Last time I ruined a guy's life, I insisted that the Woolly Mammoth take a fourth year of French in high school. That was five years ago. Apparently, I haven't lost my touch.
Now I'm ruining my dad's life by moving him into assisted living. It's not entirely my fault. I have to share his resentment with my sister. The difference is that he feels more betrayed by me, as I've long been his solid rock of support.
The Woolly Mammoth hasn't actually expressed gratitude for my French class insistence. He does admit that he gained many free credit hours toward his degree and an early "upperclassman" status his first year of college due to my torture.
I can hope that someday my dad may acknowledge certain benefits derived by my interference in his life. We both know he has fewer years left to come around to my way of thinking on this matter.
When I went back to work after the divorce I discouraged my early-teen sons from phoning my place of employment unless there was "blood on the rug". I needed them to handle their own petty disputes and develop their self-sufficiency so I could bring in some bacon.
"Blood on the rug" is a useful guideline. Unfortunately the past year has brought many situations where Dad had to use his Lifeline pager to get help after falls and injuries. His neighbors and relatives worried every time their phones rang that Dad had fallen again. We were all dreading the call from a stranger informing us that Dad had been unable to page Lifeline, that he was found unconscious in a pool of blood on the linoleum or rug.
Dad probably won't do a junior year abroad in Italy. He may never thank me for removing him from his home of fifty-plus years. I hope that he meets some other alert seniors, and has an improved quality of life in his new assisted-living apartment. I hope to anticipate his chatty calls instead of dreading "blood on the rug" notifications. Maybe we will get past the resentments and petty disputes. Maybe I can keep bringing home a little bacon while still being Dad's emotional support. Sure would hate to think this is my last chance to ruin a guy's life.
*http://www.mpmbooks.com/peabody/index.html
© 2009 Nancy L. Ruder
Showing posts with label Junior year abroad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Junior year abroad. Show all posts
8/20/08
The Oil Spot is Gone
Long Live the Oil Spot!
My youngest left for college today in his oil-dripping Infinity. I blessed his departure. I wasn't losing a son. I was regaining a parking space.
The Infinity has been parked and dripping in my condo guest space for over a year while the Woolly Mammoth was studying in Italy. Before that, the guest space was the home of an oil-dripping Dodge Intrepid when Danger Baby spent his year in Italy. My condo neighbors have been very patient with my automobile storage, for which I'm grateful.
The photo doesn't show the rainbow sheen on the pavement that gives the stain its angelic aura. The faithful haven't arrived to venerate it yet. I can't auction it on e-Bay. Maybe tomorrow I'll try using the Zep Driveway & Pavement Concentrated Cleaner.
Saw the trailer for the Luke Wilson movie about holy stucco. Maybe Hollywood will discover the oil spot! If I squint it looks kinda like the Exxon Valdez.
© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder
My youngest left for college today in his oil-dripping Infinity. I blessed his departure. I wasn't losing a son. I was regaining a parking space.
The Infinity has been parked and dripping in my condo guest space for over a year while the Woolly Mammoth was studying in Italy. Before that, the guest space was the home of an oil-dripping Dodge Intrepid when Danger Baby spent his year in Italy. My condo neighbors have been very patient with my automobile storage, for which I'm grateful.
The photo doesn't show the rainbow sheen on the pavement that gives the stain its angelic aura. The faithful haven't arrived to venerate it yet. I can't auction it on e-Bay. Maybe tomorrow I'll try using the Zep Driveway & Pavement Concentrated Cleaner.
Saw the trailer for the Luke Wilson movie about holy stucco. Maybe Hollywood will discover the oil spot! If I squint it looks kinda like the Exxon Valdez.
© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder
7/28/08
Sir David up the Tollway and in my corner
On the hottest day of the year, so far, the Woolly Mammoth took his old mom to see FC Dallas play the LA Galaxy. We had been looking forward to the game for a couple weeks. Sure it was a hundred degrees in the shade, but what's a little heat when you've got good soccer and David Beckham?
Odd, really, sitting in the stands with my youngest, but I enjoyed it completely. I loved being a soccer mom, watching him play for so many years. We watch bits of an occasional game on t.v. together now. Still, I think of him as a player, not a spectator. Of course, I expect his soccer socks to reach his shorts, and am sometimes stunned to find we've all grown up, even me. Heading up the Tollway he told me the wild tale of his trip to see Lazio v AC Milan in Rome last fall. Language and transportation confusions played more prominently in the tale than sport.
On the drive to Frisco's Pizza Hut Park we also reminisced about a hot shared experience in the presence of stars--Eric Clapton's Crossroads Guitar Festival at the Cotton Bowl in 2004. So what is the big deal with David Beckham? Is he a "guitar god"?
The deal with Beckham is he's part of our cultural awareness in the same way as Tiger Woods. I don't even watch much soccer on t.v. and couldn't pick out a Spice Girl in a police line-up, but Beckham's walk, posture, manner of wearing clothes, and movements are instantly recognizable to me from clear across the field. How did this recognition seep into my working memory? Not sure. At least with Tiger, I've done my time watching golf with my father. Although I can't verbalize it, I would know Tiger by the way he adjusts his shirt before a putt even if I was standing at the opposite end of an airport runway from him.
The sell-out crowd loved booing Sir David, but also cheering and photographing him. He is good for Major League Soccer. Beckham had the lead role for the LA team, but wasn't particularly effective, even though he got three tries on one corner kick. FC Dallas won 4-0. Kenny Cooper had two goals within one minute of play. The Dallas goalie, Dario Sala, had eight saves. You can look it up, as James Thurber would say.
© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder
Odd, really, sitting in the stands with my youngest, but I enjoyed it completely. I loved being a soccer mom, watching him play for so many years. We watch bits of an occasional game on t.v. together now. Still, I think of him as a player, not a spectator. Of course, I expect his soccer socks to reach his shorts, and am sometimes stunned to find we've all grown up, even me. Heading up the Tollway he told me the wild tale of his trip to see Lazio v AC Milan in Rome last fall. Language and transportation confusions played more prominently in the tale than sport.
On the drive to Frisco's Pizza Hut Park we also reminisced about a hot shared experience in the presence of stars--Eric Clapton's Crossroads Guitar Festival at the Cotton Bowl in 2004. So what is the big deal with David Beckham? Is he a "guitar god"?
