Category Archives: Cars

Packing and Parking

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We are just pilgrims, struggling on our paths through this world, seeking knowledge. Sometimes knowledge finds us.

Paula called me to tell me she had learned an important lesson. When taking your car to the car wash on Sepulveda, it is a good idea to remove all your drugs and guns from the trunk before turning it over to the attendant.

The reason she knows this is that the police had someone spread-eagled in the parking lot. No cars were being washed. She and the Basset were hiding in the office.

I figure it was a To-Do-List mistake. “Get car washed” should have come BEFORE “Pick up guns” and “Pick up drugs”. “Lunging for the guns when accosted by the police” should have been avoided entirely. Of course, it being LA, I would personally have been worried about the car wash guys stealing my valuable guns and drugs. Try putting THAT claim through your insurance company!

It reminds me of the time I parked my car on the street and went into the Von’s Grocery at Barrington & Wilshire. When I came out I noticed (keen observer that I am) a large number of cops hiding in the parking lot, guns drawn. I asked one of them what was going on. He explained that the bank across the lot was being held up.

I saw one cop taking cover behind my car. I asked his buddy to tell him that Land Rovers make MUCH better cover than Explorers. I said I guessed we were in for a long wait. “Oh, no,” he said, “We want you to just go out there and act normal so they won’t know we’re here.”

I said, “Step into the LINE OF FIRE???? I don’t think so!!!”

Of course, sometimes all you risk is embarrassment. Not long before the incident with the butcher at Gelson’s, I parked in their parking lot while I ran in for a few things. I had just picked up the Jaguar from the shop, and had Hennessy with me. I barely got into the store before a voice came over the speakers, “Attention, the owner of the green Jaguar…” Damn, I thought, I just got it out of the shop and someone banged into it. The voice continued, “Your Basset Hound would like for you to return to the vehicle.”

When I got out there, the car was surrounded by a small crowd. Usually Hennessy travels in the Explorer. Since she’s not a tallish dog, she’s mostly below window level. However, the back window of the Jaguar is like a little stage, and EVERYONE who walks by can see you! She was putting on quite the show. She’d lean waaay over to the left, point her nose up, and hooowl. Then lean waaay over to the right…. I worked my way through the crowd, muttering, “I was only in there for two minutes!”

My sister was in town a few days later. She asked me if we could go to that great grocery store in the Palisades. I had to say, “Not this week.”

Copyright 1997 by Jzine. Not to be reproduced or distributed without permission

In a Pig’s Ear (or Two)

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Let me first make it clear that I do not, contrary to what you may have heard, spoil my dogs. Or, as you will see, my employees.

The people to blame for this one are Lili and Mary. They came over for dinner one night, years ago. As they walked in the front door, Mary pulled something from a paper bag. “Do your dogs like…” she started, as my wolf levitated across the room, grabbed it from her hand and ran out back with it. Thus were we introduced to pig ears.

Yup, real dried pig ears from real pigs. You may have seen them in the pet store, along with lamb lungs, cows’ ears, and other things I’d rather not inspect too closely. They are truly disgusting. You can see the little veins, and sometimes there are hairs. They might be notched. They smell pretty much like you would expect. One of my friends asked me if they kill the pigs first, leaving me with a lasting image of fields full of frolicking piggies with little Van Gogh bandages on their heads… No one in their right mind (sorry, Mary!) would ever purchase these. Except for one thing–dogs adore them. When two big hungry dogs are on a pig-ear jones, baby you’d better go shopping.

Soon my dogs were hooked to the tune of two a day each. They’re not cheap, either–$1 apiece. I was considering taking out a second mortgage. Then my assistant, Paula, found them somewhere up in Burbank for half price. But you had to buy in quantity.

Which is what we did. At 100 per box, we usually had 2-300 on hand. I tried to concentrate on the great pleasure my dogs got from them, and not the karmic consequences of having hundreds of dead-animal parts in the house. (I have this feeling I’ll be met at the Pearly Gates by hundreds of pigs shouting, “What do you have to say for yourself? Eh? What’s that?”) Ethical questions aside, I didn’t have much choice–my life is a lot easier when the dogs are happy. Then we moved.

