Waiting Room Hell

 

There’s a Chevy dealership 8-9 miles north from where I live, a quick hop on the expressway ramp within three minutes of my house and I’m there in no time at all. I’ve bought and sold three vehicles there over the past 18 years and I’ve gotten all our service work there as well. The place is in the middle nowhere but in between several small towns and their waiting room is usually full of friendly, country people who talk to each other---no heads buried in their phones. 

Until a few years ago, they had young female service manager who really knew her stuff. My husband adored her and no wonder. She looked like Pete Pan, talked diagnostics and was one of the few people in our world who actually understood how to interact with someone who lost their speech due to a stroke. One time I asked her how she got interested in working on cars and trucks and she said her mom was a single mom who drove cars that were always breaking down so she got books from the library to study what was wrong with them. By the time she was 10-12 she was changing spark plugs and air filters which eventually led her to getting a degree in automotive technology and repair. I’ve loved that service center. There's always a good back story to glean from someone.

I had to go up there this week for an oil change and tire rotation and when the newish service guy came out to the waiting room to get an estimate approved for a few other Mickey Mouse things that needed doing he said he’d measured the tread depth on my tires and I needed a new set to the tune of $667. I laughed and said, “Are you telling me I came in here for an oil change and you want me to leave with a new set of tires?” “Pretty much,” he answered. “How long is all this going to take?” I asked him. I had another appointment to get to so I had him schedule the tires for another day. I think it shocked him with how easy his sales pitch went but what he didn’t know is that getting new tires was on my list of things to do before I move. My money will be much tighter afterward and I figure they’ll be the last tires I’ll ever have to buy. He also didn’t know that back in my heydays I questioned the depth of tire treads on some of the trucks my husband owned so often that he bought me my very own tread depth checker. I kept it on my key chained and with nine pickup trucks, 3 front-end loaders, a street sweeper and a Corvette it became a joke that whenever we’d be near one of those vehicles I’d be checking out the tires. The joke was on me, though, because I officially became the person who got sent down to the tire place to wait when tires needed replacing.

I’m back from my walk down Memory Lane and let me tell you my recent wait at the dealership service center was not the pleasant experience I usual have in the place. It started out with me and another woman in the room but soon after I sat down a man showed up and announced that he wasn’t going to sit by me because I was wearing a mask and he didn’t believe in them. They are still state-mandated in my state but I didn’t say a word. I just got my Kindle out, pretending I didn’t hear what he said. The other woman, however said, "You're talking my language."

That began my hour spent in Conversation Hell as the two of them talked hardcore Trumpism---the “stolen” election and how he'll be back in the White House, illegal immigrants, how Black Lives Matter caused more violence than "what happened at the capital", the recent mass shootings and how the Democrats are staging them to take their guns away. There wasn’t a topic/conspiracy they didn’t cover. They are both anti-vaccines and she said, "only old people die from the virus anyway." Hello! I thought, I'm old and I can hear you over the six feet that separates our chairs! He told the woman his brother's whole family is sick with "they say its Covid" but he thought it was the common flu and the doctors were lying because "they get $2,000 every time they write that on a medical chart." 'They' are over-achievers these 'they' people, I was thinking. 'They' also put illegal immigrants up in $100 a night hotel rooms. I just kept silent, no way was I wadding in their dirty pool. Even when the guy said he has a hidden bunker with over 3,000 rounds of ammo, 28 guns and enough food to last him two months for the civil war that’s coming, I just sat there re-reading the same page over and over again on my Kindle. Not saying a word, not making eye contact.

After the woman left the man says to me, “I hope we didn’t bother you” and I didn’t even lower my Kindle when I replied, “Nothing I haven’t heard before and I don’t need to hear it again.” “Sorry,” he replies. Finally I looked at him, really looked into his eyes and said in a cheerful voice I didn't feel inside, “No need to apologize it’s a free country. You get to say whatever you want and I get to disagree with every single thing you just said in here.” The look on his face was almost funny, like the proverbial, frozen-faced deer caught in your headlights. He got up and without another word he wandered into the new car showroom. Not man enough to be in the presence of a 'they' person I presumed.

