Values Exercise

I have never given a lot of thought to why October, my favorite and most hopeful month of the year, is when I review the year and organize and plan for the next year. Some might say it’s a numerological phenomenon, because October is a “1” month signifying beginnings.

I’ve also never thought a lot about why some plans fail and others succeed or change into new plans.

So, I’ve been encouraged to do a Values Exercise. I’ve read about and tried this before, but I never fully understood it until I found a Website called The Personal Growth Center last week:

The best definition for values I could find is here at stevepavlina.com. Steve defines values as priorities that tell you how to spend your time, right here, right now.

The Personal Growth Center has a list of common personal values that was manageable for me.

I found the Self-Analysis exercise (at the very bottom of the page) clear and enlightening:

  1. Select any values from the list that resonate.
  2. List five of those selected that have helped shape your life and bring you to where you are today.
  3. List two new values that you would like to implement in your life.
  4. Create a detailed action plan for each of your seven values.

What used to be a seemingly random to-do list for the upcoming year is now a plan of specific action tailored only to what’s important to my innate values.

Ah, meaning and happiness (which, ironically, aren't in my list of seven, but can't be anything but inevitable).

Motherhood

A man I indirectly knew died of cancer in his mother's home just two months after his diagnosis. Six months before receiving the news, he had been fired from his job for unrelated drug and alcohol issues and moved in with her. There was no money and no insurance, so he withered away quietly and quickly.

The morning he died, his mother, equally poor, 75, and a little over 100 pounds, called the crematory (the cheapest option) to pick up his body. They apologized for the delay - there were a couple of customers ahead of her – but they would be there late that afternoon.

She gave him a sponge bath, washed and combed his hair, shaved and splashed a little after-shave on his face, put on his underwear and socks, dressed him in a casual shirt and pants, and scrubbed and tied his shoes. She put new sheets on his bed and propped him up a little with freshly plumped pillows.

And then, she sat in the chair beside the bed and talked to what was left of her son for the next five hours.

The company that had fired him, where he had worked for ten years, paid for his cremation and a small memorial service.

His mother died alone a week later. 

A neighbor found her lying in her bed, dressed in her best dress and new panty hose and shoes, with freshly fixed hair and what appeared to be a little rouge on her cheeks and lips. Beside her on the bed were a yellowed and much worn envelope with an engagement ring in it and a 3-page love letter from a man named Tom - not her son's father's name - dated Valentine's Day, 1954. She was holding a picture album of her life to her chest, and in her right hand was a check made out to the crematory for $500.

The Definition of Awkward

1: obsolete
2a: lacking dexterity or skill b: showing the result of a lack of expertness
3a: lacking ease or grace b: lacking the right proportions, size, or harmony of parts
4a: lacking social grace and assurance b: causing embarrassment
5: not easy to handle or deal with : requiring great skill, ingenuity, or care <an awkward load>
=============

There are a slew of things that can make one feel bad about oneself. Here’s one that wouldn’t typically come to mind: Try being on a technical writing project at an energy company after the worst storm in the state’s history.

Offer to help and folks look at you, as if to ask, “What is it exactly that you think you could do?” (They're kind-hearted folks, so they do try to hide it.)

Everyone scurries from one emergency to the next, talking on emergency equipment, manning control centers, sleeping on cots on rare breaks. Busy people. Critical people. Disaster recovery people.

So you look empathetic and show concern by periodically asking how people are doing, hide in the bathroom as much as possible, and post on a blog about how awkward and useless you feel. And remain on the ready to document shit.

Living Alone and Fairly Consciously

All things considered, I think I’ve done pretty well. I haven’t quite gotten the hang of food shopping for one, but I’m sure I’ll get there. It feels a lot like that scene in the intro to the Mary Tyler Moore show when she unenthusiastically throws what I think is a piece of chicken into her basket. I think about calling, but then stop myself. A lot. Local friends have been great at timely invitations. I’ve had extra chores and work as well. And my plan. And Sabrina, the dog.

