The Un-Government Experience at the DMV

Taylor has been bugging me ever since she turned fifteen, at first coyly and then more urgently, “when can I get my permit?” My response was that when she figured out what the requirements were and had prepared and studied for the test that I would take her to the DMV. My daughter then threw herself, uncharacteristically I might add, into the task with abandon. She appeared at home one evening last November with a couple of State issued books about roads and signs and how drinking and drugs can affect your driving.

A couple of days later she asked me for my credit card. “For what?” I asked. “To take my tests,” she replied. As it turns out, all a 15 year old has to do to get a permit in this state is to take a $25 test online, get a certification of completion in the mail and voila…just show up at the DMV and get your picture taken. I felt the whole process was somewhat lacking in the checks and balances department, but who am I to say?

After she received the certificate in the mail (on the second try) we decided to head down to the DMV on the last day before the holidays. She was out of school and I was already on holiday from work, so the timing seemed opportune. Apparently the timing was also great for the DMV employees to leave work an hour early to get a head start on their own celebrations, so the office was closed by the time that we got there.

Another try on one of the last days of the year was unsuccessful as well. By noon, the DMV was not taking any more people in as the wait time already exceeded their hours of operation. This little factoid should have set off warning bells, but we decided that the next time that Taylor had a late start for school for LTM at 10:30, (Normal school time is 8:30 – and getting one’s permit does not count as an excused tardy) we would be first in line when the DMV opened at 8:15 AM.

Which, is how we found ourselves at the hallowed doors of the DMV this past Thursday, at 7:30 AM sharp. Well, not exactly at the doors, more like a block away because the scene that greeted us was this:



There was already a line at least a hundred strong of the tired, poor, huddled masses in front of us. I espied folks with coolers, lawn chairs and reading materials. I sighed and muttered, “Geez, I remember sleeping out for a Madonna concert…but not for my permit!”

“Right!?” exclaimed a petite woman in front of me. She had questionable hair and teeth and her attire suggested she was a fellow ‘80’s alumni who had not left the look back in the decade where it belonged.

An older gentleman in mustard colored corduroy pants and a patterned sweater sidled up to the ‘80’s alum in front of me, kind of doing a sideways dance to cut in front of us. He appeared to be clutching an iPad in a protective folder. I eyeballed his curious and nervous two-step and decided magnanimously to let him stay in front of us.

A couple more women joined the line behind us, not connected in any way save the fact that they had arrived at the same time. One of them, who favored watching rap cartoons (who knew there was such a genre?) on her smart phone (without earphones) mentioned that she had been there the previous morning and she had seen an older man say something about not having his meds and just collapsing on the ground.

‘Good God,’ I thought. All of us in line had been making commiserating remarks about the disorganization and the inconvenience of waiting in line at an ungodly hour for the DMV, but not that it was health or life threatening. I subtly cast a glance around me to asses anyone who might suddenly have a case of the vapors. (As it turned out, my identification skills were weak.)

Chit-chat with our neighbors ceased and the ambiance of camaraderie dissipated once the doors were opened and people were slowly allowed to file in. The culture shift in the line reminded me of the phenomenon that happens when emergency vehicles are closing in from behind you on the road. You and your fellow drivers make way considerately, but once the blaring sirens are in front of you, it is every man for themselves – trying to be first in order to ride the ‘ambulance wake.’

We were all business now.

We were probably about 20 feet from the entrance when two employees came out of the building and started shouting for anyone not in need of a State ID or Driver’s License. Mr. Mustard Colored Corduroy pants in front of us said to one of the bellowing employees that he had lost his license. She said that he needed to stay in the line and pointed vaguely to the spot right in front of Taylor and me.

Dejected, Mr. Corduroy walked back into line and then for reasons known only to himself and God, decided that he would step over the low rope-like hanging chain that stood suspended between posts as a line of demarcation between the sidewalk and the pavement of the parking lot. His first leg he hoisted over just fine, but when he tried to pull his other leg over, his foot caught and forward he went.