The deal with Beckham is he's part of our cultural awareness in the same way as Tiger Woods. I don't even watch much soccer on t.v. and couldn't pick out a Spice Girl in a police line-up, but Beckham's walk, posture, manner of wearing clothes, and movements are instantly recognizable to me from clear across the field. How did this recognition seep into my working memory? Not sure. At least with Tiger, I've done my time watching golf with my father. Although I can't verbalize it, I would know Tiger by the way he adjusts his shirt before a putt even if I was standing at the opposite end of an airport runway from him.
The sell-out crowd loved booing Sir David, but also cheering and photographing him. He is good for Major League Soccer. Beckham had the lead role for the LA team, but wasn't particularly effective, even though he got three tries on one corner kick. FC Dallas won 4-0. Kenny Cooper had two goals within one minute of play. The Dallas goalie, Dario Sala, had eight saves. You can look it up, as James Thurber would say.
© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder
6/15/08
Sangria Seventies and smashed silos
Looking at my son's photos of Spain--Malaga, Valencia, Granada, Barcelona, Madrid--the Moorish art, the palm trees outside the fort, the Gaudi cathedral and the bullfight rings. Excuse me! Wasn't that a pitcher of sangria on the metal cafe table overlooking the beach??
Back in the Seventies in Nebraska drinking sangria and eating Doritos was considered multicultural awareness. It was a primitive time, I try to explain to the Woolly Mammoth. Diversity was deciding whether or not to put Everclear in the pitcher of jug red wine with the slices of orange and lemon from IGA and the carbonated soda.
What should one serve at a Seventies retro party?
© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder
Back in the Seventies in Nebraska drinking sangria and eating Doritos was considered multicultural awareness. It was a primitive time, I try to explain to the Woolly Mammoth. Diversity was deciding whether or not to put Everclear in the pitcher of jug red wine with the slices of orange and lemon from IGA and the carbonated soda.
What should one serve at a Seventies retro party?
- French Onion dip made from Lipton soup mix and served with Weavers wavy chips
- Knorr spinach dip made with canned water chestnuts and served in a bread bowl with Rye-Krisp and fresh broccoli florets
- Hot cheese dip melted in the harvest gold crockpot made with Velveeta and Rotel
- Fondue with beef cubes and peanut oil
- Crepes with creamed seafood and spinach
- Iceberg lettuce with alfalfa sprouts and Ranch dressing
- Tab without cyclamates
Does one really need a lighted dance floor for a Seventies retro party?
- Not if one has a disco mirror ball and/or a lot of citronella candles for an outdoor event.
- Be sure to dig out those Grand Funk Railroad and Bachman Turner Overdrive LPs. Three-part names are very Seventies.
- Fake ferns in macrame hangers are essential and cannot be switched out unless you are wearing leg-warmers.
- Not if one has a Foosball table.
- Persons with pseudo wood paneling in their basement rec rooms or chili red shag carpet are exempt from all sangria aesthetic regulations.
- Not if one can fit in a Quiana shirt and waffle-soled shoes.
The images flash by quickly. So many talking heads on the tube tell of floods. ..tornadoes, declared disaster areas... the caved-in silo between the corrugated metal outbuildings looks just like a Frank Gehry masterpiece from a junior's year abroad Spain visit.
Sangria was introduced to the U.S. at the 1964 World's Fair in New York. It is basically a very inexpensive and efficient way to get you drunk with red wine, fruit slices, and 7-Up. An extra spirit is usually added--brandy, rum, vodka or gin-- to send you off bullfighting with windmills, or designing architectural masterpieces. It's authentic Seventies, so dip that Dorito in the Velveeta!© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder
6/8/08
Lean and hungry pork chops
I've marinaded the potato slices in Caesar dressing, Newman's Own. They are on the tiny Weber cooking slowly with the sweet corn and pork chops. I call these potatoes, "Et tu, Brutaters." [Act III, scene i]
My youngest, just home from nine months in Italy, has a lean and hungry look. I doubt that Caesar would consider him dangerous, and I'm not sure his skinniness has anything to do with thinking too much. [Act I, scene ii] It's just his age. If I had eaten as much pasta as my son, you could use me as a doorstop at the Baptistry in Florence.
Woe, for I have gotten myself into a Shakespearean cauldron of confusion. Looking ahead in my book of quotations I find that Marc Antony speaks the phrase, "Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war." [Act 3, scene 1 of Julius Caesar]. Why can I hear Kenneth Branaugh shouting that phrase in my mind? What charge did he yell in Henry V?
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more...? [Act 3, scene 1]
© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder
My youngest, just home from nine months in Italy, has a lean and hungry look. I doubt that Caesar would consider him dangerous, and I'm not sure his skinniness has anything to do with thinking too much. [Act I, scene ii] It's just his age. If I had eaten as much pasta as my son, you could use me as a doorstop at the Baptistry in Florence.
Woe, for I have gotten myself into a Shakespearean cauldron of confusion. Looking ahead in my book of quotations I find that Marc Antony speaks the phrase, "Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war." [Act 3, scene 1 of Julius Caesar]. Why can I hear Kenneth Branaugh shouting that phrase in my mind? What charge did he yell in Henry V?
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more...? [Act 3, scene 1]
© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder
5/26/08
Memorial Day picnic brunch
This Memorial Day weekend I am finally writing last winter’s Christmas letter. Perhaps arriving at the beginning of summer it will be seem less bloating than roast turkey with stuffing and sauerkraut--still newsy, but more like fresh fruit ambrosia or a melon boat.
Ah, yes, the nectar of the gods!
Ambrosia, favored food or drink of the Olympians, from the Latin ambrosia, from the Greek ambrosios, literally “of the immortals,” from a- “not” + mbrotos, related to mortos “mortal”.
In the early Sixties a neighbor over on “L” Street had a holiday brunch open house in her backyard. My memory is a Technicolor scene of green grass, swing set, card tables, and kids in bright sunsuits and sundresses. The centerpiece was a splendid watermelon boat cut with dramatic zigzag edges, filled with fresh watermelon wedges, cantaloupe balls, green grapes, and canned pineapple “tidbits” and mandarin orange sections.
Sometimes Aphrodite demands cut strawberries, and Hermes hollers for honeydew in Olympus. In Nebraska in the Sixties nobody knew about kiwi, although it does add nice color in the melon boat.
I have no idea what else was on the menu at that backyard brunch--maybe muffins, donut holes, and Little Smokies. The family’s obese long-eared dog waddled around the lawn looking for dropped goodies under the card tables. It was quite the most elegant event I had ever attended!
This holiday weekend my condo is the cut and hollowed watermelon boat for the ambrosia. The boat is very full of immortals from the Latin and Greek, or at least a junior home from a year in Italy.