The Moving Doctor (AKA Tom Nevermann) is a marvel, as his many satisfied clients will tell you. You walk out your door one day, and walk into your new house a few days later. Everything is organized and put away. You never have to see a box or deal with the cable guy. However, TMD and his staff are only human. Occasional small glitches occur. So I was not immediately worried when we couldn’t find the pig ears at the new house. Until the second day or so, when the dogs were getting surly. I called Tom. He called his staff. No one knew where they were. We tried the garage. We tried the office. (Okay, so where do YOU keep YOUR dead porcine products?) I accused his staff of having a party. One of his organizers, Carol, replied, “Sure, she trusts me to put away her jewelry, but I had my eye on those pig ears!” My greatest fear was that we wouldn’t find them until the next move. The only things possibly more disgusting than pig ears are antique pig ears.

Not a problem, Paula went shopping again. She also scored a coup–the nail polish I like had been sold out for months, but she found a store with five bottles. She was on a roll. Now you’d think Paula had learned her lesson about leaving things in her car overnight. After all, there was the time she dropped my groceries off on a hot summer day and it wasn’t until three days later she found the pound of fresh shrimp in her trunk. Well, not so fresh anymore. Still, the pig ears and nail polish seemed safe enough locked in the car in her parking garage. Until the thieves broke in.

I’m sure life at the Burbank Police Station is ordinarily lively enough. But this may have been the first time someone called in to report 300 stolen pig ears. There was some confusion. (“She had 300 PIGS in her car???”) They weren’t sure if the nail polish was for the pigs, too. We surmised the thieves would A) be a bit surprised, B) be smelling a bit more porky than they expected, and C) have fabulous manicures. Paula kept getting calls from police clerks and insurance adjusters, “I’m sure this must be a typo, but it says here…” But then, she’s used to public embarrassment. Last week she bought nineteen boxes of Frosty Paws (doggie ice cream) at the grocery store and nothing else.

The week after his fight with Holyfield, someone sent 12 pig ears to Mike Tyson. The Phoenix, AZ, post office handled them like any other mail. They weren’t in an envelope, but they were properly addressed with correct postage. I’m not saying there’s any connection, mind you. I personally moved on long ago. I stopped frequenting the disgusting-animal-parts aisle at the pet store after just one more purchase. I am not a vengeful person, but I just couldn’t resist. For Christmas last year, I had a little something special for Mary & Lili’s dogs. Gaily-wrapped pig snouts, li’l nostrils and all. You might be surprised to learn some people are extremely ungrateful at Christmas time.

Copyright 1997 by Jzine. Not to be reproduced or distributed without permission

Breaking Things is Hard to Do

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You’re probably wondering how it is I came to spend part of my birthday at the Department of Motor Vehicles. In the desert. Several hours from home. (If you, too, spent your birthday at the DMV, I don’t want to hear about it. I’m cranky enough.)

As in most of my life, it wasn’t what I had planned. I thought a nice quiet week at Two Bunch Palms in Desert Hot Springs was exactly what I needed. Peace, quiet, a little hot mud bath (if it wasn’t too windy). I could have taken the Explorer, but the car phone needed adjusting. And since I would only be on the road for a few hours, why bother to bring the phone? So I decided to take the Jaguar, and off I went.

The first thing you do at Two Bunch is put the phone on “Do Not Disturb”. It was a little cold and windy there, but I didn’t care. I went from bed to Jacuzzi to bed. One day I got a facial, then discovered my friend JoAnn had arranged to pay for it as a birthday surprise (thanks, JoAnn!).

I was relaxed. Not a care in the world. Or so I thought.

The night before my birthday, I had a lovely dinner in the resort’s restaurant. I was driving back down the dirt road (lined with cute little six-inch boulders) to my room. Suddenly a rabbit ran right in front of the car. Now I don’t care what religion you are, killing a bunny two days before Easter has just got to be a bad idea. So of course I swerved. And ran the Jaguar right up on that line of boulders.
The wheels spun in the sand. It was going nowhere. Frank from Security showed up. We tried moving sand around. We tried rocking it. Finally we got out the jack, hoisted it up, and moved the boulders out from under it. It drove fine, but made a clicking sound, like the fan might be hitting something. I went back to the room and went to bed.