I got to thinking about the last time I lived by myself. It was over twenty years ago in Vinings, Georgia, and only for a period of about two years. I didn’t do it very well back then. I seem to be better at it now. Plus, he was an unintentional master at preparing me. I appreciate his independence.

I’ve been driving his truck to work, because it has air conditioning and I opted not to fix mine. He’s not happy about that and tries to convince me it’s no good by telling me I look like a lesbian, but, frankly, that's a risk I’m willing to take. (And, it has cooled down in the last day or two, so my heterosexuality will be restored soon.)

I saw a lady walking to the bus stop in her work clothes the other morning. The sprinklers at the apartment complex she was in front of suddenly went on. She started, and then held out her hands and raised her head to catch the water for a moment before continuing her walk. I thought I wanted to be just like her.

I hate that www.dictionary.com has been bought by Ask.com. Amongst all the advertisements are a few definitions.

The man who lives behind me who cuts his grass after dark watered his deck last week. His sprinkler was intentionally set facing his house and in just the one position to water the deck and only the deck. Not the windows or the doors, nor are there any plants or flowers on the deck. I actually like things like this - I can wonder for weeks.

Aren't there a finite number of musical notes? Doesn't this mean that we'll eventually run out of new music? Does anyone know when?

Miss Hazel told me to keep my doors locked, and that felt nice.

I think I would like it to be fall all year long.

Never say "these people" in Tunica, Mississippi

Austin’s grandparents had come for a visit, and we wanted to show them the new casinos in Tunica. (It’s just what you do.) We found a small Taco Bell inside The Grand, so we placed our orders and slid over to the pick-up counter. One by one, everyone picked up their trays and headed to a table. I was last. I gave her $6 for my and Austin’s orders and headed to the pick-up counter like everyone before me.

I waited. And waited. And waited some more. No tray. No questions. And even though, I never took my eyes off of her, she never so much as glanced anywhere in my direction. Finally, I asked her about my order.

“I don’t has no oh-der foh you.”

“I just placed it with you less than two minutes ago. I paid $6. I’ve been standing here waiting on it.”

“I don’t has it.”

And she walked off to the back of the kitchen.

I called to her to come back. “May I have my money back then?”

No response. I yelled again. “Can you check the register for it?” She was exasperated already, but she did check – she glanced at the screen on the register and said, “It ain’dare.” And walked away again.

I called after her, “Well, what are we going to do?

She shrugged. “I looks foh ma man-ger’s phonumba.”

“Okay, thank you.”

Then, she got on the phone. And I waited some more. I motioned to the table for them not to wait on me. Someone gave Austin a taco. She hung up and walked over to talk to her co-worker. I thought they might be discussing my plight, but they talked and laughed and the co-worker rubbed her bulging belly. They were talking babies!!!

I think I yelled. “Did you get in touch with your manager?

She looked at me like she couldn’t believe I was still there. “She don’t ansuh hu’pho.”

“Where is she?”

“A’ home.”

“Is there nobody here who can get my money or my order?”

“No.” And she turned back around to talk to her friend again.

I gave up and went to get the security guard who sits at a stand at the front of the casino. I explained the situation to him, and he walked back to the Taco Bell with me.

“I don’t has no oh-der foh huh.”

He looked as though he was giving consideration to the idea that I might be lying. I pointed to my family, here from out-of-town, and asked him why I might put myself through all this trouble for the mere pleasure of interacting with her.

Then, I did it. I said, “Tunica will never get repeat customers until these people learn how to work at customer service jobs.”

(What I MEANT was that while I couldn’t be happier that Tunica hires local and rural people from around Tunica who desperately need jobs, they can be uneducated, unintelligible, generally angry and put-out, and, as a result, untrained in handling customers.)

He grabbed the back of my suddenly criminal arm, and shouted, “Alright, that’s enough. We don’t tolerate that here.”

It took me just a second. “That wasn’t what I meant. THAT WASN’T WHAT I MEANT!!!!!!!!”

