Highway Man

Driving across country you are bound to run into some crazies. Usually you expect a few car loads of kids waving frantically at everyone and anyone in hopes of entertaining themselves, a few lane cutters, a few fingers for miscellaneous reasons and whatnot. You don’t expect someone to adopt you and not leave your side.

We were happily driving along, a few provinces away from home when a vehicle passed us and the driver waved at us out his open window. Immediately we checked his license plate as that is often the cause for driver waves this far from home. But nope, no familiar red plate like ours. It was a friendly wave, so no need to pull over and check our car or rooftop carrier. So we smiled and continued on our way until we were stopped about twenty minutes later at construction. The driver of the car jumped out (he was in front of us) and came bounding to our window. Turns out he was from Alberta. Hubby asked, “Well why did you move here?” Crazy man (although his craziness was not yet verified) replied heartily, “I know!!”

The construction light turned green (great little invention these portable lights) and people immediately began honking at crazy man to get back into his car. And we were off through the construction. Well, not really. We got the red light, he got the green. So we waited despite him trying to wave us along after him. So when we get to the other end of the construction, who should be pulled over and directing us to pull over as well? Yep, crazy man.

Curious by this character, we pull over. He was charming and boisterous. Within moments he comes running up to our car and indicates for us to unroll our window. I’m thinking ‘no thanks’ and leave mine up. The next ten minutes is an unending round of ‘guess who the famous person’ is as he leafs through a full 3 1/2 inch binder full of blown up photos of him with famous rock stars. In all, I think hubby passed his MTV Stars of the 90s Pop Quiz. I’m really glad I wasn’t in the driver’s seat as I’m pretty sure I would have flunked seeing as I’ve only watched about an hours worth of MTV in the past decade and a half. (Sad?) Having previously agreed to meet relatives for coffee in the nearby city, we finally were able to push off about 15 minutes later.

Sort of.

He insisted that we should follow him as a person can go 20km over the limit here and not get caught–so he proclaims. “Follow me, follow me! 110! Follow me!” When we saw him digging in the car and not getting into the driver’s seat, I told hubby to floor it or we’d be stuck there for another 15 minutes being drilled on song titles as we’d be forced to listen to his CD collection made by Snoop himself and which he luckily couldn’t find in his haste to pull us over and entertain us. Crazy man pretty much freaked out when we drove off without him and scrambled into his car, eager to try and get in front of us so we could follow him to the city. I tell ya, a city has never come fast enough for me.

I have to admit, crazy man was an entertaining bean. He insisted that he be our personal entertainment. Honestly, I think the guy was a bit lonely with his kids all back home with the ex wife. I mean, after his friends have already seen his famous people pictures once, then what? It was really cool seeing that passion in someone. Or you know, craziness. But where do you go from there?

So with crazy man slowing down to make us think that he was releasing us, he speeds up to stay alongside in the slow lane, taking his hands off the steering wheel to make emphatic ’110′ symbols with his hands. I have to admit, he’s a pretty good driver when he has no hands on the wheel and his attention anywhere but on the road. I wasn’t so scared about that part, it was when he was showing us another famous picture (Jesus) and then closing his eyes, taking his hands off the wheel and crossing himself and placing his hands in prayer position all while not letting us fall in behind or in front of him that freaked me out. Plus it was a bit stressful when he’d slow right down, forcing us to pass him and then not letting us back into the slow lane, causing the angered traffic behind us to jam up.

After all his tactics resulted in disbelieving smiles from his audience, he decided that we were his friends. Solid. Soon after he began fanning himself with money. Quite a lot of it in fact. Then he started shouting through our closed window, “McDonald’s! McDonald’s! I’ll take you to McDonald’s!” I think that was after his offer to share his big gulp and cigarettes by trying to pass them from his car to ours. I’m pretty sure that was before I suggested my mom take a photo of his license plate which was followed by a photo of him. (Yes, he took his hands off the wheel to primp and pose. Dear lord, it is a miracle we are all still alive.) Maybe that sort of influenced his impression of us.