Up bright and early the next morning (happy birthday to me…), I started making calls. The tow truck arrived to take the car to whoever fixes Jaguars in Palm Springs. Now, Jaguars are very low to the ground, so we really couldn’t see underneath it to assess the damage. (Which is how I got into this mess–the Explorer would have merrily skipped across the boulders and been on its way.) Tom from Security showed up with a few small pieces that had dropped off in the road. All three of us tried to see how bad it was, but we didn’t see much damage. There was no transmission fluid leaking. We concluded maybe the fan was hitting the housing or something. Certainly couldn’t be anything major, right?

The folks from Enterprise were right on time with a van to pick me up. I called the front desk and told them I’d be back in an hour or so to check out. We were off to Palm Springs. I was feeling okay. These things happen. I’d just pick up the rental car, drive home, then come back and pick up my car in a few days after they fixed that fan. Somewhere a little bunny was alive and well, so what if I were a little inconvenienced?

At the rental place everyone was very nice. We were joking about my predicament. Then Albert looked at my license and said, “It’s your birthday.” I told him not to worry, I’d be fine. He said, “No, it’s your birthday, which means your license has expired. You can’t rent a car.”

A word or two about the DMV. They very efficiently sent me a renewal notice several months ago. Pleased I could do it by mail, I sent it right back. They sent it back because I hadn’t checked one of the boxes (true). I checked the box and sent it back. They returned it, claiming I had forgotten to send proof of insurance (not true). I sent it back with another proof of insurance. As far as I knew, the renewal could be waiting for me at home. But I had no way to get home without it.

The DMV in Palm Springs is as nice as any other DMV. However, the people who are forced to go there have a sort of desperate urgency, a fall-of-Saigon feeling about them. There’s a nice, short line for people with appointments. Those folks look okay. Those of us in the no-appointment line are a little different.

The line didn’t move very fast. Okay, it didn’t move at all for a long time. You would think my fellow citizens would not feel it necessary to comment on this. You would be wrong. “This line sure is slow.” “Is there only one person serving this line?” “Why aren’t we moving?” “This line sure is slow.” I tuned them out, vowing to keep my happy birthday mood. The thought occurred to me that, if I had brought the Explorer, I wouldn’t be in this line. If I had even brought the cell phone, I could have called my assistant, had her look for the renewal, and fax it to Enterprise. I was not about to give up my place in line and look for a pay phone. My fellow citizens did not sound like the type that could be trusted to save one’s place in line.

I was doing all right until the two ladies behind me started discussing the eye chart. “Is that a B or an R?” “Where?” “In the middle.” “What middle?” Mind you, the line we were in was directly approaching the eye chart, so they would soon be able to see it clearly. This did not deter them. “I don’t think there are any R’s on the whole chart.” “There’s one next to the C.” “What C?” “In the middle.” “This line sure is slow.”

Fortunately I was able to keep calm and avoid some sort of birthday-DMV-homicide situation. Sure enough, the computer showed my renewal had been paid, and they gave me a temporary one. I called Enterprise and told them to send a driver to get me. I went out front to wait.

Apparently it was Dysfunctional Driver Day at the DMV. One couple had a spectacular fight, including hair-pulling, over who had forgotten to bring the paperwork. Another couple came up to me and started asking questions in Spanish. They continued for quite a while, though I thought I was making it very plain that I do not speak Spanish. A mother carefully put her baby into a car seat, then into the trunk of the car. She left the trunk open, and stood there in the hot sun staring at her baby. An old man went the wrong way around the parking lot, causing other cars to careen out of his path, then sat gaping vacantly for a while before parking in the no-parking zone. This is exactly the sort of road menace who NEEDS a driving test, I thought.

A few minutes later the old guy came out of the DMV and asked if I were waiting for Enterprise. I said yes, did they call or something? No, he announced proudly, he was my driver. Now, mind you, I was the only person standing outside the entrance when he went in. You would think he might have asked me. But I didn’t care, because I was busy worrying about whether I would survive the ten-minute drive to Enterprise.

Rented the car. Drove home. Where the fax was waiting for me from the people who had my Jaguar. I was impressed that they had managed to take a look at it and prepare an estimate so quickly on the holiday weekend. Until I looked at the total. $7,000. The car’s probably worth $15,000 at the most. Apparently I had totaled my car driving over a rock.
Those people won’t be fixing my car (they were very surprised to hear this). We towed it back to LA. It won’t cost $7,000. The rental car went back. And now I can turn my attention to the living room situation.

