THE MATURE CAR BUYER, OR HOW DO I WORK THIS THING?

We bought a new car yesterday. My old van was eight years old, or 85 in car years. Little things were beginning to go awry, and it was only a matter of time before it needed a new transmission, or major organ transplant in auto speak. My dearly beloved asked if I was ready to leave my van days in the rearview mirror, and downsize to something smaller. Unless I was willing to strap a boy or two to the roof like a deer, that wouldn’t work with the current car pool situation. Another van was in my immediate future. I figure this will be the last van I own, as when the next eight years pass, we will be empty nesters. Although on second thought, the van is perfect for transporting coolers to Giant tailgate parties, moving kids to and from college, and fitting three couples comfortably for a night out on the town. Our options will be up for review when that time rolls around.

So I have a new car, and I don’t know how to work it. There are more bells and whistles then a bird call competition at a doorbell factory. No, we didn’t want all the fancy shamancy features, they came standard! They had to give my husband and me an hour tutorial on how to operate the vehicle. That is longer than I studied for my driving test way back when.

My first car was a used 1968 VW Bug. Standard 4 on the floor. No power brakes. No power steering. You went to a mechanic and had the heat turned on in the winter, and turned off in the summer. Your “air conditioning” consisted of cranking open the window. The defroster was the manual kind; you wiped the condensation off the windshield with your hand. The entertainment system was a staticky am radio, a wire hangar antennae and an FM converter that your boyfriend hooked up. If you were really living high on the hog, you also had an eight track installed! The price tag for this beautiful machine cost the same as one month’s worth of gas for my current van. My bug was dependable and sported ease of operation. Repairs were dirt cheap, and it would probably still be tooling along, if it wasn’t wiped out by another car ramming into its back end, as it sat there legally parked!

My “new” car cost more than my parents paid for their home. The home by the way, where they raised 6 children, various goldfish and hamsters.

I went driving in the new van today, and I felt like Captain Kirk, on the bridge. Everything is voice activated. Although I must admit to a snafu or 3 when setting voice commands for hands free dialing. When you are asked to say the person’s name, it should not be preceded by, “Is this on?” “Call Dad.” Now to call my husband I must say, after depressing button 3 on the steering wheel “Is this on, call Dad” in order to be connected. Eventually I will figure out how to delete and reenter, but that task is for another day. (Probably the day before I turn the car in, eight years from now)

The van is also equipped with cameras that activate when you make a right hand turn, or back up. The picture quality is super clear, so fine in fact, I would like to have my kids stand beside the car when I am making a right hand turn, and make it into my Christmas card. I can never seem to achieve that quality and clarity with the camera I spent a fortune on. There is probably a way to do that, but I think it requires a master’s degree in automotive proficiency, and I can barely get through remedial auto.

There is also “keyless” entry. If I have the remote fob in my pocket, the car senses it, and automatically unlocks. Once inside, I push a button, and the car starts. I am sure my insides are being fried as “remote” rays are shooting back and forth between my pocket, and the starship enterprise. Sadly I didn’t know how to open the doors (which lock automatically, once you hit 10 miles an hour) and was therefore forced to refer to the manual (weighing in at five pounds) in order to exit my luxury prison. Forget opening the side doors, or the back hatch! Those kids can just clamber over the front seat and get out my door, till I have the time to review volume 5 of the manual, subtitled escape from van-catraz.

Now let’s be totally honest, if you switch lanes, on a road, and there is not another car for miles, do you use your turn indicator lights? My new ride thinks that is a no brainer. Of course you do! If you don’t, a strident dinging begins, as lights on the dash begin to flicker rapidly. “Captain, you must institute a course correction at once!” It is like driving with the instructor from Driver’s Ed. Plus it scares me when things light up on my dash. In my experience it never boded well, and was always expensive.

