Wait, don't go away!

Don't worry; you're in the right spot. Let Me Get This Straight has just had a little work done.

I've had this blog for over a year now, and it was time for a nip/tuck. I grew tired of the old Blogger template with the orange star in the corner that looked like it belonged on an athletic shoe and the giant 897 watermark that wasn't code for anything. Typographically, there were things about the template I liked and it served me well enough, but it was beginning to feel worn. Since I couldn't find a template that expressed my individuality, or one that I even liked, I decided to make my own.

Also, I think if one is being paid to be a "Multimedia Specialist," one really has no room to complain about a cookie-cutter template, and she should perhaps take some initiative already.

So, I set about learning how to write my own blog template. Surprisingly, I found it a little more difficult than writing regular webpages or even entire sites. This is partly because I only ever taught myself HTML, CSS, and Javascript from scratch; I never had a class and only briefly referred to books. Mostly, I prefer to dissect things that already work—break a web page apart and change things one by one, observing reactions until I make it all crash. (Reason #53 why I would make a terrible doctor.) (But I'd have my own television show.)

When I was eight years old, my mother bought me a maze-like computer adventure game for our state-of-the-art, DOS-based, green-screen Compaq. I defeated the game but didn't lose interest in it, and I discovered that you could construct your own game with your own mazes and your own adventures. My mother still laughs over the time she walked into the computer room one day to find eight-year-old-me sitting in front of the computer with the manual in my lap, looking first at the book, then at the DOS prompt on the screen, then at the book again, amusing myself by determining the best way to amuse myself.

It was eight-year-old-me that kept swimming to the surface as I sat in front of my computer at 4:00 this morning, having been up all night deconstructing Blogger's own coding language. In the end, it's not really that hard at all, but I say that with the ease of a person who has learned it. It was trial and error all night long, and I finally went to bed with it 90% solved. The other 10% came in an epiphany as I woke up two hours later to go to work. I'm a little sleepy today, but I blame it on eight-year-old-me never wanting to go to bed either.

I'm still un-kinking a few things, so if you are running into formatting problems, please let me know. Also, if my blog implodes, I apologize, and I'll get on that.

Regime change.

I’ve been meaning to write this blog entry for awhile now, so this may not be news to some of you. But even though it happened two weeks ago, the glowy feeling inside probably won’t leave me for at least a couple of months.

::deep breath::

The VenJetta is finished. I won.

It started several weeks ago. The driver’s side window wouldn’t go down (again), and I brought the car to the shop to be fixed. Having already replaced the motor on every other window in the car, I expected to pay a couple hundred dollars and be on my way. Naturally, I was wrong. An inspection of the VenJetta’s inner workings revealed that there was over $1,000 worth of other things that needed to be fixed, or else I would die on the side of the road in the very near future. I asked them to fix only the absolutely necessary items, and brought the bill down to $860, which I paid for with my slowly accumulating (and constantly deferred) New Car Fund. I briefly wondered why I was not more upset by this development, and then I realized: the VenJetta has made me dead inside. I put “Buy a new car” on my To Do list and bought some Consumer Reports literature.

That week, a pervasive burning smell began to appear whenever the car was warmed up.

The next weekend, I was driving roughly 65 miles an hour on a rural highway when I felt a very subtle shift in pressure on the VenJetta’s accelerator. I didn’t think much of it until I tried to slow down for my turn, and that proved more difficult than usual. The car seemed to be getting too much gas, as if the accelerator or fuel-line injection system was stuck, and whenever I put it in neutral or depressed the clutch, the engine revved up to dangerous levels. I shoved it into various gears just to control the engine, but this was not right, and I wondered what would happen when I came to a stop. Then…just as I pulled into my destination parking lot, all the revving stopped and the VenJetta was back to normal. I looked around for Rod Serling and said mean things under my breath.

The following week, the dashboard would periodically start beeping, and then abruptly stop. There were no accompanying warning lights and, according to my owner’s manual, the car should not have known how to beep at all.

