Yes, this is me in a Dodge Challenger. And, yes, it is a completely ridiculous (rental) car.

The week before last, I visited the City of Brotherly Love for work. I think I must have been a travel agent in a former life, because with careful online manipulation, I managed to shave $189 off my co-worker’s and my hotel stay. Sooooo… I didn’t feel too bad when we were offered an upgrade to a premium car by National Car Rental for $30.

We chose a silver Dodge Challenger and, suddenly, I became a Singleton again. Gone was the booster seat, the American Girl doll accessories, the Happy Meal wrappers, school flyers and the discarded cups of much-needed coffee.

I had power, and I liked it. …CONTINUE READING »

Our son was born almost 10 months ago, but we are only now about to become parents.

That’s because we are giving in to the inevitable parental right of passage. We are getting a minivan.

Okay, so I just lied for dramatic effect. We probably aren’t getting a minivan, but we are planning to get an SUV. An SUV was my compromise with my husband who just cannot stand the idea of owning a “mommy mobile” even though I would be the one driving it.

Either way we absolutely must have a larger car.

You would think that one 20-pound individual such as Baby D would not take up an inordinate amount of room. You would be wrong.

Along with our 20-pound bundle of joy comes a gigantic car seat, a diaper bag filled with supplies fit for survival in an underground bunker for a month and a stroller that takes up the whole trunk. And that’s just for a trip to the store. Let’s not even discuss how crammed the car is on a road trip.

Add two bouncy, slobbery canines to the mix and a hoped-for future sibling for Baby D and our sedan just won’t pass muster anymore. It won’t pass anything actually; it will be so weighed down with people, animals and stuff.

So we are researching SUVs and then we’ll look for a dealer with good reviews.

Although shopping for a new car is a hassle, I am excited to become an “official” parent with my very own mommy mobile. Next up in our evolution towards genuine parenthood? Those little stick figure decals for the rear window.

In the hunt for a car, never be the prey.

But with my recent accident, I may as well have been a gimpy gazelle on the Serengeti. I pictured car salesmen lurking in the tall grass, licking their chops as I hobbled through the parking lot in search of a new ride.

Through six previous car purchases, I made sure the dealer needed me more than I needed the car — be it slipping into a showroom on an icy February afternoon or shopping when the company faced bad PR. I knew if the seller needed me more than I needed the product, I’d be in the driver’s seat.

Because I’m ready to walk out, I don’t mind dealing with a car salesman. With a figure in mind, I know what I can afford. And, as more commuter than car enthusiast, I know what I want: excellent mileage, crash safety and a crisp stereo system that can pump vintage Boston or a ballgame without rattling the windows or knocking loose a filling.

Armed with my internet research, I entered a dealership last weekend with the intent ONLY of checking his pricing. I already zeroed in on my model, amenities, total price and monthly payment range. Hang on to your purse, Dear, this shouldn’t take long.

Well, the salesman whipped out some numbers. Threw out a few facts. Before I knew it, I was Ralphie sitting on Santa Claus’ lap thinking a football would be the perfect Christmas present. I was being spun around and set on that big red slide. I watched my hand extend as we shook on the deal.

Not until I got home later that evening did I realize I never even haggled on the price. I had accepted the first offer. I was the new owner of a blue 2010 Prius II.

At least, I’m pretty sure it won’t shoot my eye out.

We’re embarking on our second road trip with our little man. Our family is planning a six-hour drive to Florida to visit the grandparents.

We’ve found the following tips helpful:

- Hire someone to care for your pets so you can leave them at home and reduce the vacation chaos. We found Janet on Kudzu and absolutely love her. When we are gone, she walks our girls, feeds and waters them and even snuggles with them a bit for good measure.

- Make sure you have had a recent oil change and your tires are in good shape. It has been 4,500 miles and over four months since my last oil change so I need to get to it. Dad, I hope you aren’t reading this!

- Bring a cooler of drinks and healthy snacks. That way you won’t be tempted to stop for a burger at the local Pit of Boiling Grease and Despair at exit 72 in the middle of nowhere. ::Shudder::

- Speaking of the Pit, I’ll go ahead and contradict myself here. Use the bathroom at fast food places instead of gas stations – they are always cleaner and more likely to have a changing table.

Sometimes we walk right in, use the bathroom and walk right out without buying anything. Shhh.

- Finally, drive at night so that your little one sleeps most of the way. It’s tough on us parents to get into town after midnight and hear that wakeup call from baby at 7AM, but it’s worth it to have a smooth, fuss-free ride.

Plus, with a grandparent visit comes relaxation and maybe even nap time for mom and dad. Now that’s a road trip worth taking!

A short, short time ago, on an interstate not so far away, I watched my crunched Saturn being towed away.

The now-disfigured car that had just helped save my life in a rear-end collision departed without a trunk. Or rear window. Or front headlight. Shattered glass and belongings littered the space above and below the dashboard.

In the moments after the accident, I salvaged only my cellphone. Still groggy, it didn’t dawn on me to retrieve anything else until after my car had been removed from the scene.

Like my house keys. Or my garage door remote.

Not knowing anything about the company that just took my Saturn, I turned to kudzu.com to find the towing service. The reviews were mixed. While skeptical that two bad reviews outweighed seven good ones, I still had doubts since the merchant had not replied to either negative review to explain their side of the story.

I’d soon find out.

Entering the salvage yard with some trepidation, I formulated arguments in case the bad reviews proved true: that I couldn’t get into my house without some things; that my brand new baseball equipment was in the trunk.

