Week 46: Dodge Viper GTS-R

I have a difficult time with exact years, but instead remember events as a fluid relationship to other events -- a 'that happened sometime after that one thing but a bit before that other' type of memory.

I find myself sleuthing when trying to remember when something occurred. Today's vehicle, a gift from Linda out west in Washington (thank you, Linda), is a Dodge Viper, and this caused me to go into full gumshoe mode. I'll explain.

This car made me remember that for a short time I sold Dodge vehicles and only once saw a Viper come onto the lot - I remember the Viper because I wasn't permitted to take it for a test drive. If I remember correctly, I wasn't even permitted to sit in it.

Now as I write this I don't remember exactly when I worked as a Dodge salesman. I seldom mention that position, not because anything was terrible, but only because the job was a long time ago and only for three months - a way to make ends meet in between jobs and one of a long line of in-between positions I held early in my adult life as an English major making his way in the world.

I remember those three months well, but I can't remember when they happened. Time to put on the weird double-sided Sherlock Holmes hat. Let's think: What do I know?

1. Dodge Vipers debuted in 1991, so it wasn't before that year.
2.  My now adult son was preschool age, so that puts it around mid 90s. Getting closer.
3. We were standing outside the showroom and I was quietly listening to the other salesmen (most of them substantially older than me) talking trash about...think, what was it...

Curt Cobain's death. That puts my stint as a car salesman during April, 1994. (Listening to those type of conversations also contributed to my short stay as a car salesman.)

I envy people who can instantly access months, days, and years without going through that comparison process, but that's not how my brain works.

Overall, this relational memory isn't so terrible except when it comes to my kids, and by that I mean talking about my kids. Parents are expected to remember important dates, or at least months, such as when their child learned to walk, use a spoon, ditch the diaper, and so on, and I don't. Ask me to tell you when my 11 year old began eating solid food and I feel like I'm flipping through the air like today's car picture -- everything stands still in panic. My memories are more like impressionist paintings rather than photos, full of color and emotion, but lacking in solid lines and crisp images.

This can be frustrating, because at times it may appear I'm not paying attention, but I am -- I'm just storing the info away in a different style.

Recently, however, I was thrilled to put this type of relational detective-work to good use.

My wife and I launched a vintage shop on Etsy as a side project for both of us, and numerous times I found an item without a clear date, where I have to look for clues.

I found a vintage map of Route 441 to Florida - I see it was pre-Disney World (opened 1971) and mentions the new golf course in Gatlinburg, TN, which through Google searching I see opened in 1955.

I secured a complete set of vintage Charles Atlas mail-order exercise programs, but wasn't sure if they were 30s or 40s. The last lesson says "Remember Pearl Harbor" so I now know these were not from the 30s.

And so on.

This hobby allows me to fully employ relational timekeeping without the guilt -- I can find specific markers of time events online and then compare what I know with what I suspect, AND I can feel great about my efforts.

Beyond my Etsy store, I also find this relational memory makes it easier to talk to my young kids, because they seem to process information similarly -- lots of vivid memories unencumbered by the tedium of days, months and years.

My memory is a pre-school impressionist vintage collection, with toy cars.

All things considered, I think I'm cool with that.


Doing a bit of sleuthing on this car, I determined this is from the 2005 Hot Wheels collection (sorry Linda -- even though the car was in a yellow Matchbox box, it's a Hot Wheels! -- Nonetheless, it's an awesome little diecast, and I love the flat black finish).


The dramatic wreck pictured in this week's blog courtesy of photographer Phil Pekarcik. 

Week 45: Pierce Dash Firetruck

Objects in mirror appear closer than they appear ... and like a firetruck with sirens screaming,  the responsibilities of this week are suddenly on my tail, but the metaphor ends at my tail. I can't just pull over and let  the responsibilities pass.

The past five days have been a whirlwind, but a whirlwind delivering a refreshing breathe of air nonetheless.

I have taken on a role on a board of directors for my church, launched a vintage / retro side business with my wife, and have been doing PR work for a great company on a contract basis.