It was one of those surreal slow motion moments. Initially, he started to fail his arms to stop the fall but then discontinued the effort. (I assume this was a misguided effort to save his iPad.) Instead, he elected a path devoid of self preservation and allowed his skull to be the direct point of impact.

I heard the ominous crack, dropped my bag at Taylor’s feet and rushed to his side (being very careful when stepping over the chain.) Several other people were at his side immediately, too. His face was still on the ground, and his body was facing away from me. He was making some sounds, and from what I could understand, he was trying to say that he was okay.

The same (bitch) employee to whom he had spoken was there when he finally got to standing with assistance. She said she would bring him a chair. He told her he was worried about losing his place in line. She procured a chair, sat it in the parking lot, facing the waiting-in-line crowd and told him that he didn’t have to worry, he wouldn’t have to wait in line. She left and the poor man sat there in his chair, clutching his intact iPad. He kept trying to shoo people away, saying he was fine. But as he sat there, I could see that he wasn’t.

Where his forehead had connected to the pavement, an enormous welt had begun. It didn’t even take two minutes to form and a fine stream of blood trickled from it down his face. Additionally concerning was the fact that his nose was misshapen and had widened and I realized in retrospect that the crack I had heard was from his nose breaking. He looked dazed and anxious. I hung back and tried to get someone to agree with me that he needed medical attention.

I was just considering calling 911 and how that conversation would play out when the (bitch) employee pushed through the throng of people again. “Excuse me, M ‘am,” I said touching her shoulder, “I do think that he needs to have medical attention.” The (bitch) employee brushed me aside and said she had to go open the gates for the EMT. I was relieved that Mr. Corduroy would get some much-needed assistance. But I couldn’t help but wonder about the fact that our local emergency team had been called out twice in two mornings. How many times does it take before someone says, “hmmm, perhaps there is a flaw in the system at the DMV”?

After Mr. Corduroy was safely being treated, we entered the building. I was greeted by a sign above my head that said, ‘Welcome to the DMV – The Un-Government Experience’ and to my right was a snaking line that reminded me of the S shaped lines that one would encounter at Disney World.

We had snaked through about half of it and my heart lifted a bit. The line was moving a bit quicker now, and I was shaking off the adrenaline that had coursed through me after Mr. Corduroy’s mishap, now that he was getting the medical attention he needed. I was still a little stressed about our paperwork (we had no fewer than 8 documents clutched in a folder) but internally assured myself that we had everything we needed. I was even able to chuckle when I saw this sign that warned anyone approaching this employee's desk, NO QUESTIONS:





Then, the loudspeaker came on; “for those of you who are in line for a State ID or Driver’s License, the system is down. We are on the phone with Tallahassee. The problem seems to be State wide.” Taylor and I exchanged glances. I was ready to throw in the towel. “Let’s come back tomorrow” I pleaded, “there is still time to get you to school on time.”

As only one with a singular goal can do, she rallied. She pleaded with me to just give it 15 more minutes. So I did. We had already come so far. Another (bitch #2) employee came through the line checking our paperwork. We were given a slip of paper that said OK on it and then shortly after, we were given a number and told to “wait in the lobby.” (a huge misappropriation of the noun)




I will spare you the details of our wait and the well dressed and well spoken Centenarian, who arrived with her nurse, to whom I proffered my seat and who fully expected to renew her Driver’s License. (The fact that she had been driven there by the nurse was inconsequential to her.)

Taylor and I listened numbly to the numbers being called. We heard “A101!” and I said to Taylor (much to the amusement of those in hearing distance) “Shit! I have never heard higher than 81 called at the deli line at Publix!”

Our number was finally called, and we high-tailed it to the designated station.

And sitting there was our final nemesis, a pleasant looking, clueless woman who went by the name of Frances.

I excitedly asked Frances which of the forms or documents she would prefer first. She accepted all of them, complained that another employee should have taken us. She shuffled our documentation around and said, “Now HOW do I do this?” Her voice came out gravelly and with a twang. Sort of like Marge Simpson meets a dedicated 2 pack a day smoker.

By this time, my eyebrows have met my hairline so often during this journey that they are fused together. I willed an exhale through my nose.

