Posted in style

My new car arrives today. I’ve been shopping for a car for a while now, and thanks to many of your suggestions, dear readers, I’ve finally come to my decision. It only took me 18 days! 18 days and 3 months. In that time, we’ve sold the Mercedes convertible and the 2004 Lexus RX330 without having to trade either in (you get a lower price for a trade-in than you can selling it on your own).

FYI, this post is massively long and unedited. Given this, I’ll try to categorize and chunk it under someone suspect titles to help break it up for you.

HE’S CUTE AND ALL, BUT I DON’T LIKE THE CURVE OF HIS… UM… THUMB

I’ve seen the Honda Pilot, the Nissan Pathfinder (I couldn’t see out the back window), the Infiniti JX35, Acura MDX, Subaru (no power lift gate in a 2013!), the Buick Enclave (Phil was not diggin’ it once he saw that it had an analog clock in the dash). In the Enclave, I loved the second row bucket seats, that allowed for very easy access to the third row, but I wasn’t a fan of the… such a dumb reason to nix a car… the locks. I now must include a photo… see that big Frankenstein Thumb? Talk about picky. If I were like this whilst I was dating, I’d be childless today… or, um, unwed.

IF YOU’RE THAT PICKY, YOU DESERVE TO BE ALONE

I love the luxury of the Infiniti, but Phil preferred the Acura (I think it likely has much better pickup, better safety ratings – though I don’t love the exterior of the car, it looks tight and angry or robotic). Next, we checked out the GMC Acadia Denali. I loved loved loved that it projected your mph right into the glass of the dashboard, because I, well, suck at reading analog clocks or meters. I still have a hard time telling time quickly on a non-digital clock. Seriously, I get a little panicked when someone asks me for the time, like being asked to read aloud in class when I haven’t had an opportunity to pre-read and stumble over the long words.

QUIT SLEEPING AROUND – WHEN A READER KNOWS BEST

I think I prefer the second row bucket seats to a bench in terms of easy access. I couldn’t quite bring myself to look at a minivan, not when I only have two kids. This comment from Melissa, a reader, really got me excited about the Infiniti JX35:

“We just bought the Infiniti JX for our family of four. Part of the attraction is that you can access the third row even with car seats installed in the second; with other cars that have a bench second row, you have to climb over the second row or in through the back window (the Pilot is like that). Highlander and Enclave have bucket seat second rows that help with this. It definitely has a lot of the bells and whistles, like you said you like — a 360 degree camera, which is awesome for parking, remote start, warning lights if someone is in your blind spot, automatically stops if you’re about to back into something, same thing with front crashes (nice for highway driving if someone steps on the brakes in front of you). If you read the reviews, most of the dings are for performance, and a few note that they basically sacrificed performance for fuel economy. I also thought it wasn’t too monstrous looking (the Pilot was that).”

THE WHEATGRASS IS ALWAYS GREENER

In the end, I’m just a sucker for a nice interior and fancy technology. I’m also wholly impractical; I simply had to get the Wheat (pale beige) leather interior (as opposed to the Java or Graphite), despite being warned by the salesman that dye from darker jeans will rub off onto the seats! Yikes. That’s terrible given that I live in jeans. And, hi, last I checked I have kids who wear sneakers and sometimes like to kick the seat in front of them. So, I climbed into a Java-clad car and tried to love it just as much. But I couldn’t. I’d always be wishing for the Wheat. So I looked up how to remove dye from Wheat seats, etc., and I’m going to order up some leather cleaner, what can I say? I just love what I love, even if it means more work.

IS IT TRUE LOVE IF WE WERE SIMPLY WOOED BY BELLS?

I don’t let the kids watch any TV during the week (weekends only), so we wanted to avoid the theater package (a dvd player built into each headrest, like on Jet Blue). Besides, I think now with iPads, DVD players are becoming dated. But we wanted all the bigger bells and whistles, like blindside assist, keyless entry, remote start, Destination Assistance (via a real person who inputs the destination into the navigation system for you), and that auto-stop function when you’re driving bumper to bumper and you get too close without realizing it. Also, like the Lexus we had, the JX35 has the telescoping steering wheel, but what’s more, when I cut the engine, the steering wheel retracts and my seat position moves back, to make exiting the car easier, especially with a hobo bag. Also, I love the Intelligent Key, that the car knows it’s MY key vs. PHIL’s key, so as soon as the car automatically unlocks (without having to rummage through my bag to find the damn key, especially in the rain!), all the mirrors and seat position are set to my preferences AND all the radio settings are set to MY presets. Such a sucker for that.

AN ASS FOR EVERY UGLY SEAT?

To find what I wanted wasn’t easy. Most people want the Java, or want the theater package, etc. So, eventually Phil came back saying he got the car with everything we wanted in MIDNIGHT GARNET. Mmmkay. Wait. Ew. That’s so old lady. I don’t want a garnet colored car! There must be something else? How about the Granite? “You are killing me,” Phil said, and he was right. I was being slightly picky, especially after saying that I didn’t really care which exterior color it was, so long as it was Wheat inside with all the features we cared about.

