Category Archives: Reminiscing

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Bright Copper Kettles

As a little girl my dad was away on cruise a lot (for you non-military brats, this means he was off on the USS Enterprise for months on end, flying his A-6 on and off the ship, cruising around some ocean somewhere, with ports in exotic lands from which he would send me postcards) so up until I was 7 years old I was used to my mom putting me to bed and bringing me water every time I yelled for her (which was usually at least three times a night). When my dad would be home for a stint here and there it was always a bit disconcerting to call for water and have him bring me a glass. Here was this man I had yet to form a relationship with coming into my dark room telling me I should really be asleep. Yes Sir, Daddy.

Luckily, it turned out my dad was not the drill sergeant father I feared him to be and over time I started to look forward to him putting me to bed. At a certain point he stopped having to go away on the ship and we got to have him home all the time. Occasionally when he would put me to bed he would come in and tuck the sheets in tight around me and tell me, “Close your eyes and pretend your camping in a forest somewhere and you can hear the sounds of nature all around you and it’s beginning to rain. Listen to the rain pattering on the tops of the trees and the tent and you are all snug and warm in your sleeping bag.” I loved this. The sound of rain was always something I liked or maybe this is what started that love for rain. Sometimes he would describe us as being in the back of a truck with a canopy covering us and the rain sounding tin-like on the roof. He didn’t do this every night, but I can even remember a couple times in high school when he came in to make sure I was going to bed and would reenact this tucking in routine.

To this day, I love the sound of rain. Currently I’m working at a clinic where there is a giant skylight over the nursing station. And when I say skylight I really mean the entire ceiling is like the pyramids at the Louvre. It’s been raining here in Spokane and around 3pm each day I sit in one of the Nurse’s chairs and close my eyes as the rain beats down above us. There are moments you can’t hear each other speak because it is so loud. And I think it might be the most peaceful thing in my life right now.

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Truth, Dare, Double Dare, Promise or Repeat

Remember that game? I was thinking about it the other day. Picture this sweet little seven-year-old girl with a buzz-cut sitting around with a few other seven year olds, sometimes of both genders, when an evil little smirk crosses her lips and she says, “Let’s play Truth-Dare-DoubeDare-Promise-Or-Repeat.”

Truth be told, I was always hoping someone would dare me to kiss someone, but we were never that brave. I had to somehow work that into the blank cards when playing the UnGame. There was also the game “I Never” where someone says something scandalous or at least somewhat interesting that they have NEVER done and anyone who has done that has to raise their hand. This got to be more embarrassing as you got older, but also a bit revealing and damaging when people would use it to test out who was getting a jumpstart on the promiscuity. I can remember a few girls who were ostracized after this game. Never trust a middle schooler. I was not one these girls: neither the young harlot nor the one to shun said girl.

Anyhow, since we are all sick of the frightening baby picture that’s been sitting here on my blog, I’m taking a cue from Luke and going to offer up a challenge.

Let’s play Truth or Dare. Keep it clean, or at least clean enough my parents wouldn’t be horrified. And perhaps let’s avoid felonies.

You may be asking, which is it? Truth-Dare-DoubleDare-Promise-Or-Repeat. I say all. Bring it on. All actions, requests, or challenges will be executed or at least reported here.

Side note: I didn’t know the UnGame was a Christian game at the time I was playing it, but doesn’t that make it all the more sinful that I turned it into a kissing game?

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Today is a good day to drive

The day has finally come.

While driving around the country for my last job, I managed to acquire 5 moving violations in a two-year period. Some of which I feel were unjustly doled out to me while others probably were deserved. They are as follows:

  • UNJUST TICKET #1: The only redeeming thing about Texas is that you can drive 70mph on their back roads. Unfortunately, after a few months of trips there I was sent to Michigan where the back roads are 55mph if you’re lucky. I was driving on a back road late at night with a co-worker, soon-to-be boyfriend, and I wanted to impress him with my good driving. So I was being extra careful to go the speed limit: 65mph. Lo and behold, flashing lights pop up behind us. I pull over, completely dumbfounded as to why I’m getting pulled over. Turns out it was 55mph. So the reason I think this is unjust is: 1) how can anyone possibly go 55mph AND 2) I really was TRYING to go the posted speed limit. Apparently, I hadn’t looked to see what that posted speed limit was. Argh.
  • UNJUST TICKET #2: Again late at night, but this time driving in Missouri on a lonely dark back road. Listening to a REALLY suspenseful scary point in my book on tape. Now for any of you who know me, or any of you who listen to books on tape, you know that sometimes you find yourself doing things like driving an hour past your exit before realizing it because of the engrossing story you’re listening to. So here I am, staring madly at the road and as the story’s intensity climbs, my foot pushes further down on the gas pedal. Now without any other cars for miles I don’t realize that I’m going 80mph on a probably 55mph road (damn M states and their slow speeds). Because of the subject matter in my book, my mind is of course preoccupied with people in trouble or bad situations, so when I see a car pulled over on the opposite side of the road I immediately worry that something is wrong and this person needs my help. So I slow down with every intention of flipping a bitch in order to go back and help them.
    Well, the damn car was a cop and as I was slowing down he was flipping his own bitch to chase my speeding ass. When he walked up to my car I held up my book on tape box and said, “I was at a REALLY good part in my book and had NO idea how fast I was going.” He laughed and said, “Well, I’ve never heard that one before. Leave your car running so the heater stays on, but come sit in the cruiser with me while I run this.” Strange? I didn’t think so at the time because it was soon-to-snow cold out and he probably didn’t want to ask me any questions while standing in the freezing air. So here I am sitting in a police cruiser on a practically abandoned highway. He was young, cute, and sweet so I decided things could be worse. Let’s face it, I was going 30mph OVER the speed limit.
    Then get this, they couldn’t trace my driver’s license because of the asterisk in the number (I have a four letter last name). I said, “I guess you can’t issue me a ticket then, right,” flashing that smile people have said is my only redeeming characteristic. He appreciated the joke (was it a joke?) but ran the plates instead. Weirdness part two: the car’s plates were registered to a different car. Luckily he believed me when I said, “Hey, it’s a rental. I don’t even know what company makes that car. Do you recognize that symbol?” He didn’t. We laughed. He gave me a ticket for going only 5mph over the speed limit and said I should rethink my book-on-tape habit. Then I climbed back into my warm SUV and started the book up again. You’re probably wondering why I think this is an unjust ticket. Well, I wasn’t purposely speeding AND I even slowed down with intent to help the supposed stranded motorist (which was a stupid idea anyway). So I feel like I had all good intentions. That’s all. But I’ll take the 5mph gift.
  • TOTALLY JUSTIFIED TICKET #3: Well, I can’t really remember where I got this one. I’m sure it was probably Virginia. They must have some sort of contest out there by Charlottesville to see which cop can give the most tickets because they were everywhere and if you ask my co-workers, that’s probably the state or county where we scored the most tickets. Scored meaning, those fucking assholes got us every time.
  • SOMEWHAT JUSTIFIED TICKETS #4 and #5: Car accident. Big. Huge. Not paying attention. Cruise control on. Saw cars stopped up ahead. Wondered why I wasn’t slowing down. Realized I had cruise control on and had to actually put my foot on the brake. Rental car made me worry about skidding. Plenty of time to stop, but doubted everything in that moment. Big Ravine to the right, gravel lot to the left, chose to cross the oncoming lane (thinking all traffic was stopped). Hit by oncoming Peterbilt Asphalt Truck. Car totaled. Truck driver panicked that he killed passengers. I was the only one in the car. No permanent injuries, but rushed to the hospital in an ambulance none-the-less. Looked like my boyfriend had taken a baseball bat to my body. Couldn’t sit well for a month or two. Long story short. Two tickets. No fine for the tickets. One for crossing an oncoming lane. The other for “careless driving” different from reckless driving. Careless driving is what they give you if you accidentally back into someone’s mailbox. I got off easy. But on my insurance it looks like two moving violations. Equal opportunity tickets.

So why am I reminiscing? Because after a few years of paying $1800 for every 6 months of car insurance, the five tickets have finally dropped off my record. I am now happily paying only $581 for every 6 months. Thank god. Now I can buy a house.

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The Women who Move Me: Installment #2

Installment #2

1988 Baby Shit Brown Mazda 626
Never earned a nickname although I could think of a few now
*the pictures in these posts are temporarily stolen from sites to represent the cars – they will be replaced with pictures of the real cars when possible – use your freaking imagination.

After the volvo was cruelly taken away from me and returned to my sister upon her return from Italy, I was left carless for awhile. Luckily, by this time, most of my friends had cars. But as Christmas of my senior year approached, family friends thought it cruel of my parents to force five drivers to share one car (my parents, myself, my sisters). You see, my senior year my dad had retired and took a job in Oak Harbor, but it turned out that if I moved up there I would be sent to the Community College for most of the school day since they were so far behind the California school system. Apparently, my mediocrity was seen as genius in Oak Harbor, and thus my still standing rule to never live there again.