During the recent big rains, I had a flood in the living room. We fixed the problem, but the big area rug got stained. (Actually, the rug’s had a hard time lately, it needed to be cleaned even without the flood stain.) So we called the carpet guys, who have taken this rug out once before. We reminded them that it’s a very big rug. We reminded them I have lots of big, heavy furniture that is difficult to move. So we were more than a little surprised when they sent two guys and a small van. They came back another day with more guys and a bigger truck.

I’m not upset that they didn’t get the stain out. Okay, so I have to buy a new rug, what the heck, it was worth a try, I’m sure they did the best they could. I have to say, however, that I’m a little upset about the table. This is the fourth time they’ve moved this table. We know the stone top is heavy. We know we have to be very careful setting it in place. Why one of them decided to drop it a foot, I do not know. Now I get to buy a new table. Two if they can’t match the other one.

I did have a happy birthday, more or less. It was just a little more expensive than I expected. Well, a lot more expensive. When your birthday comes around, I hope you have a happy one and it doesn’t cost you too much. Hint: don’t take the Jaguar.

Copyright 1998 by Jzine. Not to be reproduced or distributed without permission

Why I Have No Christmas Tree Lights (and other seasonal revelations…)

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Okay, perhaps it was a mistake to watch Martha Stewart’s Christmas Special. Martha has led me astray before. In retrospect, choosing Martha’s caramel recipe as my first-ever candy-making attempt last year might have been a bit ambitious. Though my friends assured me the results were well worth the effort, I have my doubts. Some of my friends might just say that to make me feel better. Others are known to be highly sarcastic (you know who you are!).

I thought I’d be OK. I was, after all, hanging hand-crocheted all-cotton snowflakes in all the windows. (No, I did NOT crochet them myself. That would be depriving Kathie Lee Gifford’s child sweatshops of much-needed revenues.) But then Martha was making swizzle sticks for her punch out of orange peels, swirled around sticks and cured in sugar water. Suddenly my efforts seemed, well, inadequate.
I did plan ahead. I found a catalog (yes, my nickname is still Janine, Janine, Direct Mail Queen) that had artificial trees with the lights permanently attached. No wires to string, just unfold it and plug it in, then fold it up and stow it away when you’re done. I’m thinking of adopting this approach for boyfriends. They told me 3-5 shipping days. I was excited–I donated all my old tree lights to charity, sorted the ornaments, and got ready.

Two weeks later it was decidedly December, with no tree in sight. I called back. They could not IMAGINE who had said 3-5 days, it might be as long as a month, no way to tell. So I had a choice. Wait some more and possibly not get a tree until January, or put up the old tree. I waited a few days, nose pressed against the window as the UPS man came and went. Finally I decided to put up the old tree. Five minutes after I put on the last ornament, the new tree arrived. My friend Laura suggested I put the Tree With Lights But No Ornaments up right next to the Tree With Ornaments But No Lights. If anyone comments, I can look shocked, “You MIX THEM TOGETHER?!?”

I’m pretty much done shopping. I wandered into a pet shop on Montana that had the most wonderful dog collars. Handmade leather, hand-beaded, really nice stuff. So I picked out some for my dogs, some for my sister’s. Handed the lady a credit card, she said, “That will be $404,” I signed it, left the store and said, “WHAT?!?” These were $90 dog collars!!! It never occurred to me to ask, I’ve never SEEN a dog collar that cost more than $30. My dogs don’t get an allowance for the next five years, but they’ll be very well dressed.

It wouldn’t be Christmas without a Jaguar story. I decided that, endearing as its eccentricity is, I would prefer to have a gas gauge that roughly reflects the actual amount of gas in the tank. For four years I’ve chuckled at those heart-stopping moments when the car swore it was running on fumes, only to declare moments later that the tank was full. Since I have recently had a contretemps with Hornburg’s Service Department, they were eager to please. (Or very very afraid. Either works for me.) I told them I would prefer not to leave my car there for months on end while they figured out how to fix it. So we arranged that my assistant would take it in, they would diagnose the problem, then we would take it home until they were completely prepared to fix it.

