Many of you are long time subscribers to the Deborah Chronicles and will be happy to see that they have returned. The rest of you will be wondering "what on earth?!" For the uninitiated, the Deborah Chronicles started as a way for me to occasionally let my friends know what was going on in my life. Now, in addition to being informative, they serve to entertain, to amuse, and — perhaps — to provide the basis for a future sitcom. It is best not to read these with a full bladder.
To get a feel for past editions of The Chronicles, please click here . Basically, the themes are these: 1) ways in which I hurt myself, 2) ways in which I confirm that I am a dip, and 3) unlikely ways in which I meet men. The most important thing to know is that — all together now — I do not make these stories up!
Those of my new readers who are not native English speakers may email me for translations or at least explanations. For example, let me define "dip" as it used in the context above. A dip is a person who despite best efforts just does things that are silly, or dumb, or pathetic. Basically a dip is not hip. You're on your own for "hip."
Those of you who really don't want to "subscribe" should tell me, otherwise you'll be continually blessed with these random missives. If you don't have time for this, scroll to the last story — it's the best one. (The rest of you should save it for dessert.)
First, a housekeeping matter:
*Where in the World is Deborah Koch?*
Based on some people's comments, there seems to be some confusion about where I am. I am back in the US, living in my sister's guest room in South Deerfield, MA. This is not as pathetic as it sounds (well, maybe it is, but please don't tell me) — I am delighted to be sleeping in the same bed for more than one night, to know the condition of the sheets on which I sleep, to have hot water on a regular basis, and most of all to have a toilet that flushes by itself. For a woman with no job, no home, and no man, I am relatively happy.
Now for the stories. In this edition:
Shake, Rattle, and Roll
It is late at night and I am riding down Virginia's Highway 64 from a visit with relatives in Virginia Beach on my way to a friend's in Williamsburg. I've only been back in the country for a couple of days and am driving my car which sat at my mother's house for many months while I was gone. I've got a wonderfully full belly of crab cakes and other yummies that my cousin Lynn lovingly prepared for me. The radio is blasting gospel, music that I missed so much while traveling. I am happy, ready to enjoy a visit with my good friend Dee, who gives the best Southern hugs. I notice that the bass on my radio is awfully loud — even for me — and turn it down. But the rumbling basso sound persists. As I exit, I turn down the radio altogether and the unmistakable sound of a detached muffler cannot be ignored. Nor can the unwanted sound of metal scrapping on the pavement. Grateful to be on an exit ramp — and close to my friend's house — I pull over to assess the situation.
As I look under the car, I see that it's not just the muffler that has fallen off, the entire exhaust system has detached itself from the front of the car. I am only mildly annoyed as I review my options: 1) try to fix it so I can drive to a service station, 2) flag down someone to go get help, 3) walk to get help. I chose Option 1. Prepared for this contingency (note to new readers — contingency planning is one of my many quirks), I opened the trunk and pulled out the short bungee cords and coat hangers I keep there just for moments such as this. But I can't reach the offending pipes and — given my accident prone nature — I'm not keen on jacking up the car so that I can get under it. I move to Option 2 and pull out the "Call Police" sign that I happen to have with me (of course). This lasts for about a minute as I consider that it is about 11pm at night, very dark, and isolated and I'm feeling a bit exposed. Option 3 is ditched for this same reason. I develop Option 4: drive very, very slowly until I find a phone and accept that the price of safety is that I might be ruining something on my car. Remarkably — despite making horrid scraping sounds — the exhaust system stays with me, until I pull into a 7-11 and the dip in the driveway (meaning a depression in the pavement — not to be confused with the dip writing this story!) pulls the whole damn thing off.
But the experiences of my travels keeps me calm and resigned and I go inside to find out where I am so I can call the AAA tow truck. AAA is called, as is my friend, I have her check the phone book for the address of a muffler place nearby, and I go back to my car to await their arrivals.
At this point a handsome, friendly man (with a wedding ring — I checked) offers me his help, which I gratefully accept — another remnant of my travels. Having longer arms, he is able to get part of the system back up where it belongs. I want to thank him for his kindness, so I insist he take the delicious apricot upside-down cake my cousin had given me and give him instructions to share it with his wife. He determines he needs to stay with me until help arrives.
Meanwhile, my friend shows up, eyes the handsome man with a trace of glee in her eye, and doesn't see his wedding ring because he's holding the plate with the cake on it in his left hand. Fortunately, she has more grace and restraint in these matters than I do and, despite a very friendly conversation among us, no embarrassing encounters result. Soon thereafter, the tow truck driver shows up, and he's being just as friendly and helpful as the first guy. Then a police car, which has stopped in the 7-11 for some Ho-Hos no doubt, decides he'll be helpful and shine his lights on the whole operation, except that one of his lights is out. I go over to his car window, thank him for his help, and tell him one of his lights is out. "You better get that fixed," I caution, "or somebody's going to pull you over for that!" He gives me a look that essentially says, "I can't believe she just said that to me," (at that point, I can't either) but eventually gives a mild laugh (phew!). There is an air of a party in the 7-11 parking lot now. The car gets placed on the tow truck, the policeman leaves, as does Nice Married Man. I give the tow truck driver the address for the garage I had selected. He starts laughing. Turns out it is right next door!! It had been hidden by a patch of trees, I could have driven the car there. I am such a dip.