He started pushing me towards the exit.

“Unless I see my $6, I’m calling the police as soon as I get outside.”

So he stopped, pulled out his wallet, gave me $6 and proceeded to escort me from the building while my family and 9-year-old son watched. Lesson learned. I’ll never say “these people” in Tunica, Mississippi, again. And even better, I’ll never be in Tunica, Mississippi, again. Not that they'd let me in.

A Tub for My Wing

The person who invented these is a genius and deserves a statue and a warm sudsy soak in his/her honor. I’m sad, though, because my grandmother would have love-love-loved one.

I wanted to make sure Austin knew how much I will appreciate one in my future.

“Hey, Austin, come look at this commercial.”

“And?”

“I want one of those in my wing when I move in with you in my old age.”

“You know where they have those? In nursing homes.”

“Not in the nursing homes I’ll be able to afford.”

“Well, you have a point. They do require indoor plumbing.”

“Thanks. I took care of your first eighteen years. You should take care of my last eighteen.”

“Eighteen? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? You need to make sure you go quickly.”

“When do you leave for school?”

“Not soon enough, not soon enough.”

Miscellaneous Diversions

I think I’m off news again for a while. Shaken babies, absent-minded parents leaving children in cars to die, people imprisoned by their parents in trailers and basements, people eating people on busses, legislators working 30 days for $200K in retirement funds, disastrous presidential choices, Lohan Lohan Lohan.

So…..

Truly terrific, absolutely true fun ((I stole this link from Ross Mathews’ blog, but it’s too fantastic to ever forget):

Musical memory fun: Romeo's Tune

Addictive fun: Sequence

Puppy fun:

Heartwarming fun: StoryCorps

And just for my own fun, if I were interviewed:

What was the happiest moment of your life?
I’ve had a lot of little happy moments, but picking something that stands out as the happiest? I don’t know. I’ve had proudest and most grateful, but happiest? As in joyful? Maybe eating lobster and blueberry pie with Austin at the Fisherman’s Catch? Maybe listening in Poindexter Hall? Maybe talking to UF on the phone? Maybe my 30th birthday?

What are you most proud of?
The thoughtful and responsible man my son is turning out to be.

What are the most important lessons you’ve learned in life?
Gut instinct is God. What I focus on expands. Positive thinking is faith. Mind off self is happiness. Listening is the best gift. I need people. I can’t change people. Acceptance. Forgiveness. Compassion. That it’s all just various forms of Love.

What is your earliest memory?
Painting our toenails on the tiny porch of our house on Sterling Drive, hearing the ice cream truck at the same time and my mother rushing around to find change for us.

How would you like to be remembered?
A good friend, intelligent, funny, hopeful, tried to do the right thing, independent.

The Time Has Come

I thought I was home free. Only two weeks to go, and I really haven’t felt all that emotional.

Until yesterday, that is, when he cleaned his room.

He has had a summer project to organize and purge, which he did and ended up with a pick-up truck full of stuff to donate and three lawn and leaf size bags of stuff to throw away. I saw little soccer and t-ball trophies poking out of one bag, but when I went to comment on not throwing his entire past away, he jumped down my throat for backpedaling.

The purging didn’t even hit me, because his room still looked like it belonged to the kid I’ve known for years.

Then, he had to go and clean it. Bed made. Clothes on hangers. Posters off walls. No junk on the computer desk or the nightstands or the armoire. No dishes or wrappers on the floor. Carpet! Hell, there were vacuum tracks.

There’s a song out there somewhere about a father who just sits in his daughter's room after she leaves. But I can’t go in there. There’s a floodgate that I’m pretty sure would take all of freshman year to plug. And I do have plans. And I still need to work.

I think I’ll make him start closing the door, though, because I know it’s just going to get worse from here, and I have a feeling I already may be taking it pretty hard.

A Short Lifetime Spent Trying to be a Good Boy

My brother and I were adopted at birth from different mothers. I’m sure we both had opportunities being raised by our adoptive parents that we never would have had with our biological ones, although neither of us would ever know anything other than what we were told about our birth parents to be sure.