It was at about this point that I moved “Buy a new car” up to the tippy top of my To Do list.

Finally, sitting at a stoplight shortly thereafter, the VenJetta just stopped. The engine dwindled away, and I reflexively began fishing for my well-worn AAA card. I continued to try to restart the car with no luck and made one final, defeated call to my father before I called AAA. While on the phone with him, I gave the ignition one last turn and…it started. Oh, okay. Also: What the f***? I drove home, simultaneously grateful and irate, and tried not to feel like a battered wife.

The next day I took the car to the shop (again) where they spent three days trying to diagnose the problem. This process was hindered by the fact that they could not get the car to stall for them, primarily because the VenJetta is a LYING LIAR WHO LIES. Finally, they diagnosed a bad throttle body, and billed me at another $1000. I decided against that repair, because NO.

Two days later, I went car shopping.

That day did not begin well. I had tried to be discreet about the car-shopping thing, but I think the VenJetta found out anyway, and it was not happy. It staged one last stand, not about to go down without a fight.

On my way to meet my dad to start our shopping day, the VenJetta hit an invisible patch of ice from the previous night's snow and lost all traction. This was a surprising development, because I am a good winter driver and I was not turning, braking, or going fast. The VenJetta and I flew off the road and into a ditch at 35 mph, but (thankfully) I was able to gain enough control of the skid that I avoided street signs and cars and managed not to actually hit the embankment on the other side. So, no collision, but it took about five to ten minutes of creative wiggling to get out of the snowy ditch. Also, I think I may have swallowed my heart once or twice.

Now, I’d just like to make it clear here: the VenJetta actually tried to kill me. Not with its usual passive-aggressive psychological assault, but for REAL. Like, with gravity and physics. It was only 8:00 am, and I was already exhausted. I proceeded to my parents’ house and shook for awhile.

When my dad and I left to begin car-shopping, we walked out to the driveway and discovered that my off-roading adventure had caused the VenJetta to lose a hubcap and flatten a tire. The timing was impeccable, and I took a moment calculate how much of my trade-in value would be eaten up by a missing hubcap. Then I took another moment to let the wave of resentment pass, and consoled myself with the thought that my trade-in was probably shot anyway, what with the car being borne of Hellfire and all.

We stopped at a service station and filled the tire with air, then stopped at an auto parts store to buy new hubcaps (a full set of generic hubcaps is apparently one third of the price of a single replacement hubcap at a dealership). I am the only person I know who buys an entire set of new hubcaps and doesn't even keep them for 24 hours. After a car wash and a short blessing, the car was ready to be assessed.

There followed many hours of financing, test driving, haggling, relocating, more test driving, waiting, number-crunching, and perfecting our poker faces. Twelve hours of headache later, we engineered a good deal on a silver 2004 Toyota Camry LE in excellent condition. They paid me more than they should have for the VenJetta, because they did not look closely enough and nobody checked for Crazy. After all the paperwork was done and I no longer recognized my own signature, my dad and I sat in my shiny, shiny Camry and silently watched them take the VenJetta out back. Presumably to shoot it.

I’m experiencing a strange mix of emotions regarding the VenJetta’s demise. Immediately, of course, there is that sort of exhausted elation you only understand when a threat on your life has been lifted. There is vindication—a triumph of spirit born of years of oppression and psychological abuse. There’s the excitement of a shiny new car with fancy dials and a quietly powerful engine and electric everything. But buried slightly below the celebratory feelings is a vague…disquiet? Nostalgia? Guilt?

It’s weird, is all. It might be a touch of Stockholm or BWS, but there’s a little part of me that’s sad to see the VenJetta go. “Sad” may not be exactly the right word, because sweet Jesus, am I glad that car is gone. But the VenJetta was my car. We were so closely associated that I once received the following email from a branch coworker that was visiting on an out-of-state business trip:

Hey, [Meldraw], great meeting today. I really think we’re making headway on the new marketing plan.