Additionally, I have an appointment tomorrow morning with an artisan cheese-making operation, which I am excited to squeeze in amidst a number of other welcomed responsibilities.

The kids have been doing great, the tomatoes are growing, and life again feels like an adventure. I'm doing well.

But tired and slightly behind...on everything. Toward that, I apologize for this insubstantial blog, but 1am arrives in two minutes, and the eyelids are drooping.

Enjoy the excellent photo of the rushing firetruck taken by photographer Phil Pekarcik, and join me on Etsy where I'm currently parking Nickadizzy, the side business I mentioned.

I wonder if I can just catch a few zzz's right here at the desk....

Week 44: Lamborghini Reventón

Lamborghini Reventón. Fast, expensive, luxurious, exotic -- a car I might, at first consideration, think I would want.

Yet when it comes down to the truth, the actual car doesn't really match my own tastes. This car isn't my cup of tea.

Kids do that all the time -- the idea of something builds so much in their head that it nudges reality right out the bed. Such an occurrence happened tonight, but it turns out it was their cup of tea -- two cups of tea, actually.

I mean actual cups of tea.

The fiasco went like this: I went to the pantry to select some tea, when preschooler Racer A asked what I was doing.

I'm going to make myself a cup of tea.
Ohh. I love tea.
I'm not sure you've ever had tea.
Oh sure. I think I have. And I know I'd love it. What kind of tea is it?
Sleepytime tea.
Oh, I'm sure I'd love Sleepytime tea. Can I have some Sleepytime tea with you, Dad? Please? I really want some Sleepytime tea. Because I would really love it. I love Sleepytime tea, but I never had that tea before, but I'd love it.
Okay, I'll make you some Sleepytime tea. Do you want to smell it? (I hold out a tea bag and he takes a deep inhale).
Oh, I love that smell it smells so good. Yes, I want some Sleepytime tea too.

By this time the pleading for tea has attracted two-year-old Baby G, who is now at my feet.

I whun to smell tea too!! (He bobs his head in anticipation. I hold tea bag to his face, and he snorts out instead of breathing in, but still says Ahhhh.)

I drop two tea bags into two coffee cups and heat the water.

Is my tea done yet?  I have walked away from the cups and KNOW he must see I could not possibly have poured the tea.

No, the water is still heating. Soon.

I wait for the water to finish heating, pour our cups, and after a few more questions on whether his tea is done yet, our cups are finished steeping. I doctor his tea with milk and honey and take the cups to the table.

Even though the rule is food and drinks at the table, he decides he wants to walk around with the tea.

 I do not know why.

As soon as I finally get him situated at the table, Baby G adamantly begins insisting he wants tea, too. I get another cup, and pour half of A's cup into Baby G's. He tries to take the cup and walk around with it.

After a brief struggle which was initially seen as my attempt to steal his coveted cup of tea, I get Baby G to calm down and sit. He takes the cup, and on the first sip dribbles tea on his pajamas.

Nee halp.

I help him with his cup, but each sip dribbles, and I finally ask if I can put it into a sippy cup for him. He appears to agree, so I get a metal sippy into which I pour the lukewarm tea.

Tea!

I leave the two sitting at the table and go sit on the couch. After 20 to 30 seconds or so, I hear Baby G shrieking NOOOO! and turn to see him trying to take his brother's cup. MINE!!! MY TEA!!! MY CUP!!

I rush to the table where the two kids are wrestling with the single cup and attempt to explain to Baby G that has the sippy, but after seeing his brother with the cool adult-size coffee cup, Baby G must have a coffee cup, too. He has completely blocked out that he ever had a sippy. Sippy cup? Bahh. I want a cup of tea, man!

I decide to not go with logic, and instead get up and bring back the cup, pouring the contents of the sippy back into the cup.

He attempts to walk around with the cup.

I get him seated. He smiles. His brother smiles. Everyone is happy. They each have a half cup of tea, and their  own cup.

Later, after a lengthy explanation to Racer A on why my tea was not white and his was, both the kids finally go to sleep.