My year with the Montessori preschoolers has been filled with daily delights and insights. I love photographing school happenings and the insect visitors to our playground garden. We help introduce the children to nature at its most basic level, including worm composting, and I get to teach art with an emphasis on nature. Next weekend I will attend the Ft. Worth Opera Festival’s “Turandot” with friends in the very elegant Bass Hall. There probably won’t be a melon boat or a long-eared waddling dog, but it will be lots of fun.
Have a great summer!
Ah, yes, the nectar of the gods!
Ambrosia, favored food or drink of the Olympians, from the Latin ambrosia, from the Greek ambrosios, literally “of the immortals,” from a- “not” + mbrotos, related to mortos “mortal”.
In the early Sixties a neighbor over on “L” Street had a holiday brunch open house in her backyard. My memory is a Technicolor scene of green grass, swing set, card tables, and kids in bright sunsuits and sundresses. The centerpiece was a splendid watermelon boat cut with dramatic zigzag edges, filled with fresh watermelon wedges, cantaloupe balls, green grapes, and canned pineapple “tidbits” and mandarin orange sections.
Sometimes Aphrodite demands cut strawberries, and Hermes hollers for honeydew in Olympus. In Nebraska in the Sixties nobody knew about kiwi, although it does add nice color in the melon boat.
I have no idea what else was on the menu at that backyard brunch--maybe muffins, donut holes, and Little Smokies. The family’s obese long-eared dog waddled around the lawn looking for dropped goodies under the card tables. It was quite the most elegant event I had ever attended!
This holiday weekend my condo is the cut and hollowed watermelon boat for the ambrosia. The boat is very full of immortals from the Latin and Greek, or at least a junior home from a year in Italy.
My year with the Montessori preschoolers has been filled with daily delights and insights. I love photographing school happenings and the insect visitors to our playground garden. We help introduce the children to nature at its most basic level, including worm composting, and I get to teach art with an emphasis on nature. Next weekend I will attend the Ft. Worth Opera Festival’s “Turandot” with friends in the very elegant Bass Hall. There probably won’t be a melon boat or a long-eared waddling dog, but it will be lots of fun.
Have a great summer!
© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder
5/18/08
Tres Perro Noche
The assembled repatriated juniors were discussing the disgusting trend toward dogs being taken everywhere in North Texas. I agree with them that it's very annoying, but don't Italians take their dogs to the sidewalk restaurants? Certainly, the returning students say, "but Italian dogs are so much better trained!"
Not being really connected with celebrity trends and gossip, I don't know who to blame for the teacup dog craze. Last week I watched a woman smoosh her dog down into her totebag before she walked into Chipotle to order her lunch. My weekend lunch buddy and I are displeased when diners on the La Madeleine patio retrieve their dogs from the car, let them off leash, and leave them unattended while they go inside to get more coffee and jelly.
It's an arrogant assumption that everyone dining on the cafe patio will be as enchanted with your precious wuzzum woggy-doggy as you. I don't want to share my dining experience with your uzzy-wuggy muffy-wuzzum.
The college students all applaud my oration on the subject. They add that if children can't behave in a restaurant, their parents shouldn't bring them! Bold opinions from the upcoming generation of parents, so I'm noting the date on the calendar. We will check in with them on that subject in another four years!
In 1982 my spouse decided that we should take our six month-old son to a trendy fondue restaurant in Omaha. Geez! "Trendy fondue restaurant" sounds sooooo long ago! No wonder that baby has a master's degree. It was named "The Golden Apple" (the restaurant, not the baby). When we walked in with our baby, a collective gasp of horror went up from the dining customers and the waitstaff. Did we get the hint? No. Did we make that mistake again??? No.
I've been plagued by mangled mental music from Three Dog Night, circa 1970 :
Want some wuzzums at your restaurant,
Teacup doggie by your knee
What's all these crazy questions they askin' me
This is the craziest party there could ever be
Don't turn on the lights, 'cause I don't want to see
Mama told me not to come
Mama told me not to come
That ain't the way to have fun, no
© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder
Not being really connected with celebrity trends and gossip, I don't know who to blame for the teacup dog craze. Last week I watched a woman smoosh her dog down into her totebag before she walked into Chipotle to order her lunch. My weekend lunch buddy and I are displeased when diners on the La Madeleine patio retrieve their dogs from the car, let them off leash, and leave them unattended while they go inside to get more coffee and jelly.
It's an arrogant assumption that everyone dining on the cafe patio will be as enchanted with your precious wuzzum woggy-doggy as you. I don't want to share my dining experience with your uzzy-wuggy muffy-wuzzum.
The college students all applaud my oration on the subject. They add that if children can't behave in a restaurant, their parents shouldn't bring them! Bold opinions from the upcoming generation of parents, so I'm noting the date on the calendar. We will check in with them on that subject in another four years!
In 1982 my spouse decided that we should take our six month-old son to a trendy fondue restaurant in Omaha. Geez! "Trendy fondue restaurant" sounds sooooo long ago! No wonder that baby has a master's degree. It was named "The Golden Apple" (the restaurant, not the baby). When we walked in with our baby, a collective gasp of horror went up from the dining customers and the waitstaff. Did we get the hint? No. Did we make that mistake again??? No.
I've been plagued by mangled mental music from Three Dog Night, circa 1970 :
Want some wuzzums at your restaurant,
Teacup doggie by your knee
What's all these crazy questions they askin' me
This is the craziest party there could ever be
Don't turn on the lights, 'cause I don't want to see
Mama told me not to come
Mama told me not to come
That ain't the way to have fun, no
© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder
Culture Shock
It is wonderful to have two sons back "home" with me. The first week hasn't been totally smooth, but we are getting used to togetherness and coordinating mass transportation by DART rail.
The refrigerator is in shock because it is filled with food again--roast beast, fresh fruits and veggies, Feta cheese, and gallons of milk. The dishwasher is stunned at its new workload. I pulled an inch-thick deposit of Transatlantic dryer lint out of the trap, and gave it to the worms to make feather boas. The Buick is asking for time-and-a-half overtime pay.
The Woolly Mammoth has the biggest time change to make, coming home from Italy to a place with orange cheese. He needs a haircut, a job, and a diet with lots more fresh fruits to fight a nasty cough. I can help with the fresh fruits, but not the job.
His need for a haircut is sufficiently pronounced that his brother and I both had ours cut. Danger Baby is talking Woolly Mammoth through some of his post-Italy depression issues. I never had a junior year abroad, but I'm sure most of real life is not quite as wonderful, scenic, exciting, empowering, or impoverishing.