Frances decided to ask one of her co-workers how to process a Permit. “Hey Aaaaprilll,” she shouted, “how do you do one of these?” She redirected her attention to the papers in front of her and made a few key strokes on her computer. A few minutes later, she turned her head to squint her eyes towards the person she had asked the question of. Then her eyes shifted back to her computer screen and she mumbled, “That’s why she didn’t answer, her name’s Auuuutumn…not Aaaaprilll” and then she chuckled.

Though Frances was befuddled, spoke to herself frequently and sported an admirable mustache, her hearing was much more acute than her knowledge. We realized this when I pointed out our former comrade in DMV arms from the ‘lobby’, the Centenarian lady. Frances heard me whispering, let out a guttural guffaw and said, “Yeah, we’ll see if she gets her license renewed. Ha.” The knowledge that Frances possessed bat-ears forced Taylor to communicate with me via text while I was standing a mere 6 inches away. “Figures we would get the only person who doesn’t know what she is doing!” I had to stifle a chuckle at my daughter’s ingenuity.

I will say in Frances’ defense, she was the most cheerful person that we met that morning. Perhaps ignorance truly is bliss.


I did have to coach Frances through some steps of the process (which should have been 10 minutes, but which took 30.) I had to remind her that Taylor’s Birth Certificate was in her scanner and that the Parental Approval form rested on her printer. But, when Taylor’s photogenic moment finally came and she stepped in front of the blue screen, nervously adjusting herself for the permanent photo, Frances became the Patrick Demarchelier of the DMV. One shot and done. I smugly (Hey, I had few opportunities to feel smugness during this experience) noticed that the young woman next to us insisted on multiple shots from her DMV employee. Frances came through, as Taylor looks absolutely beautiful in her State of Florida Permit photo.

Taylor still had to answer a few more questions from Frances. Such as, has her license ever been revoked, has she ever been arrested for drugs or alcohol…oh, and does she want to be an organ donor?

This last question prompted Taylor to look at me with questioning eyes. “Do I want to be an organ donor, Mom?” Now, this is deep stuff for a 15 year old who is not legally considered an adult. (Now, why didn’t they include this little tidbit in one of the online courses or tests? Let the kid think about this at home and perhaps speak about it with their parents?) Without telling her what my feelings were, she decided ‘yes.’

Then all of a sudden, we hit the summit of our epic climb up Mount DMV when the coveted State Issued Florida Permit landed in her hot little hands. Eureka! We did it!

And then, my internal voice toned in and said, ‘Oh shit.’
After 15 years, 3 months,22 days plus 3 hours, I am a parent of a licensed driver.

Despite our trials at the DMV and also somewhat because of them, I am a little shell-shocked and surprised.

But my daughter? Is elated. She is a licensed driver in the great State of Florida.



eegads, wish me well.

The Tale of Key West and Two Hits

We spent last weekend in Key West, to ring in the New Year in my favorite place on the planet. I have written before about how this funky, lovely little Island town has somehow captured my heart with its many fine attributes.

One of the things that I find attractive about Key West is the people. Well, rather the locals. Due to my many sojourns and my mutual interests with the folks that call Key West home, I have made some friends. And it was a friend who graciously and generously sponsored our trip during a holiday weekend, which otherwise we could not have well afforded.

This trip, we drove my efficient, sleek, pretty, brand-spanking-new Prius, Daisy down there. Even though I had only purchased her a month and a half previously, I just knew it was her destiny to make many trips to the Southernmost tip. I was excited to ‘stretch her legs’ and count the mile markers down US1 to the final destination for the first time with her.

Once there, we parked Daisy in front of our host’s lovely little Conch home in the private parallel parking in front. (As seen in the pic above) She sat there for the duration of the trip, unmoving and soaking up the warm subtropical sun as Donnie and I always rent a scooter to get around when we are down there.

Scooters, bikes or your own two legs are definitely the preferred modes of transportation in Key West. The streets are Lilliputian in size and the other auto drivers on the road are mostly either taxis (fast and careless) or tourists (drunk and clueless.)

