which turned out to be slightly different in size. It was a challenge to find three that were in decent condition (no wobbly back or legs). And that did not have initials etched with a pen knife. Or male genitalia in graphic detail. (How did they manage to carve all that without the teacher noticing?)

Included in our purchase were maps of the building by floor. And an old yardstick -- there was much speculation about whether any of the marks on the well-worn implement could have been made by use of force on Mr. Ginley. (At our school, the nuns used rulers, but when I asked, my husband pointed out the additional 24 inches increased the range of reach.)

We paid for our purchases and loaded them into the car. It will be bittersweet for my husband to have a piece of his childhood living in our home. A comfort, in a way.

But also a reminder of the shadows that live only in memory.

Imagine That

I saw paper dolls at a used bookstore the other day.

They weren't vintage or anything. But they did spark a series of flashbacks.

I played with a lot of paper dolls back in the day. And their hipper, stickier offshoot, Colorforms.

Hours and hours were spent dreaming up scenarios for my paper (and plastic) pals. For the paper variety, the dolls, their wardrobe and accessories had to be painstakingly cut from a book, taking care not to cut off the tabs that held their duds in place. If the doll was printed on paper, it was also necessary to find a piece of cardboard to glue her to so she could stand up.

There were also kits that included backdrops and props as well as characters, so you could set up a whole diorama. My mom bought a set to keep in the attic at my grandmother's house. When we got whiny and bored, she'd send us up to the attic to play with Popeye and Olive Oyl and Bluto/Brutus.

Colorforms came mostly ready to roll. You had to remove the parts from a pre-pressed sheet of plastic. I had Willy the Weatherman. My sister had Miss Cookie's Kitchen. I'm sure my other siblings had their variations, too, although I can't picture them now. I can, however, remember the feel and the smell of the plastic. Predicting the weather with Willy. And helping my sister bake cookies and cakes in the cardboard oven that opened and closed.

I cannot fathom how we played that long with toys that didn't "do anything." Somehow, our imaginations carried the day.

My son, born of Luddites, didn't get a lot of electronic toys to play with as a child. Happily, his favorite was his Thomas the Tank Engine wooden train set. For many years, it was his go-to entertainment. "Cinders and ashes, Thomas, we're going to crash!" I still have the trains, their paint chipped and faded from being over-loved. What an imagination he had. And has.

I know you're rolling your eyes at this point, thinking I'm going to rant about kids today and their electronic toys. Nope. You're smart, you get it.

Instead, I think I'll head over to E-Bay and see if any of the relics of my childhood remain.

That's the irony, of course. That it takes an electronic resource to bring back a piece of my stone-aged past.

That's okay. This old dog likes new tricks, too.

Cruising

The motorheads were in their glory. Mr. and I were strictly amateur, but we enjoyed the ride.

It was the St. Pat's Cruise In. Featuring a few dozen classic (and modern classic) automobiles.

My beloved and I tried to peer knowingly into each engine and nod approvingly. Then we'd take a look-see at the controls, the upholstery, the amenities. It was interesting but not personally engaging.

Until it was.

I stopped in my tracks. Could it be? I had to ask the year. 1966. Chevy. Impala. Station. Wagon. Oh, yeah. Now it was personal.

The car I viewed at the show was gold, although the owner said they also had one in blue. BLUE! I sighed.

The car formerly (and forever) known as "Big Blue" was purchased new by my parents. It seated nine (three bench seats), so it was big enough for the eight of us. When we traveled together, my parents sat in the front with my youngest brother between them (in an over-the-seat contraption that could never be called safe). My two sisters and I sat in the center. (I sat in the middle on "the hump.") And my two older brothers sat in the rear seat, which faced backward. On long trips, my folks would put down the back seat, and the boys were allowed to recline. They would stick their feet out the back window, but only in the country. My mom would admonish them to retract their tootsies when we traveled through a town, so we didn't look like rubes.

When I came of age, I drove Big Blue for a time. But it wasn't pretty. I had to sit on a cushion to see over the steering wheel, which amused other drivers no end. There was no power anything in that car, so I acquired a few extra muscles turning the wheel. And parking it was like trying to dock the QE2. What amazes me is that my mom drove that car for years, and she made it look easy, even though she wasn't much bigger than I. It was really her car. Later, my younger brother became its proud master, and he would squire Big Blue all over town.

It's funny what you forget, though. When we were at the Cruise In, I noticed the step-ups on the back of the car. I'd forgotten they were there...one on either side of the back drop-down door, to help you get in and out. Thinking about it now, you had to be fairly agile to maneuver yourself into the rear seat.

At work the next day, we were talking about classic cars, and the younger folks were recalling the car in which they learned to drive. Dana remarked that somehow, she didn't think people in the future would be quite as nostalgic about their first car.

The first automobile I owned was a Toyota Tercel. It was a great little car, and I loved the hatchback and rear wiper, but there hasn't been a time when I've thought about trying to buy a restored model.

Mr. asked me, "So, if you won the lottery, what classic car would you buy?"

My first thought was, Aston Martin. He scoffed. He pointed out that it has a stick shift, which I can't operate. And it has too much power for me.

I pointed out that it would be perfect for zipping up and down Big Sur after I bought that beachfront property in California. Also, I could learn to drive with a shift. If I had a real incentive. Like an Aston Martin.

Back to reality, I know my next car will likely be a Corolla. At this stage of the game, reliability wins out over fun. And, let's face it, I would just look old and silly behind the wheel of a convertible sports car.

But somewhere, deep inside, there's a part of me that can just feel the wind whipping through my hair, the ocean breezes calling me, zooming along coastal roads. Channeling my inner Kim Novak.

Oh, yeah.