So anyway, when we finally hit the city, we managed to ditch him. And yes after telling him we were parting ways and trying to fall behind we snuck between to two trucks before scuttling in behind a hotel. We have no pride, but we are alive. Seriously, the guy was offering to tour us through the city and if given the chance would likely have escorted us at 20km over the speed limit all the way home.

And then we got lost and were at least an hour late for our coffee with the relatives. They were pretty forgiving. I guess it helps when you have a good story. Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.

Online Auction: Blow By Blow

Oh man.

Online Auctions get me. I’ve only bid in two including the one I am involved in at this very moment. It is SO stressful in an exciting rollercoaster sort of way. I wish I were rich, then I might get what I want. But alas, things often get out of my price range rather rapidly, but I keep bidding just to try and get the bids higher and then suddenly I’m like, “Out bid me you bastard, I can’t afford this!” And then I have nothing, because they always out bid me at the last minute and then I am sad because I had all that excitement for nothing. I have wasted moments of my life dreaming and hoping, all for naught.

Maybe I should start at the beginning.

Every once in awhile, I hear about these great online auctions for writers. Big stuff. Like agent evaluations. And it is for a good cause. Oh my gosh! Tax deduction, charity donation AND a huge chance at getting a professional (expert, all-mighty, amazing being that should-I-ever-have-the-honour-of-kissing-their-toes-I-think-I-might-faint-from-the-thought-of-it sort of a person) read and critique my work.

Ah! Current status: 10 minutes remaining in auction. My status: highest bidder. Moment of stomach jumping all over the place: it is my highest bid and is more money than I have or would care to spend.

But relief because it is less than the other one I bid on and was winning. See, I felt bad for the agent who had a low bid. Plus, I wanted that person who was going to get that chance at that awesome agent to donate a little more to charity. So I bid and bid and bid. And just about crapped my pants when I finally won. But then they outbid me again right away. Having thought about the opportunity that it could present, suddenly a few hundred dollars doesn’t seem like that much for a career opener, right? I mean, professional development and that sort of feedback can be priceless if it comes at the right time, gives you the right head tweak and opens the right doors. Anyway, with my new idea of cheap in mind, I moved on to another agent who was hovering on the low end of the money scale.

I googled her and her agency. Wow! Way better fit than the other agent I was bidding on. And yes, a bit out of my price range. (I mean, it is over $50…and I’ve never boasted to be rich.) But I bid and bid and bid. And won. And my bid is holding. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

Refresh the page once again. Getting a little compulsive now…

Status: 5 minutes 56 seconds. My status: highest bidder.

Oh god, I think my heart is acting like I just ran a hundred miles. Okay, maybe one mile. I’d be dead if I had to run much further than that. I, for whatever reason, have never been much of a runner.

Checking status…

4 min 41 seconds.

Some bastard is going to slip in there and out bid me, aren’t they? Oh god, if they don’t, I’m going to have to explain this expenditure to my husband. It um, is um, not $4000 like some of them. It isn’t even $400, but still. It was more than I planned to spend. Oh god. Gotta check the status again. I don’t know what I should hope for.

3 min 31 seconds. Still the highest bid. Oh F*&%

Oh please, oh please, let me win!!!!

Oh god, my heart rate is never going to return to normal.

2 min 19 sec. Way beyond compulsive now. Maybe I should try and remember what my paypal account is.

I decided to warn my husband that I might be spending some money. He informed me to push F5 (refresh) on my keyboard. He actually got a bit excited and was shouting “F5, F5, F5! Again! Again!”. And then with 20 seconds left I got out bid. I was up and then I was down.

And then he told me to bid more. So I bid more at the last second. Now the clock has reset–bastards. Bidding wars suck.

Then the other dude bid more.

So, my husband said, “Bid more, bid more!” So I did. And he reached around me and started finger spasming on F5.

Now I have to agonize through another 5 minutes. Oh god. I don’t know if I can do this…

But he kindly reminds me, “We have spent more money than you are currently bidding on stupid things and you know when I have that much money I am going to go buy Lego Robotics. Plus, this is a career builder–oh, and keep the receipt.” Lego Robotics? <F5.> And then the commercials were over and he went back to the TV. And here I am sweating. Almost literally. My cheeks feel hot, my head is spinning. I’m almost giddy. Except I’m not. Now I am dreading being outbid. Bastards. Stupid online bidding bastards!