Our parents were decent, moral, upstanding people. But they were obsessed with appearances, which made my brother a bigger problem for them than he might have been for other parents. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t be what they expected. This would result in life-altering disappointment for both sides.

I distinctly remember my mother telling me I was adopted around age 6, but I don’t remember when Pat was told. I really didn’t see him enough to have conversations like that. Initially, he was always so busy. He was a hyperactive child, put on Ritalin before he ever made it to first grade. I’m sure it was intended to calm him down for public appearances, but it never worked. Eventually, we just grew up in different places.

My first and faintest memory of my brother is of him pedaling a little yellow and blue plastic scooter down the long hall of our first house in Memphis, Tennessee. Almost daily, he would wait for me to toddle innocently out of my room at one end, and as soon as he saw me, start pedaling from the other end, picking up considerable momentum (it was a long hall and I wasn’t that fast) before hitting me and knocking me down - HARD. As soon as I started to cry, he started to laugh. I also remember my mother reacting when she came to assess the damage:

“Why, Pat, why? Why can’t you be a good boy?”

I can’t count how many times I would hear this over the coming years. I don’t know if I ever learned to look first, but, more than likely, he quickly got bored and moved on to something else before I had time to figure out a workable solution. My mother, already tired at this point, decided to just wait and pick up the inevitable pieces rather than try to predict her son’s behavior.

Pat’s first grade teacher at Sea Isle Elementary School showed real concern for his ability to control himself. At first, she felt sorry for him because he was such a sweet, thoughtful boy. She thought he just needed special attention, but when that ended up with him craving even more and more attention from her, anything good about him soon faded in comparison to his unforgivable behavior. He refused to stay in his seat, wreaking havoc on the classroom and the other kids. He would throw crayons, pencils, books, erasers, anything he could get his hands on. He would use markers to draw on the windows. Lunch and recess were constant struggles. He’d be banished to the outskirts or the teacher’s table or the bench or the sidelines for this reason or that, and even under watchful eyes, he would still seem to slip just out of reach and misbehave.

She also often asked him, “Can’t you just be a good boy and behave like the other children?” But he never had an answer. Nobody knew yet that he didn’t understand the question.

Sort of Just Talking to Myself

When I look back over 2008 someday, I have a feeling I’m going to remember July as the best month of the year. All my star readings said that the month would be filled with significant changes and synchronicities and all things outrageous, and were they right. So what if that astrological woman on CNN got blindsided by the earthquake. I believe. I believe!! 

People agreed with me in public and I had a few meals with friends and I found out some new things about said friends and a self-appointed and inept Chair I know stepped down and I think I have a year-long plan and goal and I got a good haircut and an even better (looking) handyman and I read and I wrote and I said a prayer for the IRS and the Internets and email and I laughed and I was surprised and I helped Sabrina find her froggie (three times) and I remembered an old friend fondly and realized I miss her and I posted to a new blog and I talked with “my” coach and I got to watch while my son spent his own money and I felt thought of and loved and appreciated and lucky. 

Well, except for a run-in with some stinky shoes I bought at JCPenney for $5.34 after a $15 coupon. What’s the world coming to when you can’t buy a pair of non-smelly shoes for $19.99? What’s next? $4 gas, $9 printer paper (yes! at CVS just this morning!)?

Have you ever smelled your hands after putting down a new rug? Sometimes, there’s a chemical smell that requires a shower to get rid of. Same with these shoes. Real problem is that today is my third time wearing them. I figure if you’re close enough to me to smell my shoes, then you’re too close, period, and you deserve what you get. There’s IM and email after all, there’s no need for all that face-to-face stuff. 

What I mean to say is that I can even live with my stinky shoes. (If I’m honest, though, the ride home in my non-air-conditioned (broke a couple weeks back and every time I think about paying the $500 to fix it, I get the feeling that the whole car is going to die the next day and I decide to live with it) car gets a little funky if I don’t take them off and put them in the back seat where they can get enough air flow to flow out the back window.) 

