Roll with it, Baby

Big Brand Tires in Ventura can kiss my business goodbye. Technically, they've never actually had my business, because the one time I went there it was for the free flat repair. Free does not equal business, except in the all important future business and good will way of looking at it. And a year and a half ago, when they fixed my tire by plugging the hole the wayward screw caused, I was so happy with the free service that I knew I'd go to them for new tires, when that day came.

That day is not now. But the twit who waited on me this morning wanted it to be. They must get a commission.

Yesterday, as I came out of the grocery store, I noticed that my rear tire on the passenger side was very low. By the time I got home it was a few psi's short of flat. My landlord, John, has many tools and handy things in his garage and he put air in with his compressor. I thanked the universe for waiting till I got home for this to happen, rather than having it go flat on the 405 or the 101, as I drove home from LA just the day before.

But this morning, when the jerk from Big Brand Tires looked at my tire, he said, "We can't do anything to repair this. This tire is old. See these cracks? This is very unsafe. See this crack here? (I did not) These tires are over six years old and we can't repair any tire older than six years."

I told him that was strange, that this very shop had repaired a tire just a year or so ago, and all my tires are older than six. He said, "Someone did you a favor."

He then looked at the others and said that my two front tires were okay (they are actually about the same age as the rear ones, with a difference of less than 10,000 miles between them), but the two rear ones just had to be replaced. And he could do it as "cheaply" as $190. plus tax.

I said, "Orrrrr, I can just have someone else fix my tire. Bah-bye."

I came home annoyed and dejected. I hate car issues. John stopped what he was doing and told me to pull my car into the driveway (I park on the street, usually) so he could take a look. He removed the tire and we saw what looked like a nail embedded in it. Turned out to be a screw, broken off, but it looked like a nail head.

We drove to Harbor Freight (in John's truck, not with my three-wheeled car) so I could buy a tire plug kit, then he proceeded to fix it for me. That was less than reassuring. First he couldn't get the screw out. It looked like he was hurting my tire as he dug at it and tried to pry it up. He finally had to unscrew it to get it out, rather than just pull. And the glue part didn't go as it should have, since I guess you're supposed to have no air in the tire when you apply it. We had air. The glue blew up and away and pretty much did nothing it was meant to do. Then he stuck what looked like a corkscrew into the hole, making it bigger. That seemed counterproductive. And finally he pushed this gluey stick into the hole. It didn't go in easily or well or deeply. I tried not to show the concern I was feeling. The screw was doing a better job of keeping the air in my tire, as far as I could see.

Then he pumped the tire up to 50 psi, which had me expecting it to blow at any moment. It didn't. He put it back on my car and we're now waiting and hoping. I'm not sure about the 50 psi part. I mean, if the plug holds, then don't I have to let air out somehow to get it back down to 32? And if it doesn't hold...oh, man, I don't want to think about that.

I'll have to find someplace that doesn't want to sell me tires, who will patch it, and hope that the six year "rule" that the creep at Big Brand Tires talked about isn't a law here. I simply don't have a couple hundred bucks for new tires, just because mine aren't teenagers anymore. Frankly a more mature tire is preferable, I think. Yes, it has a few miles on it, but it's been around, knows the road, and has proven it can roll with whatever I ask of it. Also, it's paid for. So important.

The plug will hold. That's the positive thought I'm going to keep in my mind. After all, the one from last year has held up just fine, right?

And I really do have good luck. The tire held up for the long drive to LA and back, and I live with someone who was willing and able to help me fix it.

A Weed By Any Other Name Would Not Be Plucked

Sometime during the Easter get together I went to, I whined about the current economy and my lack-of-a-job situation. Friends who live in Inglewood (LA, for my non-Cali peeps) said they'd love it if I would do some yard work for them. They have busy careers and two kids, one of whom is 8 and requires nightly homework help, etc. They don't have time to pull weeds.