As we were leaving the Omaha office today, we saw you driving off to lunch. We wanted to get close enough to wave, but we’re afraid of the VenJetta. We hope you’re still alive.

Talk to you next week.

There was no question that the VenJetta belonged to me, and I belonged to the VenJetta. It inspired frequent blog entries, dinner table discussions, and laughs. I mean, in addition to the tears and frustration and the bills and the mortal fear for one’s own life. No matter what my personal feelings toward the VenJetta were, I had to admit: it had personality, and I knew that personality inside and out.

Surprisingly often, I find myself wondering where the VenJetta is right now. I know it “went to auction” (the dealer could not sell it because its odometer was incorrect as a result of an entire instrument cluster replacement that cost the equivalent of two and a half black-market babies), but I don’t really know how those auction cars end up. Is it being driven around by some poor, unsuspecting soul? Has it been dismantled for parts, and is its living spirit now contaminating the bodies of poor, unsuspecting cars? Had it been dismantled for parts, but then said parts willed themselves back together with an evil determination not-of-this-world, like Christine, and now it’s coming after poor, unsuspecting me? Or is it just sitting all by itself in an empty lot somewhere, lifeless now that there is nobody to give it life? That last one makes me a little sad—yes, sad—because as much as I hated the VenJetta, it was somebody.

So, R.I.P. VenJetta. Or burn in Hell, whichever.

Year in Review

Last week, on January 31, I celebrated my one-year anniversary working for The Man.

It’s hard to believe an entire year has flown since my first week on the job. When I was first offered a full-time job, I was delighted by the thought that I would no longer have to collect couch cushion coins in order to pay my rent anymore. My brain immediately began tallying all the loose ends I could finally take care of with a salary and some insurance, and you might remember I made a handy list to keep it all straight.

So what became of those goals?

Going to the eye doctor:

What I Said Then:
It would be nice to wear reading glasses whose lenses do not routinely throw themselves from the frames. One of the arms actually dangles when you pick the glasses up, and I’m pretty sure that you’re supposed to have two of those little padded feet on the bridge. I guess the actual prescription is sort of important, too, and fewer ocular migraines would really lower my Advil budget.

...And Now:
I did go to the eye doctor. I spent the majority of my FSA on an eye exam which told me that my eyes hadn’t changed much in the last five years, and that my prescription is roughly like looking through Saran wrap. But since the Saran wrap has a slight wrinkle on one side, I need reading/computer/driving-at-night-without-terrifying-my-sister-with-my-inability-to-read-giant-streetsigns glasses to keep the migraines away. After trying on every single pair of frames in the place (and then again, with my hair up) (and then again, squinting hard because my eyes were so dilated I asked a pillar if these frames made my face look fat), I spent the rest of my FSA on some wicked cute frames.

Getting high speed internet:

What I Said Then:
I am on the internet all the time. It’s a requirement of my business, sure, but let’s be honest. iTunes is the boss of me, and in a fair and just world, it should not take 55 minutes to download “Baba O’Riley.” My current dial-up dinosaur ties up my land line, and since my crappy cell phone plan only gives me about twelve and a half daytime minutes per month, my land line is how people usually try to get in touch with me. For the last month or so, all anyone ever gets from me is a busy signal. Several people have expressed concern that I might be unconscious on my kitchen floor with the half-dialed phone in one hand and a bloody spatula in the other, entangled in the cord of a rampantly misbehaving electric beater, while my cat licks the blood from my head wounds. This is not the case.

...And Now:
Buying a high speed internet connection was the very first thing I did when I got a job. It was not an easy process. But even though CoxCommunicationsCustomerService makes me want to watch John Grisham adaptations over and over again until I find a legitimate loophole in this country’s judicial approach to homicide, I am ultimately pleased with the experience. And by “pleased,” I mean “so addicted that my hands started to shake when I spent the weekend at a farm.” I read somewhere that the average American spends 14 hours online per week. In other news, I am Rhode Island.