Fortunately, we are still allowed to diagnose returning students with Post Junior Year Abroad Syndrome (PJYAS) and Haircut Disorder. Our returning vets may not be treated as kindly with their Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Just another day opening the newspaper and being embarrassed to be an American living in Texas in the Bush Era!
The refrigerator is in shock because it is filled with food again--roast beast, fresh fruits and veggies, Feta cheese, and gallons of milk. The dishwasher is stunned at its new workload. I pulled an inch-thick deposit of Transatlantic dryer lint out of the trap, and gave it to the worms to make feather boas. The Buick is asking for time-and-a-half overtime pay.
The Woolly Mammoth has the biggest time change to make, coming home from Italy to a place with orange cheese. He needs a haircut, a job, and a diet with lots more fresh fruits to fight a nasty cough. I can help with the fresh fruits, but not the job.
His need for a haircut is sufficiently pronounced that his brother and I both had ours cut. Danger Baby is talking Woolly Mammoth through some of his post-Italy depression issues. I never had a junior year abroad, but I'm sure most of real life is not quite as wonderful, scenic, exciting, empowering, or impoverishing.
Fortunately, we are still allowed to diagnose returning students with Post Junior Year Abroad Syndrome (PJYAS) and Haircut Disorder. Our returning vets may not be treated as kindly with their Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Just another day opening the newspaper and being embarrassed to be an American living in Texas in the Bush Era!
Much of the old high school Lunch Bunch showed up to sit on the patio on a perfect late spring evening, drink beer, and recount their various junior year adventures. It was fun to hear them chatting out back, but I need even more beauty sleep than before. When this CollageMama invites all the gang to look in her wormbin, it's probably a hint to move the reunion to another venue! Vermicompost is not vermicelli.
© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder
1/23/08
Survivor Rose
Hallelujah! My lead teacher has returned from her ski trip, and none of my little students are any the worse for the wear while I was manning the store, holding the fort, zipping the coats, and keeping the home fires burning. Things went amazingly well, and the class continued learning about backyard birds in her absence.
The barbershop quartet from "The Music Man" was playing on my mental cassette even before a sweet parent brought me this rose to help me hang in there! The rose smells fabulous. The song goes:
Lida Rose, I'm home again, Rose
To get the sun back in the sky.
The rose reminds me of my youngest, off in Italy, and without his essential accessory. Yes, my photographer son is a camera battery charger shy. He left it plugged into an outlet when he was here for Christmas. My "survivor rose" reminds me how much I miss the Woolly Mammoth, plus how much I'd like to tell him off for forgetting this important item. I'll be mailing it to him tomorrow, of course. If, and that's a big if, his camera was working, he would take a far better photo of my refreshing and replenishing orange rose than I can.
Lida Rose, I'm home again, Rose
About a thousand kisses shy.
Ding dong ding
I can hear the chapel bell chime.
This image is copyrighted, but the Woolly Mammoth must let his mommy post it OR he won't be getting his charger in the overseas mail!
Now I'll be sniffing a rose and chanting home and om!
© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder
The barbershop quartet from "The Music Man" was playing on my mental cassette even before a sweet parent brought me this rose to help me hang in there! The rose smells fabulous. The song goes:
Lida Rose, I'm home again, Rose
To get the sun back in the sky.
The rose reminds me of my youngest, off in Italy, and without his essential accessory. Yes, my photographer son is a camera battery charger shy. He left it plugged into an outlet when he was here for Christmas. My "survivor rose" reminds me how much I miss the Woolly Mammoth, plus how much I'd like to tell him off for forgetting this important item. I'll be mailing it to him tomorrow, of course. If, and that's a big if, his camera was working, he would take a far better photo of my refreshing and replenishing orange rose than I can.
Lida Rose, I'm home again, Rose
About a thousand kisses shy.
Ding dong ding
I can hear the chapel bell chime.
This image is copyrighted, but the Woolly Mammoth must let his mommy post it OR he won't be getting his charger in the overseas mail!
Now I'll be sniffing a rose and chanting home and om!
© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder
1/9/08
Volare
Should auld Plymouth automobiles be forgot and never brought to mind? In the nostalgic moments of a New Year's Eve I recall with exaggerated fondness the '61 Sport Fury of my college years. In a bitter winter in the early Seventies I learned that eating the citrus fruits floating in a rum punch was a bad idea. We won't dwell on that now, but my son hosted a fairly impromptu party for college friends at the condo.
In between the whirr of making margaritas in my blender and shuffling cards, I caught the sound of "Volare"! This was not Jerry Vale or Petula Clark singing the Italian ballad. It was not Sergio Franchi singing the jingle for the Plymouth Volare of the mid-Seventies. This was the Gipsy Kings on an iPod.
For auto lang syne, my dear,
for old Plymouth lang syne,
we'll take a cup o’ kindness yet, and a quart of oil
for auto lang syne.
for old Plymouth lang syne,
we'll take a cup o’ kindness yet, and a quart of oil
for auto lang syne.
To fly, Oh!, Oh!,
To sing, Oh!, Oh!, Oh!, Oh!
In the blue of your blue eyes
Happy to be there.
© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder
12/31/07
A Lunch Bunch New Year's Eve
I learned shortly before they arrived that I was hosting a Lunch Bunch reunion video, games, and blender margaritas party. It's a way more crazy New Year's Eve than I planned, but possibly just what I needed. The PHSH Class of 2005 is ushering in '08 around the table where they used to scarf down a hot lunch on Fridays while scribbling out their French homework. The friendgirls and card games have changed, along with the vehicles. The guys all take time to chat with me about their semesters abroad, changes of majors, and newspaper internships. They make sure to put cans in the recycling and napkins in the trash. Best of all, they give me hope for the future of our nation and planet!
© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder
© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder
11/11/07
ACT IV, Scene 1 supertitles
Three times hath the brindle cat mewed
Three times hath the owl wailed
And the porcupine has thrice whined
Say that again three times fast!
The porcupine has thrice whined
The porcupine has thrice whined
The porcupine has thrice whined
Verdi's version of Shakespeare's Macbeth witches were getting ready for their big cauldron scene at the Dallas Opera. The eye of newt looked more likely to be broiled on a stone state park fireplace built by the CCC than stewed in a black cauldron. The scenery was heavy on lightweight fake stones. What really gave me the giggles at this inopportune moment was the mental image of whining porcupines.