And right when I thought the month couldn’t get any better, yesterday I found a contest announcement by the Hillary Clinton campaign.  It takes a lot to make this ol’ gal giddy, but this did it. 

“Ordinary” people can donate from $10 to $2,300 for a chance to win a dinner with her. Proceeds of the raffle, of course, go towards paying her $25 million debt. I’m confused by the amount – it was $25 million a few months ago – how could it still be $25 million? Is it that whole vicious cycle of making minimum payments on a credit card? 

The rules and restrictions say “Contest limited to legal residents of the U.S. who are at least 18 years of age and who support Hillary Clinton.” Her team felt it needed to put in a disclaimer that you can’t be a hater? I guess it really does take a village.

A Clinton begging for money always makes me happy, but this. This was truly a gift from the Universe, tied up in a bow especially for me. 

Ah -- at the risk of some Christian calling me a Christian -- God is good.

Scavengers

A funny (well, it’s really not so funny) link a dear friend sent me this week: http://aclu.org/pizza/images/screen.swf

I recently participated in an Untours scavenger hunt. The contest was pretty easy – just find things around their Website and submit via email for a chance at the prize of $200 off a future trip.

I, along with some others, won the prize. I’m grateful and all, but unfortunately, that $200 doesn’t put a dent in the inflated prices they charge single travelers (this practice is rampant and hasn’t caught up with the demographic shift of the entire world yet – why should it, after all, when it can make a fortune off of us).

They suggest we singles hook up in the Café and travel together, allowing us to take advantage of the “normal” prices.

Good lord. <shivering> I’d sooner travel with a spider monkey than a complete stranger.

So, hold on, the World's Greatest Railway. Save me a spot in decade number two. I’ll be there.

Age and Inventory

Every year on my birthday, I read my annual “Today’s Birthday” horoscope message. It predicts how the next year will be. I don’t know that it’s ever been that accurate, but I still do it every year. This year, I found some site that told me about who I am because of my July 17th birth date. Apparently, I should embrace individuality, social skills, and a happy disposition and avoid procrastination, judging others, and self-righteousness. I think I’m okay on the embracing part, but the things to avoid? Now I find this? A cruel, cruel joke. I think I’ll just put off thinking about all that. Oh, must go anyway, there’s someone to judge.

My last experience with a writing class was a bust. I hated the authors that the professor held up as the bar and in the second class, the prof told us that success in writing was “all bullshit”. He meant that writing is one thing, but being successful entirely another dependent upon someone else’s workload and mood. I get that. I didn’t need some guy who also used the F-word like I used to eat M&Ms to tell me that. I went back, but just once. (Don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of the properly placed F-word, but its ability to make a person appear different or bohemian has long passed.)

But I still love the feeling I get when I read about writing classes. Ami McKay, who wrote The Birth House, a good book full of detail I recently read, passed along something called The Ellie Poem. Supposedly, writing teachers use it as an exercise in class a lot. It is an inventory of self. I thought it was a neat thing and did one for myself. I am posting it here because it’s my birthday. So there. Me, me, me. Hopefully, I’ll get to do another one in 2028 and see if my inventory has moved.

How does it feel to be my age? This week, I've found myself humming the tune in the Activia commercials. And I seem to be the only one who actually drives the worker-zone speed limit. In the far right lane. Like the old woman I am. 

Missing Atlanta. Not.

Why is it that I can always spot Atlanta folks on House Hunters? They don't even have to speak and I know. I'm never wrong either. It's a gift, I guess. Or better yet, confirmation that I did the right thing.

Last night, the Atlanta couple walked through the door of a Fayetteville (seriously?) home.

The wife, walking into the foyer, said, “Oh, this is nice and light.”

Then the husband said, “Yes, I like it. It’s very eloquent.”

Ah, Atlanta. I miss you so.