The cups are still on the table. They are both half full.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Photo of my Hot Wheels Lamborghini courtesy of Phil Pekarcik. The Lamborghini Reventón, by the way, is the most expensive Lamborghini road car costing around $1.5 mil and can run in excess of 210 mph.Without milk.

Week 43: Custom V-8 Vega

This week's blog, with its featured surreal, album cover photo design, is dedicated to imagination (with shoutouts to 4th of July fireworks, the 1970s and vinyl record albums).

Tonight I had a marathon imagination session with preschooler Racer A and 2-yr-old Baby G. As such sessions generally go, this one was unplanned.

As I was seated on the couch with my feet stretched out, Baby G climbed onto the ottoman, and looking down at my outstreched legs, asked, "How do I get down there?" (Translated from Baby G-eze -- original form more like, "Hauw I get dow-wun dair?")

His tone told me he wasn't looking for an actual answer, so I said, "Take the elevator."

"Oh!" he said, nodding, obviously satisfied with the answer. He climbed down, contained by each of my outstretched legs, and asked, "Hauwa I get up dair?"

"Push the button," I answered.

Baby G pushed an imaginary button which caused an elevator-going-up noise ending in my vocal interpretation of an elevator stopping and climbed out onto the ottoman. And repeated the process, complete with, "Hauw I get dow-wun dair?"

This went on for about four rounds before attracting Racer A (kids love elevators, after all).

"Can I ride the elevator?" he asked.

"Sure," I answered.

"Hey, Elevator, can you talk?"

My answer would steer the unfolding story. "Yes, I can," answered Elevator.

"Oh good. Can I go up?"

Racer A squeezed into the elevator, where Baby G was already standing. He pushed a button in the air, after which Baby G pushed another button. The elevator made its elevator noises.

The game expanded, each ride prefaced by a new question to Elevator from Racer A, such as Hey Elevator, do you have a family? (answer, Yes), and Hey Elevator, do you have any friends? (answer, Yes, Escalator).

Baby G now was also on a first name basis with the elevator, but generally kept to saying, "Ella baitor? Go do-wun?", obviously more concerned with the business of travel at hand and less about the Elevator's genealogy.

After a variety of discussions about escalators and elevators (for some reason, Elevator talked with a deeper voice than my own and Escalator talked with a higher voice) and after establishing Elevator had been made at the Otis factory by Bill and Cindy, Racer A asked what floors were the best.

As it turned out, there was a party on Floor 7 with pizza, but after stopping by, Racer A wanted something more exciting, so Elevator mentioned the big party on 11.

"With dancing?"

"With lots of dancing," answered Elevator.

"And good music?"

"Of course. And you get to pick your own." (Which meant more buttons to push.)

Both of the kids wanted a party, so they hit the massive dancefest on 11, which was super fun, but, as fate would have it, lacking in cake. Luckily, Floor 4 had a bakery, and, even more luckily, had a giant rainbow cake with sprinkles in stock. (Subsequent visits to the bakery saw Racer A purchase vanilla mint cookies and blueberry and cantelope* pies.)

The party was a huge success, and while this account has long since abandoned an attempt at brevity, I'll nonetheless omit the rest of the adventures with Elevator and instead leave it to your imagination.

I will, however, leave you with the dances, invented and named by Racer A, that were performed on the 11th Floor, first by Racer A, and quickly followed by Baby G.

• The Ice Cream Scooper
• The Stand Pit
• The Wave Arms
• The Guitar Ranch
• The Dandelion
• The Hammer Punch
• Big Tree
• The Twinkling Star

I have a feeling Elevator has now entered the imagination world of my kids as a recurring character.


But seriously, though.

You really should check out that party on 11.


*Earlier in the day on the car radio we heard the song "Time Bomb" by Rancid (Black coat, white shoes, black hat, Cadillac, yeah, the boy's a time bomb) and Adrian mistook Cadillac for cantelope.



Thanks to my mystery photographer and the inspiration, and even though I completely dropped my planned blog on 1970s vinyl, sometimes you just need to let loose and party.