Working as I do with very young students, I have heard the occasional whine! In my recreational quest for knowledge, I've learned that all porcupines shuffle along the ground. Porcupines of the New World can climb trees, but Old World porcupines cannot. But do they whine? My National Geographic Book of Mammals, Volume Two K-Z, doesn't say anything about their vocal abilities. Thank heaven the National Geographic website has seventy-eight seconds of recorded porcupine singing. I wouldn't call it a whine. It sounds more like one of Gladys Knight's Pips. Huh-huh. Uh-huh.
Speaking of cauldrons, the Woolly Mammoth wrote me from Italy to request my recipe for Texas chili. The international students were preparing a taste of home cooking for each other. It's still too hot in North Texas to get inspired to make a big pot of chili. In fact, I had to turn on the air conditioner today when it got up to seventy-eight in the condo. It's enough to make a utility bill-paying porcupine whine!
And now I'll be in double trouble if I don't shift the laundry from the washer to the dryer.
© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder
Three times hath the owl wailed
And the porcupine has thrice whined
Say that again three times fast!
The porcupine has thrice whined
The porcupine has thrice whined
The porcupine has thrice whined
Verdi's version of Shakespeare's Macbeth witches were getting ready for their big cauldron scene at the Dallas Opera. The eye of newt looked more likely to be broiled on a stone state park fireplace built by the CCC than stewed in a black cauldron. The scenery was heavy on lightweight fake stones. What really gave me the giggles at this inopportune moment was the mental image of whining porcupines.
Working as I do with very young students, I have heard the occasional whine! In my recreational quest for knowledge, I've learned that all porcupines shuffle along the ground. Porcupines of the New World can climb trees, but Old World porcupines cannot. But do they whine? My National Geographic Book of Mammals, Volume Two K-Z, doesn't say anything about their vocal abilities. Thank heaven the National Geographic website has seventy-eight seconds of recorded porcupine singing. I wouldn't call it a whine. It sounds more like one of Gladys Knight's Pips. Huh-huh. Uh-huh.
Speaking of cauldrons, the Woolly Mammoth wrote me from Italy to request my recipe for Texas chili. The international students were preparing a taste of home cooking for each other. It's still too hot in North Texas to get inspired to make a big pot of chili. In fact, I had to turn on the air conditioner today when it got up to seventy-eight in the condo. It's enough to make a utility bill-paying porcupine whine!
And now I'll be in double trouble if I don't shift the laundry from the washer to the dryer.
© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder
9/24/07
Falling Into the Purses of Terrorists
Parents, it's 10:00 p.m. Do you know where your children are?
This often-parodied television PSA (Public Service Announcement) aired in the Seventies.
Parents, it's 3:00 p.m. Do you know where your children are?
This PSA was shown more recently to raise awareness about latchkey kids unsupervised after school.
Parents, it's junior year abroad. Do you know where your passports are?
The brochures for parents of college students studying abroad stress having a passport ready just in case of the unthinkable. I wave my passport in front of my son heading off to Italy. Trying to sound like Clint Eastwood's rattlesnake-handling, tobacco-spitting grandma, I snarl, "I've got a passport. Don't make me use it!"
My sum total experience of foreign travel consists of three hours in Matamoros, Mexico, wanting to get my young sons back across the border ASAP. The grown globe-roaming-gnome sons know that I'm ill-equipped for international rescues, so they had better mind their international Ps & Qs.
Still, I was fretting about the Woolly Mammoth heading off on his Big Adventure last time I flew to Nebraska to help my dad. Should I take my passport just in case? I juggled pros and cons while I packed my little red rolling suitcase and my purse.
Home from the trip I realized that my RescueMama passport did not return with me. Where could it be? Under the bed in Nebraska? In Dad's car? In the long-term parking shuttle bus? On the floor at DFW or the Eppley airport terminal? In a landfill somewhere? OR...dun-dun-dun...........in the hands of a terrorist identity thief!
"Don't panic," I told myself.
"You did something logical with the passport," I chanted silently.
"You did NOT shred and recycle the passport accidentally, and besides, what kind of terrorist would sort the cans from the paper and #2 plastic?"
"IT IS WAY TOO SOON TO PANIC," I scolded myself daily.
"Don't call Homeland Security yet! That passport cost seventy-five dollars, and IT WILL TURN UP!"
"If you worry about the passport, the terrorists will have won!," I channeled Dubya.
It's been a long month of internal monologues and fretting. Yeehaw! I woke up this morning and remembered where I put my passport. Now I can stop fretting about it having fallen into the hands of terrorists! It was inside that big, ugly tropical purse that I considered taking last time I flew to Lincoln before deciding it was just too darn big, jungly, and ugly even for me. The fashion police would wand me before I even got to the TSA queue. They would not be lenient even though the purse has plenty of room for the New York Times crossword puzzle and a large extended family of cockatoos.
© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder
This often-parodied television PSA (Public Service Announcement) aired in the Seventies.
Parents, it's 3:00 p.m. Do you know where your children are?
This PSA was shown more recently to raise awareness about latchkey kids unsupervised after school.
Parents, it's junior year abroad. Do you know where your passports are?
The brochures for parents of college students studying abroad stress having a passport ready just in case of the unthinkable. I wave my passport in front of my son heading off to Italy. Trying to sound like Clint Eastwood's rattlesnake-handling, tobacco-spitting grandma, I snarl, "I've got a passport. Don't make me use it!"
My sum total experience of foreign travel consists of three hours in Matamoros, Mexico, wanting to get my young sons back across the border ASAP. The grown globe-roaming-gnome sons know that I'm ill-equipped for international rescues, so they had better mind their international Ps & Qs.
Still, I was fretting about the Woolly Mammoth heading off on his Big Adventure last time I flew to Nebraska to help my dad. Should I take my passport just in case? I juggled pros and cons while I packed my little red rolling suitcase and my purse.
Home from the trip I realized that my RescueMama passport did not return with me. Where could it be? Under the bed in Nebraska? In Dad's car? In the long-term parking shuttle bus? On the floor at DFW or the Eppley airport terminal? In a landfill somewhere? OR...dun-dun-dun...........in the hands of a terrorist identity thief!
"Don't panic," I told myself.
"You did something logical with the passport," I chanted silently.
"You did NOT shred and recycle the passport accidentally, and besides, what kind of terrorist would sort the cans from the paper and #2 plastic?"
"IT IS WAY TOO SOON TO PANIC," I scolded myself daily.
"Don't call Homeland Security yet! That passport cost seventy-five dollars, and IT WILL TURN UP!"