My assistant, Paula took it in. They decided, just to be sure, that they would replace the entire gas tank for free, even though it’s out of warranty (as I said, they’re very afraid). The part would be in the next day, or for sure the day after. I know, this should have been a danger sign. But it’s the holidays, we’re feeling charitably inclined. Two days later (quelle surprise!) they discovered that the part was back-ordered. They would be glad to return the car to me, but then, however would their guy get back to the dealership? You guessed it–I paid my assistant to drive Service Guy back to his job. But at least I have my car. And I’ve found several quarts of Wild Turkey make the gas tank level remarkably irrelevant. Not poured into the tank, poured into me.

Copyright 1997 by Jzine. Not to be reproduced or distributed without permission

Car Karma, Which I Haven’t Got

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Well, I’m off to my cosmic chiropractor, since I obviously need an adjustment to my car karma.

Though I never got a notice, a friend heard Ford Explorers were being recalled for defective brakes. Since I often use my brakes, my assistant, Paula, made an appointment at Santa Monica Ford, brought it in, and left it overnight. The next day she went to pick it up and was informed they hadn’t done the repair, since they didn’t have the parts. You’re probably wondering why they didn’t tell her this the night before. We’ll never know for sure, but we think the folks at SMF are either incurable optimists (believing FedEx would show up during the night) or impossible romantics (believing in the Parts Fairy). Either way, Paula decided to try another dealership.

Metro Ford was delighted to schedule the repair. She left it overnight. The next morning, they asked her to wait a few minutes while they finished the work (a good sign: no evidence of fairy dust on the floor). She brought it home, and I drove it happily, braking with wild abandon. About three weeks later, I got a notice asking when I was bringing it back to Metro to get the work done. Paula called and inquired, and was referred to Tom. Tom explained that they never actually did the work. “This was a miscommunication between Russell, who no longer is employed at this location, and myself,” he explained. Apparently Russell was supposed to tell Tom to do the repair. He didn’t and didn’t ask anyone whether it had been done, but released the car. However, if Paula would return the next day, she would have “first priority” to get it done.

Well, we were a little disconcerted by this. Is it some sort of Ford corporate policy to schedule and charge for, but not perform, repairs? Some sort of ancient Druidian ritual, or perhaps a Zen concept (the repairs are visualized and empowered by the scheduling, and do not need to be done by actual mechanics)? Is Ford even CAPABLE of a corporate policy, considering their apparent dependence on fairies and former employees named Russell? Now, the other disturbing thing is the notice we received. Metro is so disorganized that they release a car without knowing whether the work has been done, but so organized they send out a notice that it hasn’t? If so, can we do the repair by mail? (This recalls a disturbing experience I had with Jaguar, where they apparently expected me to fix the parking brake myself and notify them so they could bill me. Jaguar is now owned by Ford. Coincidence? I think not.)

Paula duly showed up the next day, waited an hour (thank god we had “first priority!”), and they took the car in the back. Two minutes later they were back to inform her the work had already been done, and why had she brought it in?

So the car may or may not have functional brakes. I suggest, if you’re in front of any Ford Explorer in a traffic situation, you pull over and get out of the way. Personally, I’m keeping a bottle of Jack Daniels in the glove compartment–it doesn’t make the brakes work any better, but I find I don’t care as much. (This may be another reason to avoid Explorers…) And this week they announced that some Fords (including–surprise!–Explorers) may spontaneously burst into flame at any moment. They’re not recalling them because they’re not sure why it happens. For some reason this does not astonish me.

Now, during all this, my car phone developed an annoying tendency to hang itself up as soon as I dialed it. So we called Carphone Guys, who came out and were mystified. They finally decided to send the whole thing back east (where I guess the repairmen who actually know how to repair must live). So Paula asked if we could get a loaner. “I don’t know.” Well, could they find out? “I don’t know.” Apparently this is the first time in the history of car phones that this question has come up. I love being a pioneer. It only took three visits from Carphone Guys to get a working loaner phone. One can only imagine how long it will take to get my own phone back and working. I’m lighting a candle to the Phone Phairy.