Oh my god. 49 seconds is bolded in RED on the site. Heart Attack, my mind is singing. I’m the highest bidder. Have I done it? Have I?  Oooh, ooh. <F5> <F5>

Holy shit. 11 seconds.

WAHOOOOO!!! I WON IT! I WON IT! I WON IT! I WON IT! Holy crap!

From the other room: “Nice!”

Oh my god. Oh my god.

Okay, where is the credit card? I need my credit card. Oh my god. Career changer. Please, oh please. Oh god. I don’t know what to do. How? What? Where? When? Oh my god. I’m so excited.

Car Chronicles: Part Three: Never Say Never

Well, we have done something we have said that we would never do. What is that saying again? Never say never? (Along those lines, I would NEVER go hang out in Europe all summer or win the lottery. Does it work that way if you say it, but really, actually want it?)

Anyway, curious what the ‘never’ is? Well <gulp> it is actually two things. We said we would NEVER buy a NEW car and we would NEVER finance a car.

At least the whole never buy a mini-van thing hasn’t happened. Whew! That could have been a close one.

So, yes. I turned my back on my husband in the Toyota dealership for five minutes. Apparently, that is long enough for him to stumble across a new car (discounted because of tiny hail damage dings) and fall in love with it. Enough to not only buy it, but to finance it.

We were looking at used cars, but out here used cars are crazy prices! So, as we discovered, we could put another five grand into a car, give ourselves a bit of financial breathing room (by using the dealerships financing which is better than our line of credit, which we would have had to use for a used car) and have a car that should be problem free for years. Craziness.

So are you curious what we bought? Are you? Are you?

I am so pumped!

We bought a tiny little sedan called the Toyota Yaris.

Essentially it is the Echo with a new name and a new body and a trunk. And a carseat fits in the back quite nicely, which is a nice change for us. And it is cheap and gets 41-51 mpg (Canadian). Sweet! The only problem with any car is that my hubby is going to have it used up in no time flat. (He will be commuting 100km per day next year to get to and fro his new job. But at least he won’t be nearly as worried about getting there. He has always been really paranoid about that–to the point where I used to have to drive the 18-year-old gas car the 120km for my daily commute (and have the nonplug in parking spot) whereas he took the diesel car (with I might add–not only had working doors but also had more than AM radio (it had a CD player)) for his 60km commute. No, I’m not bitter. Not at all…. I mean, it doesn’t matter that my cars mostly got me to work and if his car didn’t start at minus thirty, he’d take mine and I’d have to call AMA and be late for work.

Anyway, this car is so cute and so sweet and so amazingly nondescript (it is silver) that I will NEVER be able to find it in a parking lot. (There is that ‘never’ word again.) It’s a good thing it is already dinged, otherwise my hubby would moan over every new scratch and ding…oh yeah, he’ll do that anyway.

I can hardly wait to drive it everywhere! Except for the miniscule clutch that is so springy and well, new, that I stall it all over the place. On the test drive, whenever I started out anywhere, all my hubby heard was, “Did I stall it? Is it still running? I can’t hear anything.” So, finally, tired of stalling it with its tiny little clutch and tiny little sweet spot, I floored it and released the clutch. Wow!

Hello? Dealership? Yes, could we get a new car? This one doesn’t seem to have any rubber left on the tires. Yes, well, there are some nice little strips on the pavement over in Springbank. Um, yeah, I don’t know how that happened. Really? Well, I don’t think I want to buy a car that has been treated that way. I mean, afterall, I am a lady driver.

I think I heard something from the salesman that sounded an awful lot like, “Drive it like you own it, not like you stole it.” But that was when he was telling us how we should break it in, not um, how to test drive it.

So, in a few days we should get our Golf back from the shop, all fixed up and happyish. (It needs a head gasket, I think.) So, if you know of anyone who wants a good little, economical car and doesn’t mind putting a head gasket in, we’ve got their car!

And then we’ll get the Yaris. Such a cool name. Now we have to think of a name for the little guy. Maybe we should call it ‘Doug’.