I've never been much of a gardener. I'd dig holes for plants my mom wanted to put in, or deadhead the pansies, but when sent out to "weed" I'd be finished fairly quickly. If something is pretty, I'm sure it's supposed to be there. And they're all so pretty. Karen and Panther (not her real name) assured me they had plenty of weeds and they needed to go as they'd "taken over the yard." P'shaw, I thought. How bad could it be? I've seen their yard. It's not that big and it's quite lovely. There's an archway entrance with a gorgeous bougainvillea growing over it, an orange tree, three planters, a few rose bushes, and various other plants that I couldn't name if you offered to pay me large sums of money. Seriously, I know roses and daisies, but everything else sort of slips my mind two minutes after you've identified it for me.

I actually said to them, and why they didn't burst out laughing in my face I don't know (well, I suppose it was because they feared I wouldn't show up), "That sounds like something I could do in a few hours. It wouldn't be worth it when you think of how much I'd spend in gas getting there and back." A few hours. I said that.

If I were to share their address (which I have no intention of doing) you could get a bird's eye view and see only the front yard. For some reason, the back yard just doesn't show up the way they took the pictures. The front yard is spotless. Somehow that added to my certainty that the back yard could not have been invaded by alien weeds to such an extent that they'd hire me to eradicate them. Obviously you can all tell that I was wrong. So, so wrong.

But hey, in case the employed or retired among you haven't noticed, it's the Depression Redux out there. And my friends actually thought it would take me two days to do this job, and I could just stay over (saving a long commute and gas), and I was very happy to accept. I just figured I'd need to do something else besides a little weeding to pass all that time. I'd laugh, but it would make muscles other than those in my hands (which are not happy about the typing) move, and that would hurt.

I wanted to get an early start on Thursday, but there'd been a shooting on the freeway the night before and the 101 was shut down. I Googled an alternate route and saw that taking the 118 to the 405 was the way to go. Everyone else did this, too. It should take an hour and 20 minutes to get to their house. It took two hours and 45 minutes. There was a moment, when I could see for miles ahead of me and the traffic was infinite, when I let go of my stress and started singing Que Sera, Sera in my head during the commercials on the radio.  Panther  texted me about getting into the house. I texted back. No, there was absolutely no danger in this (though, of course, still technically illegal), since I wasn't driving, just sitting still and waiting for that golden moment when we'd all move about a foot farther down the road. I also called into a radio station, trying for the $10,000. prize. Didn't win.

When I finally saw the back yard, I panicked (just a little). So much foliage. So, so much. Karen had left me photos of the plants to be spared, but -- if you'll remember my lack of natural ability in this area -- they all looked alike to me. One had yellow flowers. But then there were all these very tall plants with purplish leaves that had yellow flowers on top -- what about them? Turned out they were dandelions. I have never seen them that large. Ever. And here's another handy way to distinguish between a plant that someone wants to keep and a weed that must go: if it comes out easily, it's a plant, but if it holds on as if its roots desperately crave sweet and sour chicken for dinner, it's a weed.

I had a sort of plan in mind when I began. Attack the biggest weeds first (take out the leader and the pack will fear you), then the medium ones, then finally the small stuff in the cracks between the bricks. Alas, my 50 year old body had other ideas. I could only bend over or squat down, dig at roots, and pull for all I was worth so many times in a row before I had to kneel down and dig at medium or small varmints. And yes, they were alive. Or, rather, they were the un-dead. I would cleanse a section of all dandelions, turn my back, and upon a second look find that -- some. had. come. back.

I'm a tad obsessive about work. When I have something to do I like to keep at it till it's done. It's why I could get ten appraisals done in a day back in the '80s. If I ate anything at all, it was from a drive-thru and I consumed it while on my way to the next appointment. Knowing this about myself, I'd confidently stated that I could finish the yard in one day. When I stopped for 15 minutes to drink my Slimfast lunch, I knew that was a fantasy that would not be fulfilled (story of my life). My friend Kathy* texted me to ask how I was doing and I told her that the yard was several football fields long and I had to go before my parts seized and I could no longer move.

I tried listening to my iPod while I worked (so much more melodic than my off-key whistling would be), but no matter how I tried to tuck the earbud cord in somewhere, it would come loose and tangle with the weeds I picked up or the rake or something. I spent an hour fighting it, then decided it was impossible and simply sang to myself (they do have neighbors, after all). Annoyingly, after pricking myself on the rose bush I couldn't get "every rose has its thorns" out of my head.

