Going on a car hunt, I'm not scared

I've been shopping for a new car these past few weeks. There are only 3 things that I require in this new car (or new-to-me car), and these things are pretty straight forward. So future car salesmen of the world, pay close attention.


1) The car needs to be a 4-door sedan.
2) The car needs to have a manual transmission.
3) The car needs to have a warranty.

End. Of. Story.

Maybe it's because I'm blonde. Maybe it's because I look like a closer relative of Malibu Barbie than Albert Einstein. But, and feel free to speak up if you are of the sleazy car salesman variety, THERE IS NOTHING MORE FRUSTRATING THAN CAR SHOPPING WHEN YOU ARE A WOMAN.

And here is why…

My roommate and I walk onto a German car lot in East County and start browsing. Within three seconds, a gentleman approaches us and asks if he can be of assistance. I politely give him my 3 main criteria for my newish car, and wait expectantly for him to take me by the hand and whisk me from car to car with feverish abandon. And wait… And wait. After more than three seconds of puzzled looks from said gentleman, he speaks up and says, "You don't want a manual transmission." Such conviction from a total stranger!

"Err, yes I do, actually," I reply, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. This guy must be new at this. Or doing a terrible impression of a psychic.

"No, trust me (insert the implied "little lady" here). They're terrible in traffic." He puffs up a little at this, sure that this obvious logic will have me convinced. And just to ram the point home, he steers me toward a nice beige car that is (surprise) an automatic.

"Okay, sir," I say, trying to be reasonable, "maybe you didn't hear me. I want…correction, will drive nothing other than…a car with a stick shift (emphasis on stick just to make him a little uncomfortable). I like cars. I like to drive. Fast. STICK SHIFT or nothing. Capisce?" My roommate is getting settled in for this fight. She's been car shopping with me before.

"Are you sure? I'd never buy a manual," Mr. Salesman states, as if his personal preference has any frame of reference for my driving style. "Yes. Very. Now what do you have on your lot?" I reply, praying that he finally shows me a car that I would actually want to drive. And pay good money for the privilege.

"Well, alright, in that case, why don't you take a look at this cute little convertible up here? You'd look great in this car! It is this pretty light pearl blue with a matching top!" he says excitedly as he starts marching toward the front of the lot.

Laughing and shaking our heads, my roommate and I turn on our smart high heels and stomp purposely in the other direction, finding a souped up black-on-black sedan with more horsepower than Mario Andretti could shake a stick at. "Hey, hombre, let me test drive this car and we can run some figures," I shout to Mr. Still-Not-Getting-It across the tops of unsold automobiles.

His crestfallen eyes look from me…to the car…back to me (blonde hair, fashionable outfit)…back to the car (18" chrome rims, tinted windows). Muttering something about getting his manager, he shuffles inside, only to come out a moment later not with the keys to said sedan, but with said manager in tow. Said manager who also doesn't have the keys to the car I want to test drive. But, oh elation, he does have the keys to a very nice compact 2-door sedan with a user-friendly automatic transmission...

L.A. Lunch Solo Mission

The people sitting behind me live a life of true burdens--the lady of the house is planning her day--mapping out naptime, gym time, all she has is TIME to fill up with her self-riteous self-preservation. They're enjoying a $50 lunch, probably to be followed by a $250 dinner at a swanky "A" list joint downtown. I bet they live in a condo. He's wondering what I'm writing. He's assuming I'm famous. And I am, in my own mind.

It's hot here lately. The heat doesn't shimmer off the blacktop, it crackles. I wish that lazy waiter would bring their check so I'd have the shade of this umbrella all to myself. A group of women behind me all order salads to split. They are discussing the accomplishments of the 3-year olds in their lives. Private baton lessons for one, violin lessons for another--"amazing little people"--learning life lessons. Little people who already need personal assistants to keep their schedules straight. Send them to New Orleans to help with the clean up. That'd be a valuable life lesson.

El Aye. Land of one-upping. Land of the almost-discovered. New couple behind me--an agent and a prospect. I already know he'll be ordered to get new headshots (he's bald now and his photos show a floppy mass of dark hair). He looks vaguely like Bruce Willis but sounds more Al Roker. Less man-of-action, more weatherman. Works out of his home, something to do with repo's. Definitely not glamorous. Don't see his career taking off any time soon, especially with representation who barely speaks English. Her agency is in Koreatown (Alhambra. Must be at least 105 degrees there today). Snap. Crackle. Pop.