Upon reaching their office, I realized all my worries were wasted. The attendants proved as polite as funeral directors. And the poster on the back wall stated their retrieval policy: First, pay for the tow, then back in the car you may go.

Escorted to my half-destroyed car, I sorted through the debris, extracting personal items. Glove box contents. CDs. The P-51 Mustang diecast that served as wingman on the dash. Copies of my novel.

I glanced into the remaining inches once called a trunk and snagged my emergency kit and a pair of tennis shoes. I noticed the exposed heel of my once-worn baseball spikes, each black Air Nike wedged underneath the point of impact. I tried tugging one free. No dice. I wriggled it. Barely moved.

I searched for my inner King Arthur to yank this sword from the stone.

Defeated, I retreated to the office in search of a crowbar. The attendant grabbed one. He first tugged at the heel as if to prove he also didn’t come from legendary royalty. Then, he jimmied the crowbar into the tight space and pulled. It barely bent the metal.

Defeated, he retreated in search of the forklift. After fastening a thick hook to the frame, he backed up. The heavy chain snapped taut. The entire Saturn jerked. The metal groaned but refused to give up its bounty.

Reattach the hook.

Yank.

Reattach.

Yank.

For 20 minutes, he struggled to save my spikes. Finally, the point of impact breached.

But it was too late. The right shoe suffered a career-ending slash through the arch. However, the gap revealed a bigger prize. Both my baseball mitts survived. Entrapped under the impact zone, they emerged intact.

As I gathered the boxes with my possessions, I paused and gave my beloved Saturn one final look. I patted her roof.

“Thanks for giving me another day,” I mouthed in silence.

The attendant asked me to wait a second.

“Do you want it as a keepsake?” he asked.

I nodded.

He unscrewed two bolts and offered her mangled license plate.

I have to say upfront that I hate anything having to do with the automotive. It’s not that I’m a delicate southern flower that can’t be bothered with the intricacies of the mechanical. The simple fact is that it bores me to tears. And boredom is a state of mind that I cannot handle. I can barely even go into an auto parts store without hyperventilating.

I think it started with my first boyfriend who was a gear head and the countless times I had to sit there as he worked on his car. He also talked about cars a lot of times to the point where I wanted to stab myself with a Samurai sword.

My husband is mechanically minded but not to the point of distraction. For this I’m glad because we have saved a lot of money with his being able to fix our cars. When he happens to start on a discussion of carburetors and engine blocks and drive trains, I just look at him and start to meticulously describe my last manicure. It doesn’t take long for him to get the point.

But now my son is showing all the signs of an infatuation with all automotive. I know that he can’t help it if you pay need to all that right brain/left brain stuff (which I do). But it’s like he’s inexplicably chosen to support a team that is the arch-nemesis of my own.

Sometimes it really is nature over nurture. Otherwise, how could I explain his year-long preoccupation with professional wrestling a while back? Now that was a parental “Where did I go wrong?” moment if ever there was one. I was as secretly ashamed of that hobby, if you want to call it that, as I would have been if he was serving time for arson.

I mean, where had he been all those years when I was trying to raise him right? All that exposure to good music and arts and the first chance he gets he crosses over to the dark side?

Of course, I never berated him for these interests. Didn’t want to traumatize his self-esteem. In fact, I once took him to a monster truck show because he was dying to go.

You want to talk about trauma! The guy in front of me had his two small boys with him. When one complained that the noise was hurting his ears, the guy–I swear to you this is true–put his cigarette out, tore the filter in half and stuck one half in each of the kid’s ears. I’m not a snobby person but I felt like Coco Chanel at a dogfight.

So pray for me and this stranger who lives in my house. I think we’re gonna need it.

Atlanta is turning quite apocalyptic. Last year it was the gas shortage, turning the city into a bad Mad Max movie. Now it’s the flooding, haunting us with memories of Katrina, washing out roads and bridges and turning 20 minute commutes into day long excursions to find an open road.

These experiences have changed the way I view my world, the infrastructure of my life.  I take much less for granted and try to be more prepared.  Since we in America, and particularly here in Atlanta, spend so much time in our cars (and I always seem to be in my car when something goes wrong) here are a few things I’ve learned about being prepared for an emergency.

Keep the gas tank full.  Nothing is worse than sitting in a traffic jam caused by flooding or some other catastrophe worrying if you can get to the next exit and get gas – if there is any gas!

Maintain your tires.  Keep them inflated properly and check wear and alignment on a regular basis.  You do not want a flat at a time like this.  Or ever!

Keep water in your car. It’s easy to toss a gallon jug in the truck. Just be sure to update it regularly. Ugh, no-one wants to drink funky water.  And that water jug comes in handy for more than emergencies – such as after a long hike or soccer game.  Trust me, I know. …CONTINUE READING »

“Red punch buggy, no punch backs;  grey punch buggy, no punch backs; red pinch mini, no pinch backs; yellow punch buggy, no punch backs.  Bye Mom, love you.”

That was the voice message on my phone last month – my daughter calling me from her grandmother’s house where she was spending the summer. Turns out, she had ‘saved up’ a week’s worth of punch buggies just for me. She left another message for my husband as she had saved a different set of punch buggies for him.

Punch buggy started innocently enough. Driving to my mother-in-law’s house in the mountains, we always hit the same piece of rather uninteresting freeway stretching though the suburbs.  On one particular trip, my husband began a game of ‘Punch Buggy’ to liven things up. I had never heard of this thing called Punch Buggy – he explained it was a game he had played as a child on trips with his family.  I have since found out the vast majority of the North American population knows this game. (I don’t know what rock I was living under.)

…CONTINUE READING »