Goodbye, Gremlin, Goodbye

I'M FREE - yet ironically now confined to my home - because I sold by car, the sour lemon that I once loved, the Gremlin. In a last supper kind of way, I drove it to the car wash up the street and paid $6 to get her looking shiny before the trade and what a feeling! The last $6 I will ever spend on that thing.

On a side note - while I was cleaning out my car, I found some kind of congealed glob of goo in the glove compartment. Apparently a Wendy's honey mustard packet had exploded in the suffocating inferno that was the inside of that car on any given summer afternoon.  Although it smelled like honey mustard, it had by some miracle of science formed into a solid robber-like ball, like silly putty. I peeled it away and threw it out. PHEW - that could have been gross...

I "undressed" the Gremlin - took down my four-leaf clover necklace hanging around the neck of the rear-view mirror, took inside the spark plugs I had gotten so used to using on the side of random roads throughout the city, ejected the one CD I listened to from the single speaker working in the back of the car.

She fetched $2,600. I told the buyer everything about her and you know what she said to me?

"Oh, I knew it was going to need some work. My boyfriend's a mechanic so I'm not worried about it. I just like the way it looks."

So my car hit the jackpot. It has died and gone to lemon-car makeover heaven. In a few months time, the Gremlin will be the equivalent of some botoxed cougar making a comeback - good for the Gremlin.

I, on the other hand, have bigger fish to fry and better cars to drive.

I'll keep you posted on how I manage to find that great car...without a car...wish me luck!

Gremlin Grievances

For about a week, I liked the car I purchased. I actually gave it a name - like a kid does with a goldfish. I named it "Gremlin," and just like a goldfish, it died soon after.

The Gremlin is my first car - a 1999 Dodge Intrepid - and it was a "steal" - or so I thought.

Apparently, a 2.7 liter engine is as good as dog poop - that and its capacity to retain oil. Blithely unaware I was cruising around in a virtual time bomb, I felt confident in my green low-rider for all of three minutes - the time it took for me to wave goodbye to the dealer, Tim of Tim's Auto, and turn on the radio to realize the speakers were out and the passenger window wasn't rolling down.

I swallowed the anxiety-ridden consumer's cries within me, screaming, "You were had!! Take it back now before you're desperate, stranded and crying on the side of the road somewhere!" I got used to ignoring these stomach-churning thoughts until one day my car did leave me desperate, stranded and crying on the side of the road...in the rain. And yet somehow, through the down poor, my engine continued to chug heavy smoke from under the hood. Two hours later, I arrived home, thanked the Russian gas station attendant who agreed to drive me and called up Tim to plead my case.

But instead of the premeditated speech of wrath I had prepared to deliver to him from a safe distance over the phone, I instead spoke woefully about my inabilities to keep a car on life support. He agreed to fix it for a discount and only charged me $500 - yay! The anxious consumer within me nearly suffered cardiac arrest that day.

Six months later, my car was like the child of an estranged couple, spending weekdays with me and weekends in the garage of Tim's. At this point, I didn't hate Tim, I hated my luck.

And then I decided to do something about it. I poured good money into my car, fixed it up as best I could, learned from Tim the few maintenance procedures it might need in time - and made the decision to sell my car on Craigslist. I've been honest about its mileage - it's no spring chicken, it's new parts and known problems - and I priced it low enough to interest buyers and high enough to help me purchase a new car. I've had several interested individuals so I'll keep you posted about the Gremlin's status. But if all goes accordingly, in about a weeks time I should be singing - Goodbye, Gremlin, Goodbye - free to do the whole rigamarole again.

The Flea

Don't let the fries fool you - this post is about a burger.

So let me first tell you that there was never any one reason for me to define myself as a carnivore - until I ate a flea burger. 

Westport Flea Market is dingy, dark and it doesn't accept debit cards - BUT no one with working tastebuds cares, because it is home of the original Flea Market burger, a succulent, massive beef pattie served on a soft and toasty sesame seed bun. Add cheese, mayo, ketcup, perfectly ripened tomatos, pickles, onions and lettuce...and bacon, and you've got yourself the bible of true carnivorians.

Before I tasted the flea, there was a time when I actually could understand why someone would chose to be a vegetarian - I chalked it up to either having a bleeding heart or a heart condition. But as of late, I'm critical. Like Amish teens who get their year of freedom before deciding to continue with the lifestyle, I believe all vegetarians should taste a flea burger, at least one bite before swearing off all animals.

And for the taste of it, I wouldn't even care if it were made of actual fleas, although I'd prefer not to know it. To describe its taste is to describe a craving - you just want it and once you have it, your mouth can't seem to part with it.

I'm a relatively small girl, I eat PB&Js, quesadillas, frozen pizzas and grilled cheeses - I'm pretty soft-core when it comes to serious protein. And yet I crave it like a cat smelling catnip or a pregnant woman inside the local Baskin Robbins, it is all I can think about until it's mine.

So you might say it wasn't a selfless Father's Day gift then, when I treated him to burgers and beer on Saturday night. The holiday was just an excuse to go really, and what better way to honor the best man in my life then with this grilled perfection.

So we got to talking - what was it about the flea burger that sent me reeling - it was just ground beef, afterall.

"It's the grill Coco," he told me while holding the thing with two elbows squared on the table. "Grills have a mind of their own."

He went on to tell me how Kansas City's most famous steak establishment, Hereford House, failed to open a second location out south - "because they just couldn't replicate the flavor, nothing worked and the people weren't having it."

I still can't believe that for a whole year some local loonies wanted to close the Flea Market and open a Hooters. Oh sure - and while they're at it, why don't they build a McDonald's in place of Oklahoma Joe's - because that would be a vast improvement.