So while my dad was up in Oak Harbor, and my sisters off at college in Seattle and Spokane, my mom stayed behind in Monterey so I could graduate there and we shared a cozy little house just a couple blocks from the school. Without a car, this made life easy and I even recall during the summer I rode the bus to my job at Lovers’ Point and tried rollerblading there every so often. What ever happened to that resourceful brave little Katie? Today if I didn’t have a car I’d be calling my sisters asking, “when are you going to pick me up (to be said with annoyed whiny voice)?”

Back to the story at hand. With dad and sisters FLYING in, we still only had the one car my mom usually drove. Like I said, this cruel and unusual punishment was lost on my parents, but not on their friends. They lent us their Mazda 626 for the holidays. It was sort of beat up, or well-loved if you prefer, with beaded seat covers (gotta love it) and apparently was car #5 they had just sitting around not being used. I thought it was a treasure. Best part? Wait for it…

After the holidays, I was still driving around in it and my mom called to see when we should bring it back. They told me to keep it for a while longer. I had a car again. Joy of all Joys. It was like…well…like a full tank of gas, obviously.

Now nothing could match the Volvo, but there is something special about these cars that fall into my lap. The Mazda never got a name, but I loved her as if she were my own.

  • She had a tricky passenger side lock and only I knew how to open the door. This helped trap many an unsuspecting boy in my car. Imagine being a teenage boy and having a perky attractive girl have to lean across you and open your door for you. (Okay, maybe not so perky and attractive, but it sure helped the visual didn’t it?) It also prevented abrupt exits during fights from the obviously wrong person residing in the passenger seat. That’ll teach you to try and jump out before I tell you the tenth reason you are so utterly wrong.
  • As mentioned before, she had these really tacky beige and brown beaded seats that really didn’t make the car any more comfortable, but seemed a part of the car and therefore were left in place.
  • She was stick-shift. Ah. Yes. Stick-shift. This was a dream come true. No more driving with my foot up on the dashboard on auto-pilot. Now I was a true driver. No more begging my boyfriend to let me drive his stupid embarrassing CRX just so I could drive stick-shift (and since he still didn’t know how). Now I had my own. The Power. The Control. The Driving Experience. I had arrived.
  • Finally after driving her for a few months, I decided to treat her to a carwash. Half a mile away, she died. Completely. Wouldn’t budge. Some girls just like to be dirty.

So that was that. A good run while I had her, but we towed her to the owners and apologized. But get this. I was serving on the school board (yeah, I know, big dork) and so was the family friend who had loaned me the car. I showed up for a school board meeting and he handed me the keys to his Fiat. His Fiat!

Now I don’t know much about cars, and maybe it wasn’t this exact model, but it sure looked like a 1970-ish yelllow-gold Spyder Fiat:

Now this little skank had some sort of attitude. She knew she was sexier and cooler than I was and she let me know this on a regular basis. I had to respect her for that.

  • She didn’t like to start when I needed her to start. Usually right when a meter maid was writing a ticket, she would decide to play dead. “Don’t look so smooth now, Katie, do ya?”
  • She caused me to do sinful things like park at an abandoned house with a certain sexy Jewish Boy, the night before our AP English Exams. The things I did in that car…well…okay, I confess, it WAS a tiny little Fiat so it was fairly PG-13. But damnitt, PG-13 by todays standards! (Sidenote: I only got a 3 on the AP test, but it was enough to get out of English 101 in college. Thank Heavenly God. And thank the Jewish Boy. And his ears…and his neck…and his lips…
  • She was ALSO stick-shift although she liked to test my skills by not always going into the gear I was requesting. I became a better driver because of her. If you can start her AND handle her, you can handle any car.

Ultimately she protested completely and wouldn’t work for me. She cried for her owner, preffering his gentle loving hand to my clumsy pissed off one. After hearing of her Ghandi ways, I arrived at another School Board meeting only to be greeted by the family friend who handed me back the Mazda key with a little note that read, “I got the Mazda fixed for you. We’ll pick up the Fiat this week. Enjoy!” Hello? Do they know I’m not worthy? This guy was a POW in Vietnam and he thinks I’M suffering because I don’t have a car? I am SO not worthy.

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The Women Who Move Me: Installment #1

Many of you have known me long enough to know the ladies that have come in and out of my life. And when I say ladies, of course I mean…my cars.