And you’re thinking, at least the Jaguar is working. HA!!! The thermostat on the heating/air conditioning system is on drugs–it’s either Arctic or Saharan. The driver’s seat occasionally adjusts itself up or back an inch on a whim. The rear antenna doesn’t retract all the way (possibly to continue to receive alien transmissions? I’ll believe anything at this point). However, it’s got a working phone, and I’m so grateful it’s not spontaneously combusting, I don’t mind at all. You may remember my friendly but Kato-esque Jaguar service manager, Sam. I have instructed Paula to call Hornburg Jaguar and ask for Russell. If they say just a minute, be afraid. If they put you on hold and disconnect you, be very afraid. A Sam/Russell collaboration is too frightening to contemplate.

My friend JoAnn went to her psychic facialist (don’t ask) and discovered the root of our problems. (No, it’s not that troubling Ben-&-Jerry’s dependency, which we will address when we’re ready. We can quit whenever we want to. Really.) You see, the moon currently has a “wobble”, and it especially affects those of us in Aries. The last big moon wobble was 19 years ago, when the biggest earthquakes ever recorded occurred (assuming we accept facialist as seismic experts, and hey, I go to Metro Ford so call me gullible). Moon wobbles especially affect transportation (duh), moving (which I’m doing in two weeks) and dental work. I can practically guarantee a broken filling at any moment.

Now she didn’t mention moon wobbles affecting communing with the earth, but she should have. I just spent the best birthday of my life. (Well, yeah, it was the first after my divorce, but that’s not why. Though it didn’t hurt…) It’s because I spent it at Two Bunch Palms Resort, in Desert Hot Springs, California. WHY didn’t anyone tell me about this place before???? By the second day I was so relaxed I couldn’t walk straight. There were 3 bunnies in my private back yard. I was sunbathing, looking up at a palm tree on one side, and a snow-covered mountain on the other. I was in heaven.

The only unusual event was my mud bath. I’d never had one before, and I loved it. I’m outdoors, soaking in hot wet mud, looking up at the trees whipping around in the wind overhead. This is very relaxing. I’m all blissed-out. I might stay here forever. Then the attendant, Joseph, wanders in and announces, “We have a problem.” He points up, to where the tree has fallen on the power line directly above us. The lesson we learned here is: there is NO graceful way for a naked woman to climb out of a vat of hot mud while in danger of imminent electrocution. However, it does not matter, because your faithful attendant has long since fled to save himself, leaving you to your muddy demise.

As I drove home, the temperature in the Jaguar at 30, at 90, at 30, I resolved to read up on this moon wobble business. Perhaps I could change my astrological sign, to one of the not-in-danger-of-auto-immolation signs? Though, if the astrologer is named Russell, count me out.
Names changed: “Sam”. He means well….

Copyright 1997 by Jzine. Not to be reproduced or distributed without permission

Ghosts in the Machines

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You’re probably wondering how the Electrical Exorcism went. Ever since I moved back in here, the lights by the front door have been going on and off at random. Jamie the excitable electrician couldn’t figure out the problem. So we finally called in Kevin, the legendary Electrical Ghostbuster, to solve the problem. Jamie has told me many times (Jamie does tend to repeat himself. Often) how Frank Sinatra had a light that kept going on by itself, and Kevin was the only one who could find the culprit–a rechargeable razor. Every week or so, when Jamie had tried yet another futile solution for my lights, he’d tell me The Story of Frank Sinatra’s Razor. When all else had failed, it was time to call Kevin.

My assistant, Paula, was a few minutes late that day, which meant I had to let Jamie in. Jamie was even more excited than usual. “Kevin will find the problem! Kevin has an oscilloscope! I don’t have an oscilloscope because they cost six thousand dollars! Kevin will be here any moment! He always finds the problem. Because he has an oscilloscope! Did I tell you about Frank Sinatra’s razor?” I was in the other room when he spotted Kevin’s truck pulling in. “Oh, good! He’s wearing pants!” Since I didn’t want to know what that meant, I decided to let Paula handle things and hid in my office.

Kevin, it turns out, is as mellow as Jamie is wired, but they both like to explain things. Everything. I could hear them roaming around the house. Kevin: “We’ll go through this door…. Then we’ll go into the garage…. Then we’ll open the panel…. Then we’ll turn off the circuit breakers….” Jamie: “That’ll work! That’ll turn the power off right away!” Jamie could hardly contain himself around the oscilloscope. He insisted on bringing me from my office all the way to the garage to look at the little screen. Sure enough, they found noise on the lines, and the intrepid duo was off to track it down. Kevin: “First we’ll test the dining room…. Then the kitchen…. Then the living room….” Jamie: “Then we’ll find the problem! We’ll find the problem right now! At Frank Sinatra’s house it was the razor!”