I texted my sister, who agreed. “Don’t settle on a new car. You should love everything about it.” No way was I getting a garnet car. “Let’s just go to another dealership and see the colors in person,” I urged, realizing that it wasn’t about the dealership, that they all check the same database, that they know what’s available within a certain radius. They trade cars with other dealerships, etc.

“They have one in Glacial Silver and Liquid Platinum.” Oh, God, what’s worse? Silver or Garnet?

“Just get the fcuking Diamond Slate,” Lea said. “It’s gray. It’s nice. My friend has it. It reads a little blue in the sun.” Yeah, I want the gray. I tell Phil. He tells the dealership. They find a Diamond Slate, gray, car with Wheat interior, only the car doesn’t have the maple accents. Instead the accents are a marbled gray blackish color. Gray blackish on warm wheat? Truly, I am a nightmare.

AND ALL AT ONCE I KNEW, I KNEW AT ONCE, I KNEW HE NEEDED ME

In the dealership parking lot I turn to Phil and say, “Oh, snap. I’m in love. The search is over. Call off the dogs. I want this sex fiend of a kitten.” My hand brushing the hood tenderly.

“You’re fcuking with me right?”

I begin to sing, as if I’m all boozed up. Patsy Cline. “I go out walking, after midnight. Out in the moonlight. Just like we used to do. I’m always walking, after midnight. Searching for you.”

It isn’t glacial, silver, white, nor gray. I want, more than any other, the car in Midnight Garnet, with Wheat interior and Maple accents. I’m surprised, but it’s true. People sometimes name their cars. This baby might be Patsy… Klein.

PHOTO TO FOLLOW WHEN I PICK MY GIRL UP

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johalputt Stephanie Klein Stephanie Kleins Greek Tragedy

08:42

Posted in introspectionraising hops into beers

These things happen in threes. It’s what they say. “They” being people like my father, who actually owns a book of funeral home and cemetery locations. Who owns something like that? He also reads the obituaries daily. This past weekend Flora, the mother of my father’s wife, passed away. She was in her 90′s. On our drive to the family-only graveside burial service, I asked Phil if we had any tissues.

“For what?”

“To make hand puppets. What do you mean ‘for what?’”

“What, like you’re gonna cry?”

“Of course. Everyone’s going to cry!”

“She was in her 90′s. She lived a full life. She’s at peace now, not suffering. Believe me, Stephanie, no one is crying.”

“Listen, everyone cries when they hear ‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.’”

“Wrong religion, Stephanie.”

“No, it’s not! Jews totally say that.”

“Never. You’re wrong. Besides, I’ve never heard anyone read in English at a funeral. It’s always all in Hebrew.”

“You’ll see. And I bet you anything that everyone cries.”

“Oh, I’ll take that bet. No one’s crying. Except maybe for you when you realize you’ve lost the bet.”

We arrived as my step-mother, her brother, and my two step-sisters walked up to the hearse to identify the body. I was asked if I wanted to join them. Just the thought of it had me in tears. My step-sisters were crying before the ceremony began. I was rummaging in the glove compartment, left with crisp brown Starbucks napkins to sop up the emotion. People cry at funerals, I tried explaining to Phil, despite all the intellectual peace we’ve made, even if we didn’t necessarily know the person. You think of your own mortality, of the people you’ll leave behind. You play ‘what if?’ And sometimes, it’s just the energy, seeing other people grieving, saddened goodbyes, you’re pulled in. Suffering sucks.

We don’t cry for the person who has left us. We cry for the survivors, the people living and grieving, missing, wishing they had answers, second chances, reliving events and moments, wanting more. True, when you’ve had a full life, been there for the wedding of your grandchild, hung out with your great-grandchildren, it’s not a tragedy. It’s a gift.

A tight knot of us stood squinting behind sunglasses at the cemetery as the rabbi commented on Flora’s life. A college graduate, a teacher, concerned most with her family, and described by her daughter as ‘her best friend,’ there’s no greater life, no greater testimony or success than that. To be a mother, to teach and to give, to be a role model that shows how important family is, over work and career and money, it’s what really matters. Family dinners. Homework. Paying attention. I felt proud in that moment.

It’s impossible for me to attend a funeral without thinking of my own life, appreciating what a gift I have, that my legs both work, that I can breathe without the assistance of machines. That I can see and have a keen sense of smell and glorious taste buds that work! So, it’s only natural for me to ask, “Am I making the most of my life?”

I used to be achievement-focused, hungry to prove myself, wanting to be someone extraordinary. I was featured on the cover of newspapers, published books, sold options, wrote for TV. My middle-school self was proud, the kid who stayed up studying, striving for good grades, the best college, honors. I don’t think I have that drive anymore. It’s why my “ideal” and “dreams” have been so much harder to identify. I sometimes get a twinge of anxiety, worried that it’s some kind of race, that I’ve been slacking off and falling behind because I’ve been frolicking (watching beauty videos, testing out new recipes, cleaning and organizing, arranging art projects for the kids, planning dinners, viewing movies upon movies upon movies) in lieu of writing toward a goal, a book, a proposal, an article, a script, anything. Am I wasting a gift? Where has that drive for achievement gone? I mostly don’t feel competitive (I do sometimes). And I have to wonder if I’m on or off the right path. Are the competitive anxious feelings that occasionally swell up just old-habit me, the me who wasn’t evolved enough to know what mattered most in her life? Or do they bubble to the top as a reminder that I’m on the wrong path, that it’s time to do, not say? I need help figuring this out.