Do you want fries with that?
I am job hunting. Anticipating this necessity upon my return from my travels, I had carefully placed the bin full of job hunting materials at the front of my very densely-packed storage unit where I could easily grab it upon my return and get right to work finding a job. However, for reasons that remain a mystery to me, I did not put any interview clothes or shoes where they could be easily reached! (The dip theme continues.) I had one suitable-for-interviewing outfit in the clothes I packed to go to my mother's house before I left on my journey, but only knee-high boots — hardly the mark of a professional woman (unless you're a go-go dancer or Nancy Sinatra; younger readers may consult those over 40 for an identification of Nancy Sinatra). Reluctantly — because I wish to avoid participating in excessive consumption — I bought a pair of shoes.
The day I finally had an interview was actually warm enough to wear one of the silk suits I had made in Vietnam. But shortly before I was to walk out the door, I realized that the skirt and the jacket were of a slightly different material — yet another way that Vietnam has messed with me. Looking at the clock, I sighed, shrugged, and accepted this — as I learned to do while traveling — and hoped that either the interviewing male would not have such a discriminating eye or that most of interview would take place with me hiding my mismatched skirt under a table. Fortunately, I got the table, which gave me the confidence to charm and engage for an hour and a half. (I love interviews. The only other circumstance in which you get to yammer on and on about yourself is in a therapist's office — and you've got to pay for that!) I have not heard anything back yet and trust that the matters about which the interviewer needed to talk to his colleagues did not include my capacity to dress myself.
Showdown at the Maryland State Highway Rest Stop
My sister Nina says I have a Savior Complex. Perhaps she is right. Read on and you tell me.
I was driving from Massachusetts to Washington, DC for a couple of meetings that hopefully would lead to some consulting work and to see my newly-born grand-nephew. I stopped at a rest stop on I-95 in Maryland to use the bathroom. (Long-time readers may recall another unique rest stop story. If you don't know the story, click here.)
As I exited the bathroom stall, I see a woman with a look of horror on her face, motioning to me, and whispering. As I get closer, I hear that she is telling me that there is a man in a stall, just two away from where I had been. I look over and sure enough see the telltale signs of enormous feet below and a hat sticking up above the stall door. Big clodding shoes, with droopy jeans overtop. Apparently he had been trying to peep at me! I say to her, "Let's get out of here!" and we run out.
But ever the responsible citizen, I determine that we need to report this, so I ring the bell outside the handicapped bathroom that summons the attendant. The attendant arrives and we tell her that there's a man in the women's bathroom. "Again?!" she exclaims, "and he's an employee, too!" We are astounded and she is distraught. Frustrated by a supervisor who will not hear her complaints and warnings, she begs us to fill out comment cards recounting the incident. I quiz her and learn that this employee repeatedly peeps into the women's room from the employee office door; she is surprised to learn that this time he has actually ventured into a stall. I become enraged and march back into the women's room — he is STILL in the stall! I put on hands on my hips and in a ten foot voice roar, "You get the hell out of there!" To my surprise, the stall door opens. To my continued surprise, I am not scared even though he is easily a foot taller than I am (well, yes, I know it's not that hard to be that). I continue the rant, "What the f#*k do you think you're doing?! You're SICK!" He looks at me and slinks back into the employee office from whence he came. Not one look of shame, of guilt, or of belligerence.
I go back out to the female attendant and tell her to call her supervisor. She tries to find the supervisor and can't. I tell her we need to call the police. Finally, she reaches someone at the State Highway Administration and tells him what happened and that I want to call the police. I ask to speak with him and tell him this boy needs to be fired immediately. He says I am welcomed to call the police or they can handle it, assuring me the firing will take place. I emphasize, "He needs to be removed from the premises tonight!" He promises he will. We hang up.
Then I get concerned about the boy's whereabouts. The three of us go back into the women's room to do a sweep — he's not there — and the attendant puts up a sign that the women's room is closed. Meanwhile, we check to see if his car is still there — it is. (I had fantasises of what I would do to keep this guy from leaving, including the old remove-the-distributor-cap trick. Then I remembered I don't know what a distributor cap is.) Finally, I spy the offender emptying trash barrels and carrying on with his rest stop duties as if nothing had happened. The woman who first saw him and I are worried for the young female attendant, so we tell her she is not to go back into the employee office, to keep her cell phone handy, and that we will wait with her for awhile as we wait for the arrival of help. After a considerable period of time when no one arrives, she assures us that she will be OK, that she has mace, and we leave.