Lines form on my face and hands*

18. Eight. Teen. The birthday sheet cake from Kroger paled in comparison to the homemade German chocolate cake made by Katie’s father. And you can’t unwrap a forgiven debt.

Of course he had to go as soon as I got home. He took the sheet cake and went to a friend’s house for a birthday spend-the-night bonfire and weenie roast. The cake came back home the next day with only ‘Happ’ visible.

We did have a lovely dinner at St. Elmo’s Steakhouse, though. It was the most we’ve talked in the past month.

He went to IU orientation and registered for classes. I didn’t want to go play the advertised parent-camp games, and he said it didn’t matter if I went, so I didn’t. But when he ran into some people we know who asked where I was, he told them that I told him he needed to go by himself. As if.

The biggest stress of financial paperwork: “I certify that I am registered with the Selective Service.” Penalty is prosecution and up to a $250,000 fine. I never thought I’d have to worry about this, but, I do, certainly now with this country’s collective karma upon us.

On to July, when I too will age another year, but, of course, oh, so gracefully.

*Alice Cooper lyric. Son's first concert. Whaddaya gonna do?

Offer to Pay Your Wasatch Academy 'Out and Beyond' Colorado Trip Cancellation Fee

Holy Crap, he’s at it again.

Wasatch Academy leaders know that their employee’s actions killed two kids while employed at Darlington School in Rome, Georgia, yet they have allowed Steve Hall to start a program at their school called "Out and Beyond" and schedule a trip involving water for August 9th. ***UPDATE: The link was removed from the school Website on July 23, 2008, but a PDF of the trip announcement is here and a PDF of their front page with the audacious link is here. I'd like to believe the trip has been cancelled, but that would indicate signs of a conscience I'm not sure exists.*** Even Darlington, albeit after much pressure, made Hall cease and desist. It couldn’t be clearer deja-vu.

Hall’s an egomaniac – I understand how he dares to repeat himself – after all, he never took the slightest of breaks in planning or conducting trips for kids since 2005 (can you imagine?), was at a Darlington soccer game laughing it up four days after the boys’ bodies were found (can you imagine?), and has the thoughtfulness to announce his first official "Out and Beyond" outing the same month that Clay and Sean would have graduated high school. There are devils amongst us, I know. But the school.

What's their reasoning? I have to hope that they have numerous other, and more rational, leaders on this trip, and Hall won't be in charge of anything. He's listed as the main contact, but maybe he's just the organizer - the paperwork pusher - and not going on the trip at all. Unfortunately, the over-the-top trip description screams Hall.

Like it says: Call 435/462-1420 or e-mail steve.hall@wacad.org to ask questions. I’d be willing to bet that, if asked, he would have trouble remembering February 2005 or Clay and Sean at all. I'd suggest that you contact Joe Loftin, the Headmaster, at josephlo@wacad.org or a Board Member. I did, but it now looks like I got nowhere. I'm just one stranger in Indiana, after all, but I would imagine a parent's questions might be better received.

We learned too late from the Darlington experience that the only answers are communication among the parents and their questions and demands of school leaders. Unfortunately, this is the rub. Parents sending their children to private schools are understandably more likely to assume the school their child attends would only employ the cream of the crop.

So, I pray. And hope that a few diligent Wasatch parents research the trip leaders and make their own educated decisions.

And for these diligent ones who find this post, I also offer this: If you have already signed up for this trip and decide not to send your child, email me and I’ll pay your cancellation and non-refundable fees. Send me your proof of cancellation and notification to the school of the reason for your cancellation, and I’ll send you the money you paid.

Apparently, the balance is due today and you can be refunded up to 21 days prior to August 9th.

Until then, I pray that all 10 kids’ parents contact me. After August 9th, I can only watch and pray from a distance, which is what I will do, as long as Steve Hall is allowed to be in the wilderness with other people's children.