I wondered if Karen was worried about the flowers she'd paid good money for and planted with such care. As I knocked the dirt off the roots of a dandelion before throwing it at the trash heap, I wondered if she was sitting in her office thinking, "Does she even know to knock the dirt off the roots, or will I need to buy more topsoil when she's done?" Karen never expressed any doubts or fears, but that's the way my brain works. At one point I talked to her on the phone and found out that there wasn't one plant near the blackberries. "But, the pretty ground cover with the orange flowers is a weed? And the purple ones next to them? Weeds? How can that be?" Karen said, "They will turn into a monster with sticky burrs. They only look good now to fool you, so you'll let them grow." The garden is a microcosm of life, it seems.

If only I hadn't been so pathetically weak. At five o'clock I had to stop. I didn't want to. They weren't even home from work yet, and there was plenty of sunlight left to the day. I blame my thighs. They said, "Listen, chickee, you normally don't do more than 15 - 20 squats a day. You passed a thousand hours ago and we need to rest!" My back agreed and my forearms (who knew they could hurt?) sealed the decision. I'd filled one yard waste dumpster and an additional big, black garbage bag. I went inside, put a piece of clothing down on the couch to protect it from my dirty clothes, and passed out in a sitting upright position.

Panther and Karen made a wonderful dinner of chicken marinated in lemon and thyme (freshly picked from the garden -- I know an herb when I see one, so it was safe), salad greens with pears and prosciutto, and bread. Very yummy. I was so tired that going to bed seemed like an excellent idea in lieu of dessert, but I refused to give in to such weakness. One day of physical labor wasn't going to beat me. Totally.

Karen had stuff to do to get ready for a retreat she was planning for the weekend, and Panther and I told ghost stories and then watched them on TV. There's a show on the Travel Channel about these guys who go to haunted places and try to find proof of ghosts. It's very entertaining, from the overly dramatic host to the too brave cameraman and the easily frightened second cameraman. I don't need to be convinced that ghosts exist, having experienced them personally, but the show is a hoot and kind of creepy at the same time. I stayed awake as long as I could, then Panther finally took pity and we all went to sleep.

I'd forgotten the weather forecast. I had been so sure that I could do the yard work in one day, and spend the next one on indoor chores, that I spaced out completely on the rain. But it did rain, starting sometime during the night. Since Karen and Panther have gutters and leaders on their house (as John doesn't), I wasn't woken up by water smashing down right outside my window (as I am at home). Their daughter asked me, before leaving for school, how I was going to work in the garden in the rain. I told her I'd get wet, but it'd be "easier" because the rain would loosen the roots. Really, why do I speak? Will I ever learn?

Yes, some of the weeds did come up with a little less fight, that's true. Others were like, "Rain? You think I care about rain?! Come and get me, bitch!" And, either way, I was no longer shaking dirt off the roots. I was taking more time on each and every pull to deal with the mud. As it rained lightly I not only became wet and cold, but as covered in the mud as the roots I was trying to scrape off. But that was okay! I was getting it done! In hindsight, I wish I'd worked on one area at a time, completing it to perfection. But I'd get sore in a position and in order to ease my muscles I'd attack something else, somewhere else. Who knows why. Certainly not me. I was the wayward gardener.

When it started to pour, I hunched over and muttered, "So what, I'm already wet," and kept on weeding. When the thunder began I worked faster (you don't even want to know what my thighs had to say about that), but I was far from done and so not stopping. It's California. Thunder is rare and usually we just get a couple of rumbles. When I saw the first flash of lightning I believe I said out loud, "Okay, right, I'm not an idiot. I'm done."

I had to leave my mud-covered sneakers outside the door and my clothes in a heap just inside the door, so as not to drip mud throughout the house as I went to the shower.  Panther called a couple of times, and when I was dressed I called her back to see what she wanted. I guess my work ethic had her worried that I might be insane enough to still be out in the weather, risking death and an increase in her home owner's insurance. No, just kidding. About the insurance. She truly was a little concerned that I might still be out there.