When we left the cemetery, after the rabbi read Psalm 23 (aka ‘The Lord is my shepherd’), and we were all in tears, I confided in Phil that I felt so thankful, so so fortunate for it to even be an option, felt so good about being home at 3pm for the kids, to suffer through homework, that I’d feel proud of my life if my kids one day considered me their best friend (just not when they’re young, because tough-love ‘I’m not your friend’ parenting is the way I try to go). It was then that he looked me in the eye and said, “You were right. I was wrong.”

To which I responded, “What’s that now?” Four or five times. Being right doesn’t happen in threes.

via Stephanie Klein's Greek Tragedy http://stephanieklein.com/2013/04/making-life-count/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+blogs%2Fstephanieklein+%28Stephanie+Klein%27s+Greek+Tragedy+Blog%29

johalputt Stephanie Klein Stephanie Kleins Greek Tragedy

09:12

Posted in introspection

At a birthday party for twins turning six, there was a running slideshow cast onto the walls of an indoor playground. As the kids played GaGa (dodgeball for feet, basically), I approached the mother of honor, wanting to thank her for including both my children, pay her a compliment, make her feel good. It wasn’t a forced effort, mind you. I just know how much work goes into planning these parties, dealing with guests who never RSVP, organizing gift bags; it’s always thankless. Besides, there was something intangible about her that made me believe we could be friends.

Trying to initiate a conversation with a woman I don’t know, aside from occasional run-ins on the sidelines of a soccer field, I commented on how thoughtful her slideshow was. She thanked me, then we both turned to watch the photos. “You know,” she confided, “it just makes me feel sad.” I knew exactly what she meant. Kids in costume posed with carved jack-o-lanterns, then pigtails and close-up shots of their own missing teeth. Firsts.

Seeing those moments up on the wall, I couldn’t help but tear up, and not in some sappy Bar-mitvah video montage set to music type of way–okay, exactly that way. Every single moment we’re living is that moment, something to be commemorated. All the moments of your life you should be doing things worthy of being captured. You’re at your most slovenly? Fine. Prove it. If you’re not leaving your house, and you’re in your pajamas, at least make them obtrusively hideous pajamas. Something to show for your life. Stand behind it and own it.

Later, another mother and I stood shoulder to shoulder, overseeing our children during their dance competition, the slideshow still a backdrop. “This makes me so sad,” the mom said without looking at me. “All my firsts are kinda already gone. I’ve lived through them already.”

“What do you mean?!” I said, using that specific tone reserved for pepping friends into feeling good about their choices. “You don’t even know what’s next for you!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, “it’s just true. I have no firsts left, not really.”

“Be careful what you wish for, lady. A lot of firsts you don’t want to have.”

I thought of dressing for a funeral, having to hurry out to buy an appropriate outfit just for the occasion, of outliving someone you shouldn’t, of burying a husband, remarrying, wiping a parent.

“True. Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Above all other occasions, at weddings and age-related celebrations, my mind goes grim. “Besides,” I said, hoping her mind didn’t follow mine to the grave–because then I’ll forever be that woman who talks about death on birthdays, which I guess I already am, who am I kidding? “There are so many amazing firsts; you have no idea what’s next for you.” Again my mind panicked, scrambling for a list of exciting possibilities. “Africa.” I said. “You could go and stay and end up teaching kids in friggin’ Africa, change lives in a remarkable way.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound very exciting.”

“Okay, well, here, you could have the first time you walk the red carpet, when your son is honored for some lifetime achievement award.”

“Okay, now, that I could live with.”

It struck me later that if your child was being honored for a lifetime of achievement, he likely would’ve walked the red carpet at least a dozen times, and not once with you on his arm, making your first time kind of a token stroll. Sort of sucks if you stop to be neurotic about it.

You have to make your own firsts and excitement. We should be dreaming the way we did in first grade, when we traded stickers and got lost in the clouds as we dizzied ourselves on the tire swing. An age when we were asked what we wanted to be when we grew up, when we were sent to our rooms, left to pout, making promises of small revenge–a time when we couldn’t wait until we were grownups, with no one telling us what we could or couldn’t do. Never did we imagine that the person who’d tell us just that would be ourselves.

We’re there now, grownups. I want to honor the girl I was on that tire swing by being what I want to be now–not who I thought I should be, but who I think I can be. I’m still figuring that out, banking on the belief that I’ve only experienced a quarter of my life’s firsts. I need to believe that it’s never too late to become who you’ll be known for.

via Stephanie Klein's Greek Tragedy http://stephanieklein.com/2013/03/slideshow-freakshow-moms-moments/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+blogs%2Fstephanieklein+%28Stephanie+Klein%27s+Greek+Tragedy+Blog%29

johalputt Stephanie Klein Stephanie Kleins Greek Tragedy

05:57