Donnie and I just love to spend entire afternoons just scootering around and reacquainting ourselves with the Island…stopping off at the Bookstores (the Used Book one or Voltaire’s), naming off now familiar sights and most particularly, looking at the architecture and Real Estate.

We have been talking more and more about the re-adjusted dream of not selling our listed townhome in Delray and moving locally, but instead just staying put and instead investing in some sort of Real Estate in Key West. Ideally it would be an income property, a project and a vacation destination. Then it would be a future retirement, a family reunion spot and finally it would be a legacy for our daughter and future generations. (Lofty, I know – but aren’t most dreams?)

We happened upon a very special property during our outing on New Year’s Day and in a fit of pique and optimism, I contacted the listing agent to make an appointment for the following morning to see it before we left town.

We arrived a few minutes prior to the agreed upon time of 10:00 AM the next morning. While waiting under the trees and gazing at our fantasy home, my phone rang. I looked at the incoming call…it was our host.

Our host is a wonderful, creative man. He is a local author, an entrepreneur and is deliciously enigmatic and charismatic. He is also a dichotomy of outgoing and introspective. When I first met him, I was enchanted. Our friendship blossomed quickly and as I said before, it was only because of his good will that we were even staying in Key West.

Hearing his voice on the phone while we stood and waited for the Realtor is not what unnerved me…it was WHAT he said. “There is a very nice man here, who knocked on the door. He said he hit your car.”

I was in a state of disbelief, and for a moment, knowing that our host is a prankster, started looking around for a hidden camera.

MY CAR WAS HIT? I quickly realized our host wasn’t joking, asked him to please accept the information being offered from the person claiming to have dented my Daisy.

We did tour the property, which is very promising and then raced back to our host’s home. Daisy still sat sweetly in the sun, waiting for us. Our host was not around, but the information left by the driver who hit the car was left prominently on our host’s desk.

After returning home, I did call the number left on the ragged half an envelope while regarding the copied Auto Insurance card suspiciously. I needn’t have worried. The “Hitter” (which would make me, or Daisy, the “Hittee”) couldn’t have been nicer or more solicitous. He was deeply sorry and promised to do anything to help with the repairs. Upon calling the Hitter’s home (out of state – he had been on his last day of vacation) Insurance Company, I received similar treatment. They assured me of their intent to honor the minor claim and gushed about how long the “Hitter’s” family had been their client and how nice all of them were. All I could do was agree.

And truly, I am grateful. Key West is a paradise, but it is also very transient. My new car was hit by a spiritual young man who carried not only good insurance…but, something rarer nowadays…a conscience.

Daisy is scheduled to have her cosmetic surgery Monday afternoon. The damage was minor and I know she will look as good as new.

But just like Paul Harvey…there is a “rest of the story.”






This very evening, I was sitting outside of a popular Mexican restaurant in the posh downtown Boca area known as Mizner Park. Several girlfriends and I were celebrating the birthday of one of our own.

While sitting there, munching on chips and sipping Margaritas, we all heard an awful CRUNK noise. We all turned our heads to see a car pull away after hitting another one, right in front of us. I leapt up from the table and chased after the offending car, copying down the make, model, color and license plate. We called security and all they did was stick a note under the windshield wiper of the little black convertible VW bug that now had a sagging front bumper. I did add my name and number and hope that they contact me so that I can provide the details that I have of the “spineless twit” who left the scene.

I have come full circle; I went from a plaintiff to a witness in just a few days.

Our lives are indeed, at times, shaped by those that we meet along the way.


“Hitter,” I apologize for your moniker in this blog as you deserve a much better one. However, I wasn’t creative enough to think up a better one. I thank you for having moral fortitude to knock on a stranger’s door and admit to a mishap. Let it be known, I am a kindred spirit. And I am truly grateful.

“Spineless Twit,” I make no apologies. You hit someone else’s property, caused financial and property damage and fled the scene of your crime. I have done the best that I could to identify you.

“Host,” I am proud to call you a friend. You are indeed an enigma…but that is part of your charm.