I spent the afternoon packing up the stuff in one of their rooms, and moving most of the furniture out to the living room. They're having the floors redone and a lot of stuff was stored on the floor, so that was a project. At one point I sat on the edge of the bed to contemplate my next move, as far as which things should go in which bag/box/backpack/duffle, and standing back up was agony. My quads were waving the white flag, begging me to cease and desist all movement. I told them that I'm no quitter. However, when I finished the room and saw that the sun was shining once again, I didn't venture back into the yard, as I could have. I told the neighbor who saw me putting the rake away that I didn't want to get dirty again, but the truth is that I was afraid I'd be on the ground when Panther came home and I'd need her help standing up. She'd mock me through several lifetimes.

So I called it a day and headed home, unhappy about leaving the yard unfinished but with a few muscle fibers still intact. The traffic wasn't as bad as the day before, but it was traffic, so I sat still for an hour and a half. When I parked in front of the house and opened the car door, it took two (okay three) tries before I could stand up. Saturns are low vehicles.

Today is a new day, though, and each time I stand up or sit down it gets a little easier. I'm sure that by next week I'll be good to go again. Anyone who knows me knows that I need to conquer those weeds -- all of them. Especially the zombies.

*Name changed because my friend didn't like being named in my blog. Not this post, but I like to be thorough so am editing all that she's mentioned in.  As for Panther, that name had to be invented to protect the innocent, as they used to say on some old TV series whose title escapes me right now.

Blogging as steam valve

When did it become rude, wrong or socially unacceptable to speak up for yourself? I'm not talking about being selfish, I'm talking about being a responsible adult. An adult is responsible for what they do, for seeing to it that their needs are met, and for setting and defending boundaries.

I have made it clear, again and again (because we live in a time of everyone having a camera constantly, since no one can so much as go to the bathroom without their multi-use cell phone), that I do not want my photograph shared without my permission. I do not want it posted to the internet. Facebook is part of the internet. Whether one's preferences are set for friends only or open to the public, my image is my image. If I don't want it out there, for anyone to do with as they might please, that's a legitimate boundary that I am entitled to set. Anyone who professes to be my friend should respect it, whether they agree or disagree with what I want.

I don't care if the photographer thinks I look great and that I'm being too picky. I don't care if the photographer thinks it's absurd to believe that some ditz on their friend list, whose emotional growth was stunted at age 17 and who would enjoy copying the unflattering shot to be used later in a fit of drama, might actually copy it. I don't care if my worry in that regard seems frivolous and they think I have too much time on my hands. Frivolous is a value judgment and yes, I do have too much time on my hands -- give me a job and I won't. But I still won't want my picture shared without my permission or posted to the internet. It's my choice, like it or not.

Yet, my stating this is seen as rude or annoying or paranoid, and my wishes are ignored. Hey, if the photo makes the poster look good, or someone else in the shot looks good and the urge to share is great, too bad for me. I'm just being a pain. No need to take my stated boundaries into account. Life is short and taking someone's wishes into consideration is just so darn, well, considerate.

I can say nothing, as I've done in a particular case where risking upsetting the oblivious poster is just too big a risk (due to fragile health on their part). That rankles. That makes me so uncomfortable that I have to distance myself from the person in order to deal with the stress of living a lie (not standing up for oneself is lying by omission).

I can say something. I can nicely point out that I've already made myself clear and ask to have my wishes granted. And then I can watch what I judge to be an over-reaction to that request and see the emotionally stunted ditz "like" the reaction. It makes me want to withdraw from social media entirely. But that's an over-reaction in itself.

On a related note, when you do something that a friend or family member thinks is "wrong," and they lambast you for it, it is your choice to sit quietly and take it. If you want to let them call you names, judge you, attempt to make you feel guilty for not living life the way they think you should, that's a choice you can make as an adult, and live with. But if, in the process of verbally abusing you as if you were still the child they used to abuse like this instead of a grown person, these people also sully someone you profess to care about, and you don't stand up and defend them, you are as bad as the stone-hurlers. Set boundaries, be polite, but speak up for yourself and don't let anyone throw a loved one under the bus without argument.

It's not easy. Shutting up and going along to get along may seem like the simple solution, but if you do it often enough -- losing a bit of your authenticity and integrity each time -- you will disappear. Then the controlling, rude, or aggressively thoughtless personalities in your life will rule the shell you've become.

People who know what they stand for and have the ability to stand for it are healthier. Living a lie is always bad for your heart. That's my opinion and I'm sticking to it.