They narrowed it down to something in my bedroom. They asked Paula if I had any “other” electrical things. Like what, she asked. Kevin explained that sometimes women have “certain” electrical appliances they don’t want their husbands to know about. I do wonder, if I had this hypothetical secret item I didn’t want my non-existent husband to know about, would I tell my assistant??? At any rate, they finally discovered it was the neon sculpture on the wall that was causing the noise, and they insisted I come over and look at the oscilloscope to see for myself. (The sculptor, Lili Lakich, says everyone always blames the neon. Doesn’t that sound like a great name for a sleazy detective story set in Las Vegas–”Blame the Neon”?)

There was general relief and jubilation. I suggested we check my other neon sculpture, just in case, so we sent Jamie down to turn it on. Jamie: “It’s off!” Me: “Turn it on, Jamie.” Jamie: “It’s not working! It’s not turning on at all! Unless it’s very faint neon that you can’t see?” Me: “Jamie, didn’t you turn that circuit breaker off?” Jamie: “That’s right! This circuit breaker is off! That’s why it’s not working!” A short pause. Me: “Jamie, turn the circuit breaker on!” Jamie: “OK!”

We put filters on the problem areas, and the ghosts seem to be gone. I found out why we were relieved Kevin showed up wearing pants–he arrived at Mr. Sinatra’s house in a Speedo bathing suit and flipflops (Have I told you about Frank Sinatra’s razor?). I may buy an oscilloscope, just to make Jamie envious.

Just when the excitement over the electrical episode was dying down, the Jaguar service department reared its ugly head. Sam the service representative called to say the part for the seat was in (my driver’s seat was shifting slightly on turns–they’d ordered the part months ago). So we took it in, and they discovered they needed a different part. Time passed. Finally Sam called to say the part was in, and it would be fixed that day. Later he called to say UPS had delivered the part, but they weren’t sure exactly where it was. Paula asked who had signed for it. Well, as a matter of fact, Sam had, but he couldn’t remember exactly where he’d put it. Finally the car was ready and we brought it home.

The first time I drove it, the seat belt was very hard to fasten. I looked down and noticed it looked different from the one on the passenger’s side. Driving down the road at 30 MPH, it popped open. Back to the shop. Well, it turned out that when they fixed the seat, they needed to put a new “female part” of the seat belt on, and it wasn’t compatible with the old “male part.” They tried to install a new male part, but that wasn’t compatible with the side of the car. However, Jaguar would absolutely guarantee that it wouldn’t release in an accident. This was very reassuring to me, however I wanted a seat belt that wouldn’t release while driving slowly down the street, too. Call me picky.

They decided they were going to give it some thought. The idea of Sam, much less the entire service department, thinking is scary enough, and god knows I’ve had my share of incompatible male parts–this was starting to sound like a problem that wasn’t going to get solved. I had Paula call the manager of the service department. Yes, he was aware of the problem, and he supposed it was a little harder to fasten the belt now. It was no problem for him, mind you, and they would try to fix it, but it was probably just that I’m a woman, you know, and afraid of breaking a fingernail or something.
You probably don’t want to go near Hornburg Jaguar in the next few days. I’m going to go over and meet the service manager and have him tell me face to face that the problem is not that his guys screwed up my car and have no way to fix it, but that I’m a woman and incapable of successfully operating a seat belt. It could get ugly. I might break a nail.

Meanwhile, Paula called him back (he’s now been on the phone to England and god only knows what circumvented plot they’ve been hatching. Replace the side of the car, which then won’t be compatible with the back? Weld the seat belt shut so it won’t accidentally release?). She asked him why they don’t just take the frog (metal part on the end of the belt) that works and put it on the other belt. They were dumbstruck–what a great idea!

Hope you are well, your seat belt works, and any ghostbusters you call arrive wearing pants. Let’s do lunch. I’ll be driving the Ford.
Names changed: “Sam”–he means well…

Copyright 1997 by Janine Smith. Not to be reproduced or distributed without permission