I Do Feel Guilty For Feeling This Way

I know I’m depressed when I start googling people who aren’t in my life anymore. Nobody in my past life spent as much time at a computer as I still do, so I rarely find much of anything. It’s not a hopeful exercise. Or not hopeful in a positive way anyway. I’ve also run across too many men on their best behavior, which has always unnerved me. My weekly predictions all agreed that I would hear from someone I haven’t heard from in a long time, but that didn’t happen. So I know I shouldn’t believe them when they say that I just entered my birthday month and crazy-good things are going to fall from the sky.

“You may be feeling the empty nest thing, but I’m not.”

I did make an attempt to enjoy a weekend errand by deciding to make my trip to the store early Sunday morning. I actually almost looked forward to it, thinking it would be peaceful and, it being so early, the workers would be friendlier. I wasn’t there five minutes when I heard her talking in her outside voice on her cell phone. Apparently, they were agreeing that a mutual friend was crazy and that neither wanted to attend said friend’s daughter’s birthday party at the end of the month (an obvious emergency conversation that must be had at 7am on a Sunday morning.) I was in produce. She had to have been in the cereal aisle at the very least, but I heard every word. So, of course, I spent the next thirty minutes trying to anticipate where she was going so I could be as far away as possible. That didn’t happen. And I was reminded once again that I will never fit well in this world, because, at my age, I should be able to not let things like this bother me. But, as usual, it stole my entire day and another minute or two to type this.

“You’re going to have to work on that.”

So, I’m in a depressing spot. I want friends and a more active post-single-mother life, but I’m not so good with people, especially those you find in public. Besides, I’m sure I don’t have the most inviting face while I’m expecting the worst.

But what worries me most is that the things I’ve wanted for at least ten years don’t excite me anymore. I don’t know yet what to do about that. I guess the use of the word “yet” is hopeful.

I’ll get there, I suppose. Wherever that may be. I do have faith. And I do have gratitude. I’m very grateful for all our blessings. But too much gratitude and depression don’t mix – they make you feel even less deserving and that the moment is as good as it should be - so I know what I already knew - that the answer is faith.

Eegads, I sound like a country song. How depressing.

This has never happened to me before

The temperature gauge on my car had been heading dangerously close to the red zone for a couple of weeks. I had some upcoming travel for work scheduled, so I bucked up and called the dealer for estimates. She immediately quoted $125 for a diagnostic fee, $150 for a radiator flush service, and, guessing it could be a thermostat issue, another $260 for that work.

I decided to go to Jiffy Lube Joe the next morning to have him do the flush service at the cheaper Jiffy Lube rate (plus, I had a coupon!). At least I'd spend less money if that was all it needed.

Joe popped the hood and investigated. He didn’t think that a radiator flush service would solve my problem but had liability issues offering up an opinion (since they don’t actually do full-fledged auto repair work).

But he put some antifreeze in the radiator anyway (it was empty – who knew!) and declared, “This is the worst water pump leak I think I’ve ever seen.”

He charged me $10 for the antifreeze and sent me to Car-X after calling his friend, who is the manager, for availability and pricing.

Mike, the Car-X Manager, took my keys and asked if I could leave it with him. I said I could go spend some time in the McDonald’s down the road but that I’d have to wait because it was my only transportation. “That’s okay. I’ll push you ahead of someone. It shouldn’t be more than 90 minutes.” An hour later, it was ready, and the bill was only $176 – a full $50 less than I was originally told.

When I say this has never happened to me, in all my driving years, I mean that my experiences have always been the complete opposite. I think there may be positive interference in my magnetic field. I can’t wait for something else to go wrong with the car to test it out. Well, not exactly. :o

And I like to think of this as my paying it forward, although I really can’t claim that, because it was so unintentional. The Car-X mechanic who actually replaced the water pump got in my car to pull it into its stall and, as I walked by headed towards my Egg McMuffin, asked if my car window was broken. I said, ‘Nahh, it’s just moody.” He must have laughed for five minutes. His laughing made me start laughing and we couldn’t stop. I know, right? Not really funny at all.

But I think I made his day, and all three of these nice men made for the nicest broken car day I’ve ever had. I don’t even care that I didn’t get to use a coupon.