What makes a man attractive? (An Ode to My Husband)

(The idea for this post germinated this morning after taking the campy Christmas photos of my husband, he ever the good sport)

When I was a teen and in my early twenties, we didn’t call the opposite sex ‘men’ – they were ‘guys.’ Furthermore, my friends and I didn’t call them handsome or sexy, they were ‘cute’ or ‘hot.’

The term ‘cute’ was usually reserved for pretty boys. They were the universally attractive ones with angular faces and aquiline noses, sometimes with long surfer locks and sometimes clean shaven with neat, short Ralph-Lauren-catalogue type haircuts.

The term ‘hot’ was a little more ambiguous and up to personal feminine interpretation and taste. Hot guys (for me at least) were the bad boys, with a hint of danger in their swagger and a mischievous sparkle in their eyes. They also seemed to have that elusive brand of magnetic charisma that could draw you in.

As most women do over time, I learned the lesson. A guy who’s first credentials were cute or hot were great to look at and sometimes fun to be with…but for the most part lacked the substance needed to go the distance.

Though I never altered my number one favorite physical feature (beautiful eyes), I have certainly expanded my palate when it comes to what is attractive. After becoming single again on the eve of my thirties, I came to value the ability to hold a conversation, which goes hand in hand with intellect. I noticed humor and wit. I looked for close familial relationships and long friendships.

When I began to date my now husband, I realized I had hit the jackpot. He had been literally under my nose as a close friend before we had ever decided to become a couple. I had always thought of him as cute and hot (when we first became friends) and now think of him as handsome and sexy.

I can add confidence to the long list of his positive attributes.

Last Christmas, we had posted a picture of him lovely cradling our Chihuahua, Minnie under the Christmas tree on Facebook. His pose was accidentally somewhat reminiscence of Burt Reynolds in a Playgirl layout (but clothed). He weathered quite a bit of good-natured ribbing from his pals up North.

















This year, I was dying to anniversary the picture, and had him take up this pose. Of course, this photo on Facebook had the desired effect. Lots of comments, LOLs, OMGs and one EWW (from my 15 year old daughter.) All in good fun.

















And my husband, my lovely husband, had enough confidence to do this in the name of laughter.

Since coming to Florida to live with Taylor and I, my husband has embraced not only me and my daughter (who he treats as his own), but also my family and friends. He has extended his good nature and love to my daughter’s extended family. He has cultivated a network of buddies that he plays sports with. He has become the pet whisperer in our household, cleaning up messes and giving the newly-diagnosed diabetic cat his twice daily shots. He is loyal…completely. To his family, to us, to his job.

He is not a saint, just to be clear. He can drive me nuts at times. But that is perfect, because neither am I.

I look again at the cheesy photo I took this morning and marvel at the image of the confident and loving man that is my husband.

And I think how not only how handsome and sexy he is, but also how cute and hot.


Today, on the anniversary of Christ's birth, I am grateful for so many things...my daughter, my family, my health, my profession...and also for my husband.

Merry Christmas.

The elephant in the room (would be me)

I have fattened up. Much like the turkeys from last month. And, I don’t like it one bit. Unfortunately, when I am happy and settled in a relationship or marriage, I tend to look a bit plumper. WTF is that?

Every time that I have been single, lonely and yearning, I tend look my best. I have no appetite and I become wispy-waisted. Or, if there is a flirtation in my life (hi angst- ridden cute boy, talkin’ to you here.)

I do try. Lately I have eaten fruit for breakfast, whole wheat bread with low fat peanut butter and low sugar grape jelly for lunch. Dinner is a crap shoot as I may have a business dinner or not. I am also mindful of the fact that my slender father had a heart attack and a quintuple bypass. My health is hereditary.

I hate the extra pounds. I think longingly of the days when I fit into a size four. (I am now a size twelve). I try really hard not pass my body issues onto my daughter, who is already proclaiming a hatred of her thighs.

Next week I start boot camp (I do LOVE working out – with a friend) I so want to reclaim my body. Not only just to its former self but also as a proclamation.

I FUCKING ROCK.

See you on the treadmill.

Parenting a Teen (A Rant)

Parenting a teen is a thankless job. The trials of parenting your child when they are a teen are fraught with land mines, emotional and otherwise.