A few days later I am troubled that I did not call the police, that this boy may have been fired but will just do the same thing somewhere else, and that no one in authority listened to the pleadings of the female attendant. So I call around until I find the right office at the State Highway Administration and try to find out what happened and to express my various concerns. I learn that the attendants are hired by a contractor (perhaps the same people who used to screen your bags at the airport?!). I tell the Highway Administration man that he needs to scrutinize this contractor and ask himself does he want someone representing him that doesn't know the danger of a Peeping Tom?! I have the phone number of the contractor — that's the next call — and plan to follow up with the police. I may not be able to pick out the boy's face in a line-up, but I'll never forget those big clodding shoes.
Living on the Edge
I still don't believe this next story happened to me. This is perhaps the most absurd thing, the dippiest with a capital D thing, I've ever done. Now would be a good time to go to the bathroom.
As I mentioned, I am living in my sister's guest room. To earn my keep, I take on little projects to help out my sister. One involved getting rid of some old books. I was able to sell a few, but had determined to take the rest to the University's recycling center where they pack them up and send them overseas to poorer countries.
One sunny day (this is no minor detail), I had a lunch date with a friend at the University so I thought I'd be efficient and drop off the books first. I checked in at the office, got back in my car, and taking off my sunglasses (this is a clue as to what follows), drove into the warehouse. The woman there guided me to the bin in which to place the books, which we did, and feeling very much the good-deeder, I got back into my car and headed toward the exit. As I drove to the back of the warehouse, I couldn't see an exit. Then I see an opening in the side of the warehouse and a line drawn on the concrete confirms that must be the exit, so I turn right and proceed. As I approach the opening, the glare is too much, and I pat the seat next to me looking for my sunglasses (are you paying attention?!). Then with an incredible thud, my car comes to an abrupt halt.
"Damn this car with its low clearance," I mutter to myself as I put the car in first gear and try to move forward. "Why don't they make an exit ramp that people can drive on without scrapping bottom?!" I complain as I put the car in reverse. I can move neither forward nor backward. Frustrated I get out of the car to survey the situation.
It was at that moment that I understood why I couldn't get my front-wheel drive car to move. That would be because I was standing on the very edge of a loading dock and the car's front wheels were hanging out in midair, about 10-12 feet above ground!!! I HAD DRIVEN MY CAR HALF WAY OFF A LOADING DOCK! Did you hear me? I DROVE OFF A LOADING DOCK!! Apparently, the sun's glare was so blinding, that I failed to see that I was driving straight ahead into nothing. Even sitting in the car, I didn't see that there is no road in front of me.
I am dumbfounded. Nothing in my hours of contingency planning has prepared me for this event, although just the week before — at my friend Val's house — I had thumbed through her copy of the latest Worst Case Scenarios book and paid particular attention to the chapter on how to get out of a car that is hanging over a cliff. Really! But the information for that only works if you are aware that you've driven over the edge BEFORE you get out of the car. So I'm standing staring at my car, which is hanging out in space, thinking to myself, "I have no idea of how to get out of this. No idea." Amazingly, I'm not scared, I'm just trying to think through how to solve the problem.
At this point the workers at the facility have begun to gather. "I've never done anything this stupid before," I stammer to the first man on the scene. "Well, actually that's not true," I confess, remembering the men I've married, "it's just been awhile."
The men spring into action. They discuss. They confer. They examine. I stand back, shaking my head. The woman from the office leans in and whispers to me, "Is this what you do to meet men?" I look at her in amazement — it's like she knows me! Finally, the men have seized upon a plan that will get my car back on solid ground without harming it. A forklift is driven out and around the warehouse until it is face-to-face with my dangling car. The driver expertly slips the tines of the forklift under the car and lifts it up, so that now — out of gear and with parking brake off — it glides easily back onto the warehouse floor! I thank the men profusely.
The moment when I had to get back into the car and drive it out was when my kness got weak and I understood just how close I'd come to really hurting myself. (I think I have three lives left at this point. See Travelogue #9, Four Lives Left on my website for an accounting of how number five was used up.) I checked and doublechecked that I was in reverse gear and slowly backed up and drove out the way I came in. I was only 10 minutes late for my lunch date.
That night I baked some pecan pie bars for the gallant men who came to my aid. In the thank you card I thanked them for their kindness, for their quick response, thoughtful assessment, and expert handling of the forklift so that my car was not injured. But most of all, I thanked them for not making fun of me — at least not to my face! I signed the card Lady Knevel.
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OK, boys and girls, that's the end of this edition of Dips on Parade. Please tune in again when I give winning tips on how to determine the aerodynamic capacity of your car.
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