"If you worry about the passport, the terrorists will have won!," I channeled Dubya.
It's been a long month of internal monologues and fretting. Yeehaw! I woke up this morning and remembered where I put my passport. Now I can stop fretting about it having fallen into the hands of terrorists! It was inside that big, ugly tropical purse that I considered taking last time I flew to Lincoln before deciding it was just too darn big, jungly, and ugly even for me. The fashion police would wand me before I even got to the TSA queue. They would not be lenient even though the purse has plenty of room for the New York Times crossword puzzle and a large extended family of cockatoos.
© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder
9/18/07
Why spelling is still important
SpellCheck cannot tell you how to pack your duffel bag for a weekend getaway:
The Woolly Mammoth emailed his fretting mama from Italy to say he is alive and well. He wrote that he spent last weekend "on a beach near the town of Grossotto." I was quick to Google "Grossotto," which is in the mountains near the Swiss/Italian border. No beach in sight. High on a hill with a lonely surfboard, Layee odl, layee odl layee-oo!
Grossotto is the home of a solar park, a large array of solar photovoltaic collection panels used to turn sunlight into power. It's probably a good place to catch some rays, but not necessarily to watch bikini volleyball.
Studying the map of Italy hanging above the kitchen sink while loading my dishwasher, I'm guessing the Woolly Mammoth went to a beach near the town of Grosseto. Grosseto is near the sea and close to his study center. It sounds like a better place for swim goggles than for Google.
My travel budget is for a weekend getaway to Gross-out-oh, Texas. That's where you find old men in Speedos holding sheets of HyVee store brand aluminum foil while beached in webbed lawn chaises after the Senior Swim at the city natatorium. Do walruses get sunburned?
One little student is working on the phonetic "G" sound . He has pictures of a goose, a goat, and a garbage can:
Guh, guh, guh, juice.
Guh, guh, guh, goat.
Guh, guh, guh, trash!
The Woolly Mammoth might oughta maybe better check the spelling before he departs next weekend. He's going to look like severe juice goat trash wearing a Grossotto parka at the Grosseto beach.
© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder
The Woolly Mammoth emailed his fretting mama from Italy to say he is alive and well. He wrote that he spent last weekend "on a beach near the town of Grossotto." I was quick to Google "Grossotto," which is in the mountains near the Swiss/Italian border. No beach in sight. High on a hill with a lonely surfboard, Layee odl, layee odl layee-oo!
Grossotto is the home of a solar park, a large array of solar photovoltaic collection panels used to turn sunlight into power. It's probably a good place to catch some rays, but not necessarily to watch bikini volleyball.
Studying the map of Italy hanging above the kitchen sink while loading my dishwasher, I'm guessing the Woolly Mammoth went to a beach near the town of Grosseto. Grosseto is near the sea and close to his study center. It sounds like a better place for swim goggles than for Google.
My travel budget is for a weekend getaway to Gross-out-oh, Texas. That's where you find old men in Speedos holding sheets of HyVee store brand aluminum foil while beached in webbed lawn chaises after the Senior Swim at the city natatorium. Do walruses get sunburned?
One little student is working on the phonetic "G" sound . He has pictures of a goose, a goat, and a garbage can:
Guh, guh, guh, juice.
Guh, guh, guh, goat.
Guh, guh, guh, trash!
The Woolly Mammoth might oughta maybe better check the spelling before he departs next weekend. He's going to look like severe juice goat trash wearing a Grossotto parka at the Grosseto beach.
© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder
8/15/07
Perturbed? Oh, no.
Next week my youngest, the Woolly Mammoth, leaves for a semester or two studying art, art history, and Italian studies in Viterbo, Italy. Like his brother, Danger Baby, before him, he has arranged all the financing, scholarships, passport, visa, immunizations, transfer credits, and arrangements to meet his father in Europe all by himself. I'm enormously impressed and proud of this effort.
"All by myself " is an issue best addressed before kindergarten. It's a huge developmental step. When children feel unsure and want help, it's good to ask leading questions that allow them to work out their own solutions.
I keep reading about "helicopter parents" swooping in to micromanage problems for their college students, most recently in Mirage Magazine, volume 26, number 1, fall 2007 , the University of New Mexico alumni publication. Parents who are involved with their college kids on a daily basis resemble VTOL aircraft even more than helicopters. Vertical Takeoff/Landing aircraft are "transformers", shifting shapes to drop straight down into a problem, and occasionally lift back up out of it. Parents project the fx message that despite their own job responsibilities and personal activities, they are instantly available to morph into The Amazing Fixer and descend into any difficulty for their college student.
© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder
"All by myself " is an issue best addressed before kindergarten. It's a huge developmental step. When children feel unsure and want help, it's good to ask leading questions that allow them to work out their own solutions.
I keep reading about "helicopter parents" swooping in to micromanage problems for their college students, most recently in Mirage Magazine, volume 26, number 1, fall 2007 , the University of New Mexico alumni publication. Parents who are involved with their college kids on a daily basis resemble VTOL aircraft even more than helicopters. Vertical Takeoff/Landing aircraft are "transformers", shifting shapes to drop straight down into a problem, and occasionally lift back up out of it. Parents project the fx message that despite their own job responsibilities and personal activities, they are instantly available to morph into The Amazing Fixer and descend into any difficulty for their college student.
What does that tell the college-age child?
- You can't make decisions.
- You can't solve problems.
- You can't communicate effectively with teachers, advisors, or dorm staff.
- You can't find your own interests, talents, passions, or bliss.
- You can't take care of yourself when you have a cold.
- You don't have enough sense to know you should go to Student Health.
- You can't learn from your mistakes.
- You can't allow yourself to make mistakes.
- You can't manage money.
- You can't plan long-range.
- You can't decide if a person is a true friend.
- You can't remember to put a sheet of "Bounce" into each dryer load.
- You can't trust your own gut.
On the cover of the alumni magazine there's a very handsome photo of dramatic clouds and the ladder down into a kiva. The poster will be available for sale soon, as part of the Lobo homecoming this fall. I love the idea that going to college is like climbing the ladder into the kiva. It is a developmental step, same as the preschooler demanding to do something "all by myself". The kiva signifies greater self-awareness and self-confidence. It acknowledges accepting guidance from elders and shaman, as well as parents. It symbolizes community, friendship, and responsibility. Most of all, it represents wholeness and health. Everything we wish for our children. We just have to let them descend the kiva ladder alone.
© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder
6/9/06
Homeland Insecurity
Somewhere in Europe a cute college student is sitting on the windowsill of his apartment. He's hanging out the window holding his roommate's computer to catch a WiFi connection.
