By today’s standards, my vehicle is pretty old school. No Bluetooth or Wi-fi, no fancy controls on my steering wheel. If a vehicle gets into my personal space on the highway, there’s no light or sound to indicate impending disaster. Just good old peripheral vision and a collection of expletives set aside for such occasions. It’s a no-frills ride, which suits my needs at the moment.
I used to have an Acura Integra that had what passed for a high-tech safety feature at the time–an automatic seat belt. This mechanism ensured you buckled up before takeoff. Once you closed the car’s front door, the seatbelt would glide from a forward position to one over your shoulder, snugly securing you in your seat. You then merely had to engage the lap belt for full coverage, which I dutifully did after reading horrific tales of decapitations from exclusive shoulder belt use. *gulp*
It was a brilliant feature.
Until it wasn’t.
Cut to grandma settling into the passenger seat for a lift to ladies’ lunch. Sweet Jeebus, you’d better be sure her heart meds are on board before closing that door. The concept of this maniacal belt snaking its way over her head to points beyond could be unnerving for someone who was still getting used to the concept of an electric oven. Transporting such individuals required building in an extra 10 minutes for explanation, regrouping, and general counseling purposes.
Admittedly, it managed to startle even me on occasion. Reaching in to help frightened passengers sometimes led to an unexpected knock in the head. An ill-timed kiss goodbye through that window could prove catastrophic.
God forbid you pulled up to a stop light and needed to open the door a few inches so you could expectorate that coffee-ground laden final sip from your travel mug’s morning brew. The seatbelt sprung into action, mistakenly thinking it was time for bodily extraction, and engaged you in what amounted to a stranglehold. With any stroke of good luck, the light didn’t turn green before you regained consciousness and untangled your melon from the belt’s deadly embrace.
There was also no peeking out the door to ensure you’d angled correctly inside the lines of a parking space. That sucker dutifully rocketed to the forward position and locked up your cranium faster than you could say, “full nelson.” I suppose it was the price I paid for technology.
I think I’ll stick with simplicity for now. Fewer bleeps and bloops and wrestling moves on board. If you see me on the road, give a friendly tap of the horn before drifting in my general direction, m’kay? I’m cruising low-tech up in here.
Can you imagine if these were served at a state dinner? Or to the Queen Mum during a visit? Hilarious. And unhealthy. But our Irish friends are entertaining as always:
I was helping Mr. Man try out his new green screen technology last week, and we shot this highly
unprofessional video. Rest assured, subsequent videos allowed for full headroom and less spazzy lighting. It’s a work in progress, people.
Happy New Year! Another holiday season has come and gone, and with it the Christmas shopping tension I vow to alleviate each year. I make every attempt to get things done early so I’m not out with the last-minute Lucys of the world. Thing is, there’s invariably something I need during that final week before the black-belted big guy swings through town. And let’s be honest: I’m kind of a last-minute Lucy in general. But! When the crunch is on, I motor through. I just get in, get out, and snap pictures of the ridiculous on my way.
I consider it a public service to my two readers.
You’re both welcome.
Lip balm flavors from hell in 3-2-…
The only words I noticed were the three at the top of this package:
When did wine purses become a thing? Are there whiskey purses or schnapps purses? Is wine the only beverage Klassy enough to warrant a designer carrying case that coordinates with your shoes? Also, is there a model with a long straw?
Let’s face it. These people are out there, and some of them really need to be told about themselves. I’d like one I can propel to that woman sitting in her car doing God knows what while you’re waiting for her parking spot. This is for you, “I might be taking a good long time adjusting my seat belt or maybe I’m just sorting through my entire purse right now” Lady.
In case you’re stumped for inaugural gift ideas (the mirror is a nice touch):
I just… uh… wow.
To be sure all those drunk dials aren’t misunderstood:
Until next time, happy shopping!
Hey! Are you on Goodreads? Are we friends yet? I also joined another online book-reading app thingy, but that one makes my wee brain feel far less collected than the simplicity I find on Goodreads.
I just had to pop in to dust off these pages and recommend my new favorite book. It’s A Man Called Ove by Fredrik Backman.
I surely would have fallen for this Saab-driving curmudgeon in print but listening to the book enhanced the read by leaps and bounds. He knew just when to punch up certain words and add a twinge of disgust to others, giving color and life to the characters. I would put this in my top five favorites list, although, I’m not sure I could be pressed at the moment to recite the other four.
I’m currently reading another book by the same author, but it was pure happenstance. I didn’t purposely select it because the same person wrote it–the title grabbed my attention and the blurb reeled me in. It’s a bit longer then Ove, and does contain some element of fantasy, so it’s a little slower going for me. I’m more of a real life gal vs. fantasy worlds, but there is enough of the real human element in My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She’s Sorry to keep me coming back!
Read anything noteworthy lately?
I’ve never been a Black Friday shopper. For some people it’s as much a part of Thanksgiving as mashed taters and gravy, and they cling to their routine like stink bugs to a screen. They dutifully set their alarms for crazy-o’clock a.m., tank up on caffeine, and charge forth to join the throngs of early bird bargain hunters.
Once or twice I’ve ventured out on Black Friday (during normal humanoid waking hours, mind you) and decided it wasn’t worth the epic lines, close standers, and assorted bodily odors. Thankfully, much of the stampeding takes place during the wee hours of the morning when I’m still sound asleep and happily dreaming of pie.
I just don’t see the point of a throwdown in the Star Wars aisle of the toy store because only one BB-8 app-enabled Droid remains on the shelf in a banged up box. All yours, pal.
“Ooh, Ginny, how’d you get that gash on your face?”
“Great story, Jen. I got the last Hatchimal on the shelf on Black Friday. Some broad had it by her big fake nails, but I shot her an elbow to the neck and took her down in a full nelson. Scored big with this baby! Doctor says the infection should clear up in no time!”
“Um… yeah. Sounds great.”
I mean, I used to get in there with the ladies in Filene’s Basement in Boston on my lunch hour, but the rush there was a daily occurrence, and there was no violence or trampling involved. Just some healthy “I got this first” side glances and very mild, but occasional, pressing of elbows. It was all in good fun. And great bargains. Just sucked to try on in the enormous “group fitting area.” Hard to unsee some of that, really.
I’m pretty content with shopping locally as much as possible, and hitting up a few Cyber Monday deals online. What about you–what kind of a shopper are you?