As if this wasn’t enough, this van sports an electric outlet! That’s right; you can bring your toaster, plug her in and make some toast on your commute. What about the butter, you may ask? There is also a cooler built in! Something tells me that this was the feature that reeled my husband in, as he needs drinks (oh stop! Soda or water!) if the trip is more than twenty minutes in duration. Call me crazy, but a little igloo cooler, and some blue packs, always did the trick for me!

The feature I am digging the most; the sirus fm radio! For the last eight years I had the world’s worst radio. For the last eight years I would always forget to bring CDs for the ride, and was forced to change stations every ten miles, as signals faded in and out. Why not use this time to have scintillating conversation with your offspring, you may ask. I have teenagers…question asked and answered, thank you very much. Now I have music! I did learn that programming fairly rapidly, as I preset 60’s, 70’s, 80’s, and a multitude of serious vinyl music! My husband sounded like Horshack from Welcome back, when he saw a station devoted to “The Grateful Dead.” Oooh, Oooh, Oooh, look, the Dead.” We are happy campers! Our children, not so much. You see, we know all the words to these songs, and we sing along at the top of our lungs! (We have been advised by the local music critics to hold on to our day jobs) Life is good!

Tonight I plan to review the instructions for temperature control. Not a top priority, in light of my humble VW beginnings, where temperature control was just something we read about. I figure if I get stuck, and can’t figure out, how to escape, I can always kick back, have a little toast, some cool beverages, great tunes, and “is this on, call dad” to come to my rescue!

Signs you are getting old on LBI

I have compiled a list of signs that you might be getting old on LBI

1.       You and your spouse feel croc footwear is comfortable, and stylish.

2.       For the gentlemen in the group. You need to apply sunscreen to your head.

3.       You no longer hang out at the Hudson House.

4.       An unwillingness to wait an additional 45 minutes to sit with the pig for breakfast at Uncle Will’s Pancake House.

5.       Thundering Surf is not on this summer’s agenda.

6.       Ditto Fantasy Island, regardless of Pay One Price Fridays.

7.       A beach umbrella is as important as a beach chair. Maybe even more so.

8.       You know what tomato aspic is, and order it at the Holiday Snack Bar.

9.       The only house you crash in at night is your own.

10.   You don’t consider temperatures northward of 95, and the winds blowing out of the west, a good beach day.

11.   Your days of walking barefoot over the rocks in front of your home are over. (See crocs in reason #1.)

12.   On Wednesday nights, you never go to the Chegg. In your estimation the discount does not offset the wait.

13.   You know which restaurants offer the 10% early bird discount, and you make sure to be there on time. (Additionally the owners know you by name.)

14.   All sunscreens have a SPF of 50 and above. (Or any SPF that matches your age.)

15.   When you come in at night, you meet your children on their way out.

16.   You use solo cups for soft drinks.

17.   Whenever Kuebel’s has “Golden Oldie” trivia, on Sunday nights, you rock.

18.   Your medicine cabinet contains Tums, Maalox, Pepcid, and Benefiber.

19.   As a woman, you would never walk to the beach in just your bathing suit.  A cover-up is a required item of beach apparel.

20.   And the number ONE sign you are getting old……the Nardi Party Bus is dropping off your kids at night.

The Passing of A Lady

It is with great regret we inform you of the passing of our Lady Kenmore, five cycle washing machine to the great agitator in the sky. Ms. Kenmore lived a long and sandy life (fifteen to be exact), and worked diligently her entire warranty.  She arrived on Long Beach Island in the summer of 1998, and resided there her entire cycle. She is survived by her set mate, Mr. Kenmore, better known by his nickname, “The Shrinker,” as every garment that visits him, comes out a size or two smaller. Ms. Kenmore was a tireless worker, even spinning out the water of the final load, before she conked out. This last kind gesture saved the mom of the house from having to bail out a full tub of rinse water. She was just that thoughtful of a gal.

Private arrangements were carried out (and we do mean carried out) by Sears.com. 