Meanwhile, I'm wearing my headset and trying to Skype him. We are all relieved that I'm not wearing a sequined leotard and riding on an elephant. When our calls don't connect, I feel like I'm performing without a net.
It's a tightrope. When we do connect I feel balanced.
5/16/06
Forklift needed
My youngest is many years from enlightenment, and I'm not just saying that in a snobby metro chic Berber carpet Buddha way. He is not ready to travel light or live nomadically. He has attachment-to-material-possessions issues. We had to rent a Chrysler Town and Country with fabulous stow and go seats to haul his belongings back to swampy Dallas from the UNM dorm. This summer I hope he'll spend time in his creatively-visualized mental Mongolian yurt contemplating what is actually NECESSARY for life on campus. Yo, mom, w's'up? I'm om om-ing on the Gobi range.
His older brother went to Italy for a school year with his necessary possessions in one duffel and one backpack. This is a good example for the Lobo. Alas, when he returned from Europe his belongings reconstituted and took over three rooms of the condo. I'm thinking that's a lot like sea monkeys.
On the drive to Albuquerque we took the Texas Plains Trail scenic drive from Silverton to Claude on SH 207 down into Palo Duro canyon and climbing back out. I was afraid to risk it on the way home because we were so heavily loaded. The canyon bottom is a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to be marooned there forever with all my son's dirty laundry.
The geneaology hobbyists in my family have traced our ancestors back to the Unknown Liska, aka Liska, unknown. The Unknown Liska is alleged to have walked from Kiev to Prague with all his belongings in a wheelbarrow. In some versions of the story the Unknown Liska also toted his cabbage-eating mama in the wheelbarrow. Who was that masked Liska? He left a silver bullet! The Unknown Liska did not have a computer, monitor, and printer. The Unknown Liska was lucky if he had a pair of socks. The Unknown Lobo had a large mesh bag full of dirty socks.
The Lobo's father often waxed poetic about the glory days when he could carry all his worldly goods (including both the twelve- and six-string guitars) in the backseat of his puke yellow rusty 1970 Chevy Nova. In those days my favorite books were the two volumes of Nomadic Furniture (How to Build and Where to Buy Lightweight Furniture that Folds, Inflates, Knocks Down, Stacks, or is Disposable and Can Be Recycled) by James Hennessey and Victor Papanek. Alas, in tough times I sold those two volumes at the used book store.
If the Lobo can't find a job for the summer, maybe he can volunteer his services constructing brick and board shelves for clueless college students.
4/18/06
Affordable Housing
Spent the evening out there on the lunatic fringe at the condo homeowner association annual budget meeting. It was pretty civilized as these meetings go. Nobody's head spun around. No one channeled an ancient Mayan priest at a sacrificial rite. The board president managed to maintain order and limit the amount of time wasted by the usual suspects/repeat offenders.
I was able to ascertain that the management company is unlikely to have my son's car towed in the remaining two weeks of his study in Italy. I've tried to keep the Intrepid dusted and bird poop free. (Swiffer Dry and Swiffer Wet!) I've done my best to distract the neighbors from the oil spot under the immovable object Dodge by telling them amusing anecdotes about the life of a poor, yet devastatingly handsome and aw-shucks wholesome, college student overseas--hostels, backpacks, nights sleeping on the floor of trains, riding scooters all over Barcelona. Their patience is wearing thin, though.
It will be terrific to see my son again after two semesters. It will be great to see him get the darn Intrepid started, washed, waxed, licensed, insured, and moved.
I'm also looking forward to seeing the National Building Museum's traveling exhibition, "Affordable Housing: Designing an American Asset" at the McKinney Avenue Contemporary in May. Some of the country's most gifted architects are focusing their visions and energy on designing attractive, efficient homes for low-income families in both urban and rural settings. Open until June 30th 2006. The MAC.
I was able to ascertain that the management company is unlikely to have my son's car towed in the remaining two weeks of his study in Italy. I've tried to keep the Intrepid dusted and bird poop free. (Swiffer Dry and Swiffer Wet!) I've done my best to distract the neighbors from the oil spot under the immovable object Dodge by telling them amusing anecdotes about the life of a poor, yet devastatingly handsome and aw-shucks wholesome, college student overseas--hostels, backpacks, nights sleeping on the floor of trains, riding scooters all over Barcelona. Their patience is wearing thin, though.
It will be terrific to see my son again after two semesters. It will be great to see him get the darn Intrepid started, washed, waxed, licensed, insured, and moved.
I'm also looking forward to seeing the National Building Museum's traveling exhibition, "Affordable Housing: Designing an American Asset" at the McKinney Avenue Contemporary in May. Some of the country's most gifted architects are focusing their visions and energy on designing attractive, efficient homes for low-income families in both urban and rural settings. Open until June 30th 2006. The MAC.
2/24/06
Mainly on the plain
One son is in Spain this week, visiting the Alhambra in Granada. Another son once programmed our computer to play the audio of Monty Python's classic Spanish Inquisition skit whenever it booted up. This was an improvement over when the computer played "Boomer Sooner" on start-up.
Thirty years ago we had college parties when Monty Python's Flying Circus invaded America on PBS. I wasn't into Monty Python all that much until my kids went crazy about it. They would do all the characters and accents around the dinner table. When the guys were watching the show, I was usually cooking, doing some homemaker task, or sitting working on papier mache projects. I have heard lots more of it than I've ever actually seen. That's why I'm enjoying Monty Python's Personal Best on KERA. This week's installment included the Dead Parrot Sketch and the Ministry of Silly Walks. One thing hasn't changed with time. I still seem to be cooking and doing laundry during the show.
10/17/05
Intrepid AutoMama Returns
"It's a flock of Monarchs! Come look!" It is so cool to work with people with similar interests and inclinations. We went to look at the flock of Monarch butterflies migrating to Mexico past our patio.
Monarchs are usually kind of ditzy, lazy flyers, a bit like the kite that you can't quite get up and going. They can take their time since birds know that they taste even worse than okra. They don't migrate in a tight V goose formation, but they weren't flying down low where I expected them. Hundreds of Monarchs were indeed flying over our school Thursday morning, up so high it was hard to see them. [That might be partly because my sinus congestion was a day away from me seeing lots of spots.] They weren't close together, but they were surprisingly businesslike.
My point, perhaps, is that we expect to find things where they usually are, doing what they usually do. When they don't behave as expected, they can be mighty hard to see.