Cell phones:

What I Said Then:
Twelve and half daytime minutes per month really doesn’t cut it. I need a new cell phone plan, desperately, and I prefer to find one that is giving away free phones. My current cell phone is from about 1998, and is the size of a toaster oven. It has also lost the ability to hold a charge, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to buy yet another battery for it. I’m not even sure they make batteries for this model anymore. I would have to find it in the antique district of upstate New York, and I’m not up for that kind of travel. The only redeeming feature of the phone is its army-style camouflage faceplate, which I like because it has more than a passing resemblance to a tank. Still, an amusing self-referential visual witticism does not a proper communications device make, so it’s time to move on.

...And Now:
The new cell phone was the second purchase I made. That was a romp. Fortunately, all activation issues aside, my cell phone is now satisfyingly trendy. What I find interesting is that I deliberately got a phone with the least number of bells and whistles available; it was free with my plan. I don’t need much from a phone...just the ability to speak to people in complete sentences (“so I walked over to him and—hello? You still with me? Okay—so I was trying to be all—can you hear me?—I was trying to be calm and collected and—what?—Calm. CALM! I WAS TRYING TO BE CALM!—hello?—HELLO?—I think I’m in a bad area—I’LL CALL YOU BACK—NO, I SAID—NO, DON’T CALL ME—I’M IN A BAD AREA! I’LL CALL YOU BACK!!”) and to have a ringer that has more options than “Soft,” “Loud,” and “Mexican Hat Dance.” But even my no-frills phone has a camera and flips and can connect to the internet, and I find myself playing Tetris in odd places. It’s very handy for when you find yourself waiting for someone in a public place and you want to look busy, like you’re dialing the longest phone number ever.

Going to the dentist:

What I Said Then:
I’m not a big fan of having strange men stick their giant, latex-clad hands into my mouth and root around with sharp objects, especially when their distinguishing facial features are conveniently obscured by a mask that prevents me from picking them out of a line-up later on, but actually paying for this “service?” That’s just wrong.

...And Now:
Memo to self: Call the dentist.

On health insurance:

What I Said Then:
On the outside chance that I really do have a violent confrontation with my kitchen appliances, it would be nice to know that I can see a medical professional. I haven’t had health insurance since the military finally realized that a 23-year old woman who had graduated from college and moved out of her parents’ house was not really considered a “dependent” anymore.

...And Now:
Not only do I finally have health insurance (holla!), I also market it every day for a living...which only serves to enlighten me about how crappy my insurance really is. Still, with my quickly ballooning family medical history, I feel much better knowing that I can afford to see someone who will fix me if I break.

On car insurance:

What I Said Then:
The VenJetta is a nasty beast of mythical proportions, and I would be insane not to insure myself against its sense of humor. You never know when it is going to intentionally plant itself in the middle of an intersection and cause an accident. My father still graciously has my back on this one, but it’s about time for me to take responsibility. (And with that sentence, I guarantee you I just made my parents’ hearts stop.)

...And Now:
While I quickly took over my own car insurance early in the year, and felt very responsible doing so, I think I really missed the mark with this goal. Trying to protect oneself from the VenJetta with car insurance is just rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. I’ve spent over $2000 in assorted repairs on that vehicle in the last year, all money that was meant for a new car. In fact, just yesterday the VenJetta broke down (again) while I was sitting at a stoplight, minding my own business. I. Have. Had it. We’re done with this. I’m sick of pouring money into a contraption that is clearly only malfunctioning out of spite now. I’m tired of being afraid that I’m going to run out of warm air when I break down on the side of the road in single-digit-weather. This is the end of my battered-wife relationship with a car that has hated me from Day One. The VenJetta is going back into the shop early tomorrow morning, but only because it needs to be at least functioning if I’m going to get anything for a trade-in. On Friday, I’m car shopping. And I’m taking my dignity back.