As I was driving home I knew I shouldn’t have said what I said. People as delusional as Mr. Hidden Bunker could have turned violent and he was carrying a handgun. He was a regular gold mine of information---where he lived, his name, where he worked, how much money he has hidden on his property because 'they' are going to close all the banks, you know. If I have been an FBI agent, that guy would have gone on 'watch list' and as much as he talked, I'll bet he's already on one. When I go back for the tires I hope I'll be waiting with nicer people. It's the last time I'll be going there because I'll have to find something closer for car service after I move. The last-time-I-be-doing-this experiences are adding up fast. ©

The Upside Movie Review, Red Hats to Mad Hats and Other Chit Chat

“Every moment of every day we can be our best, most loving and vibrant selves. Together, let’s step up to show up better than yesterday.” Jimmy Rosenberg, the founder of Evolution Fresh, signed his name to that bit of inspirational philosophy on the side of an orange juice bottle that I got at Starbucks this morning. (The company is a subsidiary of Starbucks.) In the almost two decades I’ve been hooked on Starbucks this was the first time I’ve bought an orange there so I don’t know if the same bit of philosophy appears on all its bottles or it changes from time to time like similar words do that appear on the disposal cups you get at this so-called "yuppie, left-wing liberal" coffee shop chain. But I’ve sung my Ode to Starbucks before so I’ll skip to the reason I was up early enough to require a shot of orange juice along the way. I wanted to go the hazardous waste collection site and it’s only open from 7:30 to 9:30 one day a week. I had a twenty-five year old fire extinguisher in the garage that still showed it was fully charged but I wouldn’t trust it after all those years and a gallon of windshield washer that was nearly that old. I don’t even know how to open the hood of my car, much less where to fill the washer bottle. As they say in the better parts of town, “I have people for that” now. 

There was a day, though, in my distant past when I could check my own oil and transmission fluid and top them off, if needed. My dad didn’t think his kids should be driving if they couldn’t do those things plus change a tire and I had to prove I could do it all before he’d let me take the family car. Fast forward to when I met my husband and he did all those things. But Don did put me in charge of tire safety with a ceremonial gift of a tire tread depth gauge. It was a joke gift because I was tire obsessed with the tires on Don’s menagerie of nine pickup trucks and four pieces of heavy equipment, and I made good use of that tread depth checker. He no longer had to listen to me ask, “Are those tires safe?” Instead I got to say, “Those tires need to be replaced” and off we’d go to Costco. I still have that tread checker but I don’t drive enough to put any wear on my tires so it’s in my toolbox now instead of in my glove box. Ya, I know Marie Kondo, the Tiding Up lady, would say I need to honor that tread checker’s history then throw it in the garbage. Hey, lady, I honor it by keeping it! Maybe she can live with just one sweater---white at that---in her wardrobe but I’m a spiller and I’m digressing….

New topic: My Red Hat Society Chapter officially dissolved with our Christmas party. We’ve been together since 2002 and I was one of the founding members. The National organization raised their yearly dues significantly. So we’re changing our name to the Mad Hatters and everything else will stay the same except we will wear whatever darn color hats we want---as long as we wear one to our teas and outings. Other than the licensing rights to use the Red Hat name and logo the National hasn’t been of any benefit in recent years like it was when we were younger and could travel to conventions. Last March I blogged that I was seriously consider dropping out of the Red Hats altogether but I shifted my attitude and stuck it out. Now I go to the fun stuff and skip the things I didn’t like doing like visiting nursing homes and going on endless church tours. Mostly I stopped feeling guilty about skipping what I skip and more importantly I stopped resenting the dictatorial nature of the person making most of the decisions. My philosophy? If you don’t like something either work to change it, move on or find a way to accept it. I choice door number three. 

I saw a good 'dramedy' movie this past weekend, The Upside with Bryan Cranston, Kevin Hart and Nichole Kidman. IMDb sums up the storyline this way: “Philip is a disabled [quadriplegic] white billionaire, who feels that life is not worth living. To help him in his day to day routine, he hires Del, an African American parolee, trying to reconnect with his estranged wife. What begins as a professional relationship develops into a friendship as Del shows his grouchy charge that life is worth living.” The reviewers have not been kind with their ratings—three out of four that I read gave it two stars and the forth gave it three. Two harped on the fact that it didn’t measure up to the French version (The Intouchables). Big deal! How many Americans watch foreign films with subtitles? And one reviewer didn’t like that comedian Kevin Hart took on a roll that included a good deal of serious acting along with the comedic parts in the film. I couldn’t figure out if it was comedians in general, black guys or just Kevin who shouldn’t be stretching their type-casted wings. All I care about is the film is based on a true story and it took movie goers through a full range of emotions from belly laughs to empathy to sadness and back to happiness. I left the theater feeling uplifted and I felt I got my money’s worth. So a pox on the two star ratings! The Upside has a lot of upsides…. ©

