Grading.

15th Amendment:

"People could not be denied their race, color or previous servitude."

A Tale of Two Machines: How different could they be?

 For almost 2 years I had a car that I really loved, but then Volkswagen offered me a chunk of change to buy it back as part of a huge lawsuit that you either already know about or don’t.

Anyway, I ended up buying a newer Volkswagen, and it might even be a bit prettier and posher.

It has seat warmers in the front and back seats and all sorts of navigation stuff and soft buttery leather that still smells like new car.

It certainly is politer and kinder than any driving machine I have ever known.

 It turns the music down a bit when I brake, and it makes a sweet chime when a car passes behind me so that I don’t think about racing backwards and hitting it.

Nope. Not with this car watching my back.

This car cares about me.

 It has a setting that slows me down if I get too close to the car in front of me, and blinks pretty yellow symbols when other cars pass near just in case I’m too busy singing or judging someone in another car. 

Oh, and also, my new car is especially sweet in that every time I turn it off, it reminds to me to take my cellphone. Like, literally, “Don’t forget your cellphone, Melissa.”

 Awww, of course I won’t, thanks! it’s in my purse THANK YOU, I answer happily, every time.

A few weeks ago, I headed out in my new car to buy a replacement for my old K-cup maker when it  died for the 5^th time after being the backup for the newer K-cup maker that died 4 times.

 Coffee is a vital food group and weight management tool that I take seriously, so I usually spent upwards of $30 a week on k-cups, often disappointed by one or both of the dying k-cup makers.  

Still, it seemed better to make one fresh cup 5x a day than make a pot of coffee and drink too much and then think about reheating it but yuck it never tastes good again, so I stuck with k-cups for years. 

It was a sad (and angry) week in my world when both of the k-cup makers died and I had to live on my stove-top Cuban coffee maker which was fun but cafecito should be served in thimble sized cups, not Yeti mugs, so it just didn’t work out.

I believed there was something better out there waiting for me.

I looked at  $300 and $200 systems that required pods and such. Nope.  

I found a $79 coffee maker with the thermal carafe and all these cool settings. Perfect. 

But wait, there was a $49 coffee maker with a thermal carafe right next to it. How different could they be? I bought the cheaper one, brought it home, and spent the better part of two months drinking fantastic coffee, all the time knowing that the coffee maker didn’t care a bit about me, not like my new car did.

The first time it happened I was puzzled. I ran through the steps in my head. Coffee. Filter. Water. Buttons. Light goes on. Wait. Gurgles. Steam. Coffee. What part had I missed?

Oh. The water.  Fine. I added the water and the coffee maker steamed up at me like, “LOL look who doesn’t know how to make coffee.  Not that I care if you have coffee or not. Whatever. Go away.”

The next time it took me a little less time.  I ran through the steps in my head. Coffee. Filter. Water. Buttons. Light goes on. Wait. Gurgles. Steam. Coffee. What part had I missed?

Oh. The water.  Dammit.  DAMMIT!  I added the water and the coffee maker steamed up at me like, “Heyyyyy look who still doesn’t know how to make coffee.  What do you want from ME? To alert you? Nope. I get paid the same whether you drink coffee or not, so whatever.”

I drank the coffee anyway, but it was a little bitter.

The third time it happened it took me even less time. ….  I ran through the steps in my head. Coffee. Filter. Water. Buttons. Light goes on. Wait. Gurgles. Steam. Coffee. What part had I missed?

Oh. The water.  THE FREAKING WATER.   AGAIN. BECAUSE THERE IS NO WATER LEVEL INDICATOR AND THE WHOLE DAMN POT IS OPAQUE. BUT OK. I needed coffee so I added the water and the coffeemaker coughed a cloud of steam at me like, “You are hopeless at simple tasks and will never know the meaning of covfefe.”  

That’s OK. Whatever. Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not.

I waited until the coffee machine exhaled one last shudder of steam before pouring myself a big cup and going out to sit in my car and hang out with my favorite machine, the one with seat warmers. With competition like this, there’s nothing the coffee machine could have done to become my #1 thing anyway.

Where all the Eclairs Went

Zoe is walking out the door to school, turns around and goes back to the kitchen to get a big box of eclairs.

I watch, and maybe perhaps probably raise a pre-dawn judging eye.

Her: What? they're for polysaccharide Thursday.

Me: Polysaccharide Thursday?

Her. Polysaccharide Thursday mom. I bet you don't know what a polysaccharide is.

Me: It's a sugar.

Her: No (sigh) it isn't, I love you.

Me (to the closed door, but not too loudly): Yeah? Well I can name all of Henry the 8th's wives!

And with that she left, taking every single one of the eclairs with her.

Drink the Wild Air. (The Car Story)

I like what I like.

I like how Ralph Waldo Emerson thinks. 

Romero Britto’s art makes me giddy.  

I can’t get enough of Edward Hopper’s America.

Thoreau speaks to my soul.

I have one delightful perfect round black purse that I love and have worn every day for over three years and sometimes (often)  hug like a small pillow (too precious to picture here).

I loved my 2014 VW Passat every single minute that I owned it. 

I loved every bit about how it drove. 

I loved all of how it looked. 

I loved how it felt the right size for me, like Cinderella finally putting on a shoe that fit. 

I loved the black and white tuxedo leather seats that reminded me of chocolate eclairs.

 I loved that I could drive from Tallahassee to Fort Lauderdale without stopping a single time, but that wasn’t as important as the other stuff.  

But when it came out that VW did something wrong and had to either buy back or fix a bunch of cars, I got in line to sell my poor gorgeous perfect car.

I have been filling out paperwork, submitting more documents and then faxing notarized whatever and printing this then clicking on that to do the other thing since last October.

Today I brought my beautiful perfect Passat  in and went home with a check.  

I knew no other car could replace this car, so I thought about getting a Hyundai Sonata.  I drove one about two years ago and I loved the seat coolers.  Everything about it was cool, but the seat coolers are still calling to me in 2017.  On top of all of that,  our South Korean friends could use the support, right? RIGHT?

Nothing on the VW lot looked good to me.  

Nope to silver cars. 

Nope to Volvos. 

Nope to Bugs. 

Nope to bright blue too sporty cars that didn't have the posh things like push button starters and doors that unlocked because they literally loved me so much they knew I was coming (or whatever, don't pop my bubble).

Just as I’m leaving the VW lot, fully intent on going home carless and researching cars and also maybe finally figuring out how Uber works, I feel a strange pull and pop across my chest.

Before I can understand what has happened my hands instinctively catch my no-longer perfect wonderful security blanket of a purse before it hits the ground. 

A tiny baby voice in my head does this thing that is the opposite of prayer and goes like  NO WAY, no sir, please do NOT make me give up my best friend purse AND my most favorite beloved gorgeous car within hours, this is unfair, this is too much to BEAR....  

As I  juggle my poor overworked perfect lovely broken purse I see something in the corner of my eye.

I point at a car I had seen before but because it had a strange tag across the window I assumed it was already sold. 

What about that one? Why is it in time out?

It was for sale, and it turned out to be newer, cheaper, prettier and posher than my old car, and I’m getting it because clearly it was there waiting for me, conspiring with my purse to have this exact moment.

This universe is a pretty great place. 

AMH 2010: How Sentimental Motherhood brought US the Spanish American War