This brings me to my son's 1998 Dodge Intrepid. Wanna buy it???
The Intrepid has been parked in my carport while he's putting on the Ritz in Italy and the surrounding continent. At first I moved the Intrepid every week or so, from one parking space to another, but the battery died about a month ago. I actually dusted the exterior once, and had planned to Swiffer it soon. Instead, I got word that I had to move it out of the carport before tomorrow because the painting of my building will begin in the morning.
Clicked my ruby slippers together, and went out to try to start the darn Dodge. No luck. Just then Invisible Guy arrived home. I moved in next door to Invisible Guy in July 2000, and we have spoken exactly ten times. If we happen to drive in at the same time, he jumps out of his car and runs into his condo.
It must have been the frustration and pseudoephedrine talking, but I jumped out of the Intrepid as he jumped out of his car, and babeled, "Hey, ____, they are going to start painting tomorrow, and we have to move our cars. My son is in Italy and his car won't start because the battery is dead." Then I did a really impressive rib-rattling round of coughing.
Invisible Guy said it might be possible to push the Intrepid across the parking lot, then he started to make a break for his front door. I coughed some more. He got out some jumper cables, but they wouldn't reach from either his car or my Buick parked outside the carport. He rigged up two sets of jumper cables, and got a Dr. Frankenstein look in his eyes. Alas, I looked more like Marty Feldman than either Madeline Kahn or Teri Garr. I popped the hood on the Intrepid.
"What the...? Where's the.....?," we both muttered. The car had no battery! Okay, it seemed, appeared, to have no battery. It had no battery in a place one might expect to find a battery, like under the hood. This was not going to be as easy as the Buick headlight. Invisible Guy was still ready to shock the monster to life. "We don't need to find the battery," he said. "This is where to hook the positive and negative jumper cables." Indeed, there were flaps so marked. I could hear Frau Blucher laughing in the background. We zapped the monster, and got the car moved across the parking lot without pushing it, thank heaven.
I'm not going to attempt to replace the Intrepid battery, even though I did find where it was hiding. This is what I learned about Intrepid batteries from Mopar and epinions.com:
I had a 1998 Dodge Intrepid, but after hearing all of the problems that happen when those hit 60,000 miles, I decided to trade it in since I was starting to have problems of my own with mine. After all, in a Dodge Intrepid it takes at least an hour to change the battery because you have to take the front wheel off, remove the wheelwell and then pull the battery out. Saturn's are pretty easy for the everyday person to work on, unlike the Intrepid where in order to replace the main belt you have to take the whole front end of the car apart.
It is very difficult to change the battery in this car. You have to hope that when the battery goes, you are at home as you have to remove the tire and the wheelwell to get the battery out. You don't want to be doing this in a parking lot.
The only problem I see with the engine is that if you need to change the battery for any reason you had better know what you are doing. The battery is not in its ?normal? place. It is located in a compartment in front of the tire in the right front fender and is accessible through the engine compartment. I will just bring it in to the shop to get the battery changed if I need that.
Monarchs are usually kind of ditzy, lazy flyers, a bit like the kite that you can't quite get up and going. They can take their time since birds know that they taste even worse than okra. They don't migrate in a tight V goose formation, but they weren't flying down low where I expected them. Hundreds of Monarchs were indeed flying over our school Thursday morning, up so high it was hard to see them. [That might be partly because my sinus congestion was a day away from me seeing lots of spots.] They weren't close together, but they were surprisingly businesslike.
My point, perhaps, is that we expect to find things where they usually are, doing what they usually do. When they don't behave as expected, they can be mighty hard to see.
This brings me to my son's 1998 Dodge Intrepid. Wanna buy it???
The Intrepid has been parked in my carport while he's putting on the Ritz in Italy and the surrounding continent. At first I moved the Intrepid every week or so, from one parking space to another, but the battery died about a month ago. I actually dusted the exterior once, and had planned to Swiffer it soon. Instead, I got word that I had to move it out of the carport before tomorrow because the painting of my building will begin in the morning.
Clicked my ruby slippers together, and went out to try to start the darn Dodge. No luck. Just then Invisible Guy arrived home. I moved in next door to Invisible Guy in July 2000, and we have spoken exactly ten times. If we happen to drive in at the same time, he jumps out of his car and runs into his condo.
It must have been the frustration and pseudoephedrine talking, but I jumped out of the Intrepid as he jumped out of his car, and babeled, "Hey, ____, they are going to start painting tomorrow, and we have to move our cars. My son is in Italy and his car won't start because the battery is dead." Then I did a really impressive rib-rattling round of coughing.
Invisible Guy said it might be possible to push the Intrepid across the parking lot, then he started to make a break for his front door. I coughed some more. He got out some jumper cables, but they wouldn't reach from either his car or my Buick parked outside the carport. He rigged up two sets of jumper cables, and got a Dr. Frankenstein look in his eyes. Alas, I looked more like Marty Feldman than either Madeline Kahn or Teri Garr. I popped the hood on the Intrepid.
"What the...? Where's the.....?," we both muttered. The car had no battery! Okay, it seemed, appeared, to have no battery. It had no battery in a place one might expect to find a battery, like under the hood. This was not going to be as easy as the Buick headlight. Invisible Guy was still ready to shock the monster to life. "We don't need to find the battery," he said. "This is where to hook the positive and negative jumper cables." Indeed, there were flaps so marked. I could hear Frau Blucher laughing in the background. We zapped the monster, and got the car moved across the parking lot without pushing it, thank heaven.
I'm not going to attempt to replace the Intrepid battery, even though I did find where it was hiding. This is what I learned about Intrepid batteries from Mopar and epinions.com:
I had a 1998 Dodge Intrepid, but after hearing all of the problems that happen when those hit 60,000 miles, I decided to trade it in since I was starting to have problems of my own with mine. After all, in a Dodge Intrepid it takes at least an hour to change the battery because you have to take the front wheel off, remove the wheelwell and then pull the battery out. Saturn's are pretty easy for the everyday person to work on, unlike the Intrepid where in order to replace the main belt you have to take the whole front end of the car apart.
It is very difficult to change the battery in this car. You have to hope that when the battery goes, you are at home as you have to remove the tire and the wheelwell to get the battery out. You don't want to be doing this in a parking lot.
The only problem I see with the engine is that if you need to change the battery for any reason you had better know what you are doing. The battery is not in its ?normal? place. It is located in a compartment in front of the tire in the right front fender and is accessible through the engine compartment. I will just bring it in to the shop to get the battery changed if I need that.
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