Crazy-Glue, Glass Eyes and Flat Tires

The last of my spring appointments in the medical realm of my life was polished off this week with a trip to the eye doctor. He says my cataracts are in the “iffy zone.” If glaring lights at night and daytime sun is bothering me then the cataracts can come off otherwise we can let them go a year or two. I’m in no danger to other drivers on the road, he said, and I asked if there’s a chance he’ll retire before my next appointment. “Yes, but I’ll find a good looking guy to take over,” he replied. I told him that in today’s world he shouldn’t exclude the possibility of a woman ophthalmologist taking over. “Oh, I’m not.” he said, laughing. “If you were a man I’d tell you I’ll find a good looking woman to take over my practice.” I went home thinking maybe I should have the surgery this year because I trust my doctor. I’ve been going to him for over 30 years, since he treated me in an emergency because I Crazy-Glued my eye shut and more recently he gave my husband 20/20 vision after his cataract surgeries. When I brought this dilemma up with the Gathering Girls they all thought I should wait until I get a young doctor because, they reasoned, a younger doctor will know better techniques and have steadier hands. I hate dilemmas like this. My dad once had a doctor have a heart attack and fall on top of him while he was laying on a treatment table, so I get what they’re saying. 

And for the curious-minded who want to know how one goes about Crazy-Gluing your eyelid to your eyeball, let me explain that it involved a wooden dowel and a hole where I wanted it to go. I filled up the hole with glue and then with too much force I pushed the dowel inside and the glue splashed up and into my eye. Talk about ball-of-fire painful! I went into that mode where you think if you scream-talk people will understand that it hurt like the devil had pushed a hot poker in my eye and he was twisting it at warp speed. I called Don who found the eye doctor and off we went. It’s such a common thing to happen that his office keeps a solution on hand that undoes Crazy-Glue. A chemical burn on my eyeball resulted but it healed surprisingly fast with no permanent damage. To this day I have never used Crazy-Glue without first putting safety glasses on. Eye issues freak me out. A couple of times I’ve rubbed my eye and accidentally flipped the lid outside in so it looked like I didn’t have any eyelashes at all. They were all up inside! Oh, yes, my eye doctor has gotten me through some strange things with his calm demeanor and sense of humor.

One of my friends from The Gathering (for people looking for friends) has a fake eye, technically called an ocular prosthesis. She’s had it since childhood when a neglected case of Pink Eye turned into a serious infection that caused her to lose her eye. Recently, she had an appointment to get a new eye painted by the only guy in the state who does that kind of work. It’s long process of literally sitting in a room while the “eye artist” works on the fake eye while using your real eye as his guide. Not able to let this tidbit go by without googling glass eyes, I found out an ocular prosthetic can cost $2,500 to $8,300 and the first known prosthesis was made of gold and worn by a woman back in circa 2900 BC. By the 5^th century fake eyes that were made out of clay were written about and by the 16^th century glass came into use. WWII soldiers brought on a need for lots of fake eyes and plastic eyes have been the norm ever since. In the U.S. there are only 170 ocularists (eyeball painters) and it takes a five year apprenticeship to get certificated. On e-Bay you can buy just about anything including vintage glass eyes for sale from $30 to $100. Ohmygod, do you think people buy those for do-it-yourself health care projects! If they do, I hope no one gets the bright idea to use Crazy-Glue to hold them in place.

I spent the morning yesterday talking myself into going to the gym when I really didn’t feel like it. But I bit the bullet and went anyway. Part way there I noticed a warning icon on the dashboard and in the parking lot of the YMCA I looked it up in the manual. My car was trying to tell me that my left, rear tire only had ten pounds of air---twelve when I first noticed it. I turned the motor off and back on, hoping that would cure it---works on computers---but the icon was still there so I drove to the nearest tire store and got in their service queue to wait a full two hours! I was given the option to make an appointment for the next day but I was afraid the air in the tire would be entirely gone by then. It was a good call. My tire had a screw in it. Emergency avoided. Of the seventeen others who came and went from the waiting room, I was the only one without a cell phone in front of my face. I felt like a dinosaur with a real book in my hands but it was laugh-out-loud entertaining and the time went quickly. I've had that emergency reading material in the car forever and it finally paid off. ©