This is where Elizabeth gets to ramble about whatever random thing is on her mind today. It's very therapeutic for her! Check back at your own risk....
All of my life, I've driven crappy cars. Where I grew up in Massachusetts, there wasn't a lot of emphasis placed on driving. Everyone used the subway. So when I got my first car, it never even occurred to me to get a fast one or a pretty one or one that drove me into bankruptcy. I always thought that was just frivolous. But I'm starting to understand that there's another reason besides vanity that people buy expensive cars -- they actually work.
My cars never work. You put the key in the ignition, and it's like putting a quarter in the slot machine. You never know what will happen. But it's better when they don't start at all, than when they start, and then stop in the middle of a highway. I really hate that.
This month, I was driving along a highway at sixty five mph, when the tread flew off of my tire. (It wasn't a Firestone, so I don't get to sue anybody.) Somehow, I managed to stay calm, turn on my signal, and get into the breakdown lane. Experiences like this teach you something about yourself. I'd never known I would be so poised under fire, and am kind of glad to learn it.
Well, you know you're in Texas when your car breaks down. Vehicle after vehicle after vehicle pulled over to lend me hands, cell phones, and sage advice. After calling my road club on a borrowed phone, I actually ducked down in my car and hid. I had to -- otherwise, they would've kept pulling over, and I would have had to tell each one that the tow truck's on its way.
Forty-five minutes passed. Every car that zoomed by me seemed just a little too close for comfort. I kept thinking some speeder was going to take my mirror or door handle for a ride. The big trucks made me feel like my car was going to flip over on its side. So I got out of my car once more and waited for another phone-bearing person to stop. It took about one minute.
I called my road club. "It'll probably be another hour," they told me. Another hour?! It had already been forty-five minutes! Did they think I was sipping Pina Coladas on the beach? All I could say to them was, "I guess it's a good thing I'm in the breakdown lane, and not in the middle of the road." I hung up, and knew I had to do something drastic. The temperature was more than a hundred. My husband was not answering at his office. Cabs don't drive outside of the Austin city limits. I regressed into a reckless teenager.
"No problem," I told myself, "I'll hitch hike." I found a hefty gentleman in a rough pick-up truck who was more than happy to drive me all the way to my house. "Wait a minute," I said to him, "You're not a serial killer, are you? If you are, I think it would only be polite of you to come out and say so before I get in your truck." He assured me he was not. So I got in his truck and said, "I just want you to know you're on record as being a non-serial-killer. If you were to kill me now, you'd not only be a murderer, but a very dishonest person. I just want you to know I'd think less of you."
I was trying to be cute, but he actually looked a little offended. So I cooled it with the girlish chattering and said, "Thanks a lot for helping me out." He said, "It's only about fifteen miles out of my way. No big thing." He started to talk to me about Jesus and how he wants to be a poet.
I told him, "I write smutty romance novels."
He said, "No kidding?"
I said, "You want a bookmark or something?"
He said, "Hell no."
I laughed and said, "I really wish there were some way I could thank you for bailing me out like this." I was feeling very relieved, because we were now pulling into my driveway, and I had not been murdered.
He said, "I'll tell you what. You ever see me stranded on the highway, I expect you to pick me up."
I said, "You bet I will," and I wished that it really would happen, that I could prove to him that I would really do it. But I knew I'd never see him again.
I thanked him some more, then went inside and called my husband, "Oh NOW you pick up the phone!" I laughed.
To give you a feel for how much I love the Olympics, I named my new dog after one of the Russian gymnasts. Yes, I now have a dog named Svetlana. Even the vet can't remember it, and asks me whether I want to bring in, "that Russian dog".
I watch the entire Olympics from opening ceremonies to the closing. I only get this joy once every four years (Well, two -- I know - it's all weird now.) But I get to see them only rarely. And I have no tolerance for people who complain about the Olympics. They get their boring football, basetball and basketball games every year, all year round. Let me have my one event!
I'm really horrible while I watch them too. I make popcorn, and I demand silence from anyone who happens to be in my house. I jump out of my seat when someone does a good job, and I wince when someone messes up. I gripe at the judges when they make stupid calls. And I cry during each gold medal anthem.
There's one thing I don't like about the Olympics though. (Aside from unfair disqualifications on the basis of non-performance-enhancing drugs.). I don't like it when people win silver or bronze medals, and the interviewers act as though they "lost". The person just won second or third place out of every human on the planet! And the interviewer asks questions like, "Are you disappointed?" "What went wrong?" Geez!. There's nothing in the world wrong with a silver medal.
Well, maybe then the Olympics serves more purpose in my life than just giving me a reason to own a television, and an opportunity to watch men in muscle shirts flex it for the camera. Maybe it's an important reminder to me that I should always value the bronze medals in my life -- and maybe not even demand those of myself. Maybe some day I can become enlightened enough that I don't even notice the medals, and just say,"Guess what, everybody! I tried out for the Olympics! Isn't that great?"