A few examples of the choices and questions presented to the parent of a teen might include figuring out when your teen can navigate a mall when not under your eagle-eyed gaze, how to give them just enough privacy with which to hang themselves and when to have the REAL discussion about drugs.

(Thanks Nancy Reagan, I do believe you had good intentions, but when my 6 year old daughter came home after experiencing one of your ‘Just Say No’ campaigns at school and stated that she WOULD NEVER TAKE drugs, I simply asked her what a drug looked like. Yeah, as you would imagine, she had no response...so please, give the kids something tangible to work with here.)

When you are the parent of an infant or toddler, as that parent you get all kinds of advice; breastfeed or bottle feed? Which disposable diaper is the best...or if you are the crunchy variety like I was, which cloth diaper service? Which books to read to my little burgeoning piece of grey matter? And oh, how people would comment on my daughter's looks. How beautiful, cute, charming, dimpled and sweet. Praise about her adorableness used to abound.

But now that she is 15 and in the throws of teenagedom, I get few notices. Gone are the well-meaning helpful remarks about her diet and growth...nary are the comments about how adorable she is. The new sound bytes include how much she looks like me, how tall /big she is...and is she babysitting yet?

I insert comments about the trials and tribulations of raising a teenaged daughter into conversations with peers and they are mostly met with raised eyebrows and statements like “well, does her Dad own a shotgun?”

Granted, the daughter of my tales does not endear her to people. She is mercurial at best. (But if you are a stranger or a co-worker of mine, no doubt you will be charmed be her alter ego; the engaged, participatory and friendly version of herself.)

True to her age and science she can be hormonal and sullen in one moment or sunny and whimsical the next.

But, she is still a child - albeit one that is navigating her way into adulthood. She still needs me, for just a few more years. And, these are probably the toughest years that I will weather as a parent.

So where are the accolades, showers, commiserating blogs and advice that I received 14 years ago when she was an infant? Where are the Mommy play-dates, birthday parties and community of my daughter’s toddlerhood?

***Sigh***

Not only is parenting a teenager rough, it also makes a parent of a teen feel a bit isolated.

Buying a Car

I have never been a car fanatic. I have never spent countless dollars attaching a spoiler, adding rims or installing an expensive stereo system on any of the autos that I have owned.

I do however, have long term relationships with them. Some of those relationships were a bit abusive (on my side, when I was younger) and some were longer lasting than others.

A somewhat brief history:

My first car in 1987 was a rust-colored ’83 Toyota Tercel, that my father bought for me after I graduated and started working while taking college courses. As my parents had been naming their vehicles in alphabetical order since they had married, I gave him an ‘A’ name, Aloysius. Aloysius was my first ‘car love.’ He had a sun-roof, was easy on the gas and afforded me the freedom that I so craved when I was 17. Though he is sorely missed, I am glad he isn’t around to tell of the tales of my late teens and early twenties exploits that he was witness to and (an innocent) part of.

I ran Aloysius into the ground. My next car in 1991 was a Toyota Corolla; she was bright red and had a manual stick shift. This time, though my Dad made the down payment, I was responsible for the monthly $100 monthly loan payments. She had only 30,000 miles on her when I got her, but someone must have loved her as a racing car. She had spoilers, loud speakers and several two-lettered monikers after her make and model. Betty Boop was fast, sassy and sexy (as was I at the time.)

By the time Betty Boop was nearing the end of her life in 1996 (Like I said, I was really hard on and neglectful of, my autos in my youth) I was married and had given birth to my only Daughter.

My Daughter’s Father and I purchased an early SUV, an Isuzu Trooper together, shortly before her birth. We imbued him with the moniker “Big Al.” And it was Big Al who made the trip from the hospital to home with my Tay after she was born.

Taylor’s father and I parted ways when she was only 2. Betty Boop had expired and Big Al was our only shared vehicle. Thankfully, my ex’s parents gave him an aging Volvo.

In 1998, my beloved Grandmother decided that Neons were the cutest things on 4 wheels...and thus, she purchased one for me outright. We went to Carmax one day...I commented on a pretty bright blue one...and all of a sudden she was mine. I named her ‘Betty Blue.’ I had decided on going back to a B name after my separation from Taylor’s Father. I figured I would re-start with the naming process.