Oh but truly, I'm so full. I'm writing this now with my feet up on my coffee table and my laptop on my "contented" stomach, my typing is gradually slowing to a crawl and my eyes are drooping a bit - and I can still taste it - the burger that gave me wings and made me slightly vegetarian intolerant - the flea.  

Shark Week

Location: Paradise Aquatics in Overland Park - a seemingly calm afternoon in the balmy tank.

The guys at the front desk kept cracking jokes about how I should take a photo with them and myself in it....ew. 

I slinked to other side of the tank to escape and this is what I saw while I heard one of them say, "I think you creeped her out, man. Good goin' Robbie." 

That's when I saw it - the small giants, growing an inch a minute - these nurse sharks will continue until 10 feet long. This one in the picture, above the smaller one, is selling for $300. If you have this much, plus however much it will cost to house a 10 foot shark...and feed it - than you're good to go. It needs a home.

This little guy slithered out just in time to see what all the commotion was about. I don't think he liked my flash. I've never seen anything in real life that looked so much like Flotsam and Jetsam from The Little Mermaid.

Someone got jealous...

She followed me everywhere I went. Can you say desperate?

The first time I saw Shark Week? The summer of 2004. Some things you just don't know you love until you find yourself in pajamas from yesterday watching 800 shows about the same thing and you won't let ANYONE have the remote unless they want to lose an arm...or at least, that's how I found out I like sharks alright. 

Why only a week? Because people have lives! If I could watch Shark Attack III on repeat - I would - it's like the scene of an accident I just can't look away from. And once a year, Animal Planet panders to people like me. In the meantime, I'll get my fix with old Nurse Ratched here (that's the name the two Don Juan's at the front desk gave her). 

11.11.11

Happy Veterans Day.

John Barkley. 

Born in Johnson County, Missouri.

The first recipient of the Congressional Medal of Honor in World War One for valor during the Argonne initiative in October 1918. 

THESIS: Women enjoy getting ready more than they do going out.

As much as would love to see my sister nervous and awkward on a first date, I think the habits of a female prepping for that date are far more interesting. Today we will examine Mary as if she were a specimen to be observed for a thesis.

THESIS: Women enjoy getting ready more than they do going out.

OBSERVATION: The specimen is loving her hoop earrings. In the moment, she is pleased to match her silver belt to her silver jewelry. Will her date notice this detail? Only time will tell. On the bottom left hand corner of the photo, a CHI hair straigtener, only recently unplugged, lays forgotten by the specimen, who has used it and moved on.  She continues a process of repeated ritual preparations for her date, such as applying and reapplying makeup, styling and restyling her hair, and tucking and un-tucking her blouse. 

OBSERVATION: Now the specimen experiences bouts of panic and discomfort. Notice she has temporarily stopped fixing herself in the mirror, freeing her mind from busy work to actually consider whether she is ready to go on the date or not. At this point, the specimen is clear, she is not. 

OBSERVATION: The specimen continues to preen and thus falls back into the comforts of fixations, an act of survival. She knows of her long night ahead and cannot sweat the small stuff. Again, the specimen is loving those silver hoop earrings.

OBSERVATION: When does the specimen conclude ritualistic preparations for the date? It is in the moment whereupon the specimen finishes one ritual and stops long enough to look in the mirror to react with pleasantness instead of panic. As is the case, the specimen has concluded the fixation state and at this point has moved on to the presentation state or the 'look-at-me' state. Specimen leaves for date.

CONCLUSION: Specimen was hostile to further questions post-date and was clearly past it with a new-found confidence not observed the night before. Having claimed to have had a good date, it is with this and with the observations made the night before that I renounce my thesis. I conclude that women enjoy going out more than they enjoy getting ready because only in going out can there efforts in getting ready be validated. 

"I am not an adventurer by choice but by fate."

When I left NYU - I had no plan. I thought up ways to spend my time, some ridiculous, others too practical for a gap year. According to every college counselor, gap years are meant to be spent learning things a classroom could not provide you - an education you acquire for yourself. In Layman's terms and in the hope of every college breaker, to seize every opportunity, to take that train to nowhere, to break from patterns meant to keep us in line and at bay with society and our place in it. And the pressure to make the most of one pressure-free year was a catch-22 I didn't see coming because, again, I had no plan.

The Liberty Memorial and World War I museum was a place my brother visited often in the months before he left for Afghanistan. When I was a little girl and forming memories for the first time, I can recall, with about the same haziness as the photo below, my brother and father taking me here to the top of the memorial. I didn't know what WWI was, in fact, I assumed at this age that when people talked about the world, they were referring to Kansas City. I thought Kansas City, Missouri was the world. 

In 2006, the museum was built underground and surrounding the base of the conical memorial, the only one of its kind in America. And although 445 Kansas Citians perished in the war that killed near 10 million soldiers - we became a city of another kind to steward the memory of the Great War, and in this memorial alone do I believe we are a world class city. Few American cities lend themselves to represent the world. New York has its Statue of Liberty where "From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome" and all the worlds' leaders may settle in Washington D.C. if nowhere else, but what has America contributed to the war to end all wars beyond the 116,708 military deaths? The Liberty Memorial was the answer given by Kansas City, the first and only city to answer the question. 

I volunteer on Fridays and spend my time mostly talking to the old men - some veterans, some historians, others war buffs, and all the definition of an American. In my world, as short a life as I have lead, I feel as though I keep a secret shared with these men, a passion for a period in our history long forgotten by most. It is an experience powerful enough to redefine my idea of this 'gap year' - as I am supposed to call it. Maybe, without planning, it is to be the year of my life.