Installment #1

1980 WHITE VOLVO STATION WAGON
“White Lightning” aka “Chewy”

1980 White Volvo Wagon 240 DL (not mine, but just like it)

My sister Marie inherited the family Volvo Station Wagon when she got her license and I wanted that car so badly. When she went away to Florence, Italy for a year of school, I was a junior in high school and her car needed to go somewhere. I faintly remember my mom saying something like, “Just because Marie is going to Italy for a year, I don’t want you to think you’ll be able to do something like that when you are in college, but what you DO get is to drive the Volvo while she’s gone.” Now I realize that Marie actually paid for Italy (at least the getting over there and the day-to-day living aspects; my parents probably still paid tuition) but at the time I thought the Volvo was my consolation prize.

I loved my Volvo. I mean, I loved this car more than any other car I’ve ever had.

  • She was almost as old as I was
  • She had electrical problems so I sometimes had to start her under the hood, but this also meant that all the lights on the dashboard would blink at me from time to time, which I told people was just her way of talking to me like Kit on Knight Rider.
  • She had a nasty dark blue leather-simulated but more plastic-like interior that would crack in the sun so my dad had sewn a dashboard cover out of denim and would stain it blue every few months after it faded from the light
  • She had these grey fur seat covers which helped keep your legs from sticking to the seats on hot sweaty days (this was California, people), but my dad had spilled coffee on the passenger side so he had cut the seat part off and all that was left was a fur cover for the top part of the seat
  • Her brakes would make this sound every time I pushed them that was reminiscent of Chewbacca from Star Wars, so we nicknamed her Chewy and I kept a Chewbacca Pez Dispenser on the Dashboard
  • She had the best turning radius I’ve EVER encountered and I’ve driven over 50 different types of cars. When taking sharp last minute “teenager-like” turns, the blue denim dashboard cover would invariably slide right off into the passengers lap or almost out my window.
  • She didn’t have any cup holders so my friends and I went through a series of poorly designed accessories meant to hold a beverage, but usually just snapped off and spilled all over. My favorite one being the one that hooks into your door in the space where the window goes up and down. Every time you rolled the window up, the holder would pop out and Pepsi would go all over your lap. Ultimately, my thighs were the best form of cup holder I had, or if I took out the Kleenex box, that was most likely still soaked in old Pepsi, from between the seats, I could prop my cup between my seat and the emergency brake (which never got used).
  • You could fit an entire twin bed, box spring and mattress, in the back with the seats down. The seats laid flat and the door shut easily. You will never find a better car for carting stuff around. A true wagon.
  • She had this armrest that came down in the middle of the back seat, which we called “the hump.” When I was a little girl, I always wanted to sit on “the hump” so I could see out. At some point, they stopped letting me because I got too big. And at another point, we got a van because the back seat was too small for three sisters who hated to share space, yet in high school we somehow managed to fit 5-10 people in there without any complaints or problems.

Eventually my sister came back from Florence and reclaimed Chewy. Luckily, I hadn’t seen the last of her. She would resurface in my life again and I would have one last hurrah before putting her to sleep.

Stay tuned for Installment #2 in “The Women Who Move Me.”

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Waxing Nostalgic

I was playing around with Picasa as Kris recommended because my pictures were huge when I sent them to Flickr. Then because they used up 48% of my allotment I retracted them without realized the allotment was referring to bandwidth, not space. So I removed the pics without realizing that putting them back there was going to take more bandwidth. I’m an idiot. I told Kris and he tried not to laugh. His exact instant message response was “Jesus.” I concurred.

So, back to my point. He recommended I get better acquainted with Picasa (which I had installed on my laptop months ago and never done much with). When I browsed through my pics to see if there was anything I felt like shrinking, I found my trip to Hawaii with my family. Strange. The trip was sort of a disaster. Family fights, hard rain, lots of visits to the military base which caused more fights. But let’s get something straight here; I was not one of the people fighting. I just drank my beer, or my strawberry volcano, or my mailbu bay breeze and read my book.

My point is that I rather enjoyed the trip since I blocked out the inane fights and was pleasantly surprised that the island which initially I had no desire to ever visit turned out to be breathtaking. Not to mention that I love crazy weather. I get sick of Seattle drizzle and yearn for sudden drowning rain storms.

So I stumbled upon this picture and got all choked up. It was a miserable day. One sister had already left for the mainland. We had eaten McDonald’s for lunch (ick)! But I felt like it was old days when my parents would take us to some historical site and my dad would tell me stories about the past and paint a vivid picture of what happened. He really should have been a history teacher. I would have fared much better in school.

The other thing this picture reminded me of was a student of mine with the last name Gaylard. She always referred to herself as “HappyFat” instead. I liked that. And looking at my dad and me in this picture the first thing that popped in my head was HappyFat. And I giggled.