Go With God

The Del Mar racing season is in full swing after a ridiculous-hat adorned opening day last Wednesday. In the spirit of summer, I headed for the horses directly from work on Friday (hatless, because I'm new at this). Apparently I also missed the memo on the Del Mar Uniform (micro mini jean skirt, black tank top, wedge sandals, fake t….well, you get the drift). Aside from feeling sorely overdressed in capris and sandals with only a 1" heel, I was caught up instantly in the excitement of a little pastime I like to call Gambling.

In order to gamble, you need one thing: Money. And whoopidy do, guess who hit the ATM on her way to the track? It was fate, and my crisp $20 was burning a hole in my pocket. Step one: obtain cash. Check! Step two: choose horses.

Now when choosing the horses you'd like to bet on, you should always use a very scientific method. Weigh the odds, study their record, trace their lineage. Or you could just bet on the horses with the coolest names. This is called the point-and-peck method of betting. I'm not saying it's 100% successful, but it sure beats putting good money down on a horse called "Ed" with 3/1 odds.

Step three: place bet. "$10 on Flaming Devil Pitchfork to place, $10 on My Crazy Ex Wife to win please." 15/1 and 12/1 odds respectively. I'm feeling lucky!

Starting gun. And they're off! I'm yelling, jumping up and down, GO NUMBER 7! RUN YOU SLOW B@STARD NUMBER 2! HERE THEY COME! NUMBER 7 IS MAKING A BREAK FOR IT! I'M GONNA BE RICH! I'M GONNA BE…

Where the holy HELL did number 8 come from?! Get outta there number 8! Who the hell is this ringer number 8? I don't even see #2 or #7 in this blur of silks. Wait! They're crossing the line and it looks like…

"Number 8 wins, followed by…"

Step 4: Check race results to see just who this Mario Andretti-ridden #8 is…


8th race - Del Mar - July 22, 2005

Winning Time: 1:04.54

Pgm:8
Horse:Our Father


This is God telling me I should spend more time praying and less time playing the horses.

H2Oh the horror!

My coach informed me last night, after an hour and a half of swimming painful laps of freestyle (the "crawl" for you non-swimmers) and backstroke ("blind crawl resulting in bruises and slight concussion" for non-swimmers like myself) that I am an aquaphobe. I thought this was a compliment, like "You are a natural and swim like a fish!" until my Vocab 101 kicked in and I realized what she was telling me.

Aquaphobia: An abnormal and persistent fear of water. Sufferers of aquaphobia experience anxiety even though they realize the water in an ocean, a river, a lake, a creek or even a bathtub may pose no imminent threat.

Now come on Mr. Webster, of COURSE I realize that the water in my bathtub poses no imminent threat to my person. I just prefer to take showers. Quick showers. Showers where the water runs immediately down the drain and straight into the pipes which will eventually transport it all the way back to its home in the Pacific Ocean. That big, dark, cold, waves-crashing, jellyfish-hiding-in-seaweed, hungry-shark-dwelling ocean. *shiver*

I think my aquaphobia (not medically diagnosed) stems from the time I watched "Jaws" at the Lake cabin then proceeded to go tubing. My mom was driving, her friend Cheryl was spotting. So our tube ride went something like this: Michelle and I getting whipped around the frothy wake of our turquoise '68 Bayliner, screaming bloody murder, while Cheryl and my mom are chatting away in the boat impervious to our shouts of "For the love of GOD, SLOWER!" Suffice it to say, after one donut hole too many, I was flipped off the tube and skipped like a rock for 40 feet, landing squarely in a thick bed of kelp. The boat kept going with petrified Michelle in tow, and the chatty Moms still oblivious behind the wheel. Da nuh, da nuh, danuh danuh danuh danuh AHHHHHHH!

As I got older, I quickly traded in my inner tube for a slalom ski. I still get behind the boat every chance I get (well, every time Hayden has anything resembling flat water), but I still hate the thought of falling in seaweed. Easy solution? I don't fall. I've gotten very good at waterskiing by using this technique. You should try it; it is guaranteed to improve your form.

July Club Race

Doing my part to feed the hungry racers. 700m/13.5mile/3.7mile