It is interesting to note, that as the delivery men were hauling her away a number of things came to light.  Hiding behind her now silent metal hulk, stood a three foot pile of compressed clothes. We are planning on contacting the “Innocence Project,” as now we realize that the cleaning ladies have been seriously maligned.  They did NOT have anything to do with the mysterious clothes disappearances of favorite summer togs. After a more in depth investigation, it has been discovered that shooting your dirty clothes into the washer like they were basketballs is fine, as long as you don’t miss the shot. Obviously some of our team members were overshooting the basket with some frequency.

Looking at the stack of clothes, reminds one of that scene from “Close Encounters of the Third Kind.” You know the one where all the people that have gone missing the past fifty years, slowly make their way off the space craft?  The clothes told a history like layers of stone reveal ancient artifacts. The bottom layer had size 2T bathing suits adorned with Telly Tubbies, along with a smattering of orphan socks. The mid layers held Lifeguard shorts, rash guards, Volcom skateboard t-shirts, and another helping of single socks. The top of the heap or most recent layer chronicles the move from underoos to boxer briefs. Oh, and some more socks. Our family history on LBI, as told through dirty clothes.

The Dad of the home was wondering if anyone (the Mom) ever cleans behind the home’s major appliances.  He was informed that whenever he wanted to pull out said major appliances, disconnect and then reconnect them, a cleaning would take place.  He carefully disengaged from any further tete a tete on this particular subject

We brought home a brand new Lady Kenmore this past weekend. She snuggled right next to Mr. Kenmore, (who, between me and you, is on borrowed time) and picked up, right where her predecessor left off. We are wishing her a long and productive life.

Lady Kenmore is dead! Long live Lady Kenmore!

DOWNSIZED

DOWNSIZED  

 

I am coming to the conclusion that my job is being phased out.  Yes I know the economy has not been great the last few years, but I was under the mistaken impression that my job was recession proof. What job is this, you may wonder?  Being a mom. 

This year I only have the last two of my offspring with me, or should I say they have me with them.  In years gone by, they needed me to accompany them to the beach, get them to swimming, sailing, or an occasional movie.  I made sure they wore their rash guards, were slathered up with sun screen and lip block. Après beach, I hosed their little feet of sand, and marched them to the outdoor shower.  I lovingly prepared their favorite summer time meals. Okay, so they love Chef Boyardee and scrambled eggs! (The meals that certainly wouldn’t fly when Dad is in attendance)  Sometimes as a special treat, I would take them for ice cream, the arcade, or a scintillating round of mini golf. I always had an available ear to listen to their take on the day, even if the retelling of the tale took much longer than the actual event.

Not this year.

Their motto is “Have bike, will travel.” I have been relieved of all chauffeuring duties. Additionally they both have jobs, so the bank of Mom is not seeing the action experienced in previous years. They get themselves to the ice cream shop, after a round of golf, and I am cordially not invited.

They apply their own sunscreen, and lip balm.  Pack their own towels, and hose down their own feet after a long day on the beach. Dinner is hit or miss, as they will prepare themselves a bowl of cereal or a PB&J sandwich, before bolting out the door for the evening’s revelry.

I still have an available ear, but sadly have lost all security clearance, and put on the “A need to Know Basis” only. Apparently I need to know nothing.  If they ever do get a hold of that Snowden character, I would like a chance at the debriefing process, for I am sure he knows more about my offspring then I do.

I have been demoted to a more janitorial/procurement function. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but going from being CEO, to my current status has been humbling.  I am still in charge of picking up the trail of half cans of pop, empty water bottles, and snack wrappers.  I am informed of inventory outages pertaining to soap, shampoo, and toaster strudels, and   I still reign supreme as the laundress, and dishwasher loader extraordinaire.

I guess on some unconscious level, I knew the job wouldn’t last forever. My job description was to raise independent, responsible young men.  It appears that in spite of me, the project is right on track. I guess that old adage is true, “Time flies, when you are having a good time.”

Come the fall, I will temporarily assume some of my former duties.  They will still need to be chauffeured for at least another year and a half, and someone has to sign all those permission slips for school!