Betty was my car through Taylor’s younger years. I was SO proud of her, and the fact that she was owned outright (due to my Grandmother’s generosity.)

From 1998 through 2003, Betty was my vehicle. She gamely took me to work and traveled with me as I picked and dropped off my Daughter at school or with one of her loving Grandmothers.

In the beginning of 2003, she started to fail and show signs of needed repairs that were beyond my (at the time) meager means.

In February of 2003, I was driving past one of the car lots on the street just to the East of me and espied a beautiful Chrysler Sebring Convertible. Her top was down and her pretty sage green paint sparkled in the sun.

I pulled in and a few hours later, Casey was my new pride and joy.

I remember the next morning when Taylor and I got up to go to work / school and we greeted Casey in the parking lot of our development. Taylor turned her big brown eyes towards me, “Is she REALLY ours, Mommy?” she inquired. “Yes she is,” I replied.

As she is a convertible, Casey has been my later-in-life (late 30s) sexy car. She was the first car that I owned outright, without a father or a husband. It was thrilling to drive her with the top down. No matter my frame of mind, every time I drove her topless...I was elated and any previously dark mood turned sunny.

She and I have been together for almost 8 years now. Just recently, she has shown some signs of age - brought about more quickly because of the strains that my new husband has challenged her with. He drove her through a deep rain-water puddle (the water was up to the doors) about a year ago. Her engine coughed and sputtered...and died. We gave her a new engine (heart transplant) and she ran as much as she could and very tenuously. These lat few months she has expelled some unseemly noises...of an over-wrought transplant engine and of something knocking about where her tail light was replaced.

She gave me a last hurrah on the way home during my lunch hour on Friday. She started leaking fluids and stank of gas and / or oil.

I took a half day off on Friday. I knew it was time. Time to put my beloved Casey to pasture - and time to finally realize my dream of owning a Hybrid.

My sister works for Toyota...so when I knew I had to purchase a new car - it was an easier decision. I was blessed with employee pricing, along with zero percent interest.

So yesterday, I became the proud owner of Daisy - the Toyota Prius Hybrid.

My monthly payments will mean a definite change in budget for our little family.

But I am happy with my purchase and with my decision.

I look forward to many miles with Daisy - and I am praying that she keeps me and my Daughter safe in the years to come. (Taylor will likely get her license while driving Miss Daisy - no pun intended.)

So tell me about your important cars and what they meant to you....

Voting

I am so sorry, I didn’t vote on Tuesday. (I was traveling.) But in case anyone in interested…here are my thoughts.

This last election was so fraught with finger pointing and pontification that I was glad that I didn’t get to vote. The platforms of the electees were so lost in accusations; I didn’t know who stood for what.

But below are my beliefs:

• I am in favor for a woman’s right to choose. The day that Roe vs Wade is overturned is the day that I will run for office! And you can quote me on that. I.e. Stay Out of My Womb!
• I am in favor of same sex couples being able to marry and being able to have the same rights of hetero-sexual couples. Geez, same sex couples have been around since Moses left Egypt! Give it a rest, stop crucifying them! And for god-sakes, stop bullying young teens that come out. We have already lost enough beautiful young men and women – it is shameful.
• I am in favor of marijuana being legalized, and having the same laws governing it as we do for alcohol. So many people I know smoke or take the occasional toke. (I don’t, it never did agree with me) But, in-act laws around it to ensure no one “smokes and drives.”
• I am in favor of welcoming all aliens. We are the US of A, we’ll find a way. (Plus, I am the daughter of a once-upon-a-time alien from Cuba.)
• I am in favor of banning all fire arms. I know that the right to bear arms is in the Constitution…but that was written in the days when that was the only way to keep the peace. (If you need a reference on how a country survives without guns – just look at the Netherlands.)

Okay, so given the above I would be labeled a Democrat (which is what is stated on my voting card), but really I am a pacifist. Make love and not war and all of that.

But my bottom line is this, we are:

One Human Family.