Enough Already!

My Mind: The Province of Petty Annoyances

I remember one episode of the Bob Newhart show (the one in the 70s; not the one situated in Vermont) where Dr. Hartley had Mr. Carlin keep a journal of everything that bothered him. When Mr. Carlin met with Dr. Hartley, he delivered a blow by blow, minute by minute, recount of the previous days aggravations.

I feel like Mr. Carlin. Everything is just getting on my last nerve. For example, I asked my husband to get me the Entenman’s chocolate covered donuts. Now for as long as I can remember, every time I’ve ever bought these donuts, they were yellow cake donuts covered in chocolate. So where did he find devils food donuts covered in chocolate? Never, even by chance, have I purchased the devils food chocolate covered donuts. And no, I don’t like them; they are too sweet.

I asked him to get me Mentadent toothpaste. Now, am I the only person who buys toothpaste in this house? I always buy the mint flavored. Why the fuck did he get the new Replenishing White w/Calcium formula? in peppermint fusion flavor? What is that anyway? It tastes like shit.

And who taught him to make a bed? There is more to making a bed than just pulling up the sheets.

And I am at the mercy of this domestic cripple. I gave up on letting him prepare my food when he handed me a plate with some bacon and toast and announced that the egg was not done yet but would be ready soon. I don’t know about you, but I like to eat my egg WITH the toast, not afterwards.

And they delivered our baby furniture and there are a few minor scratches on it; and my husband complained bitterly that he was not going to accept the furniture in that condition, yadda yadda, and when I told him he’d have to work it out, suddenly “well if you don’t care then neither do I…” Mr. Macho. It’s fine if I’m the one who has to call them up and bitch them out…what am I? his fucking lackey?

So I agree to call and bitch out the furniture store after Mr. Macho continues to point out every little defect in these beds. I tell him to write down all the perceived deficiencies so I don’t miss any, when he tells me “I can’t write it down. How am I supposed to describe that?” Well how the fuck am I supposed to describe it to the store clerk if he can’t?

And my husband bitched b/c they left a white scratch on our wood floor; And he had the nerve to suggest that if he’d been here, that would not have happened. Since the delivery guys did not have a floor buffer with them, not sure how this would have been fixed.

And Jonathan Antin, you make me sick you egomaniac. But what makes me more sick, is that I continue to tune into that trash reality show Blow Out on Bravo! Jonathan, take your new hair product line and shove it up your ass, already!

Babies R Us – you suck too. I tried to make a list of shit I needed for the babies’ layette, I decided I’d just add everything to a registry and print it out. This turned out to be an exercise in futility. The little caps I wanted? Only available in blue or yellow, they will e-mail when the pink and white ones are available. Some items I wanted, forget it, you could not add them to the registry but they could be added to a wish list. None of the items had a very good description of the product. Everything for little girls was pink. Most of the shit was ugly. And why is this my job? Why am I the only one concerned that the cribs will have bedding or the babies clothing?

Laying down makes my back and neck hurt, sitting up makes my lower back hurt, when I stand up, my uterus crushes my bladder and makes me feel like I have to go to the bathroom.

Buster (the cat) won’t leave me alone. Bugsy and Fat Tony are ignoring me. And the mother fucking remote control just quit working.

Enough Already!!!

It doesn’t cost $2,000 to monitor an Egg Donor…

It costs $5,000!!! 

I finally received the final accounting from the emotionally unstable director of Surrogate Parenting Center of Texas.  It’s my opinion that she is emotionally unstable because she refused to produce the accounting on several occasions citing their strict policy of closing out all accounts 120 days after egg retrieval.  I pointed out that this was not in the contract that they made me sign but my protest feel on deaf ears. 

Even when the 120 days past, I figured out, in addition to having some major control issues, the dumb bitch can’t count b/c by her calculation,

April 20, 2005

was 120 days after the

December 10, 2004

egg retrieval.  When I tried to contacting her repeatedly, she would not take my calls and told me we’d have to communicate through correspondence instead. 

After her artificial deadline of April 20 came, she finally produced the accounting along with a demand for prompt payment of the $5,200 due.  Yes, you read that right.  Not $520 - $5,200!!!

How can this be you may ask.  Well, the center that my egg donor was referred to, Scott & White, charges the following for each visit: Office Visit $69, Estradiol (blood test) $155, Lab Fee for Ultrasound $182, Physician Fee for Ultrasound $125.  So each visit to Scott and White costs a minimum of $531.  Dr. Harvard, bless his heart, only charges $40 for an Estradiol and $80 per ultrasound. 

So, we rang up 5 of these visits to Scott & White for a total of $2,655.  Then, I got lucky (note sarcasm) and my egg donor had an ovarian cyst at the beginning of her treatment cycle which had to be aspirated so we could get on with the cycle.  That costs $1,861 to treat.  That puts us as $4,516.  Throw in a $253 HIV test and a few other sundries, and the total charge to test and monitor my egg donor was $5,200. 

I was never informed that my egg donor had a cyst that had to be treated (by my doctor or the agency), nor was I given any indication that we had far exceeded the amount of the required escrow. 

After all was said and done, the travel expenses for the donor and her “partner” were twice the estimated $1,500 escrow, and monitoring fees ran well in excess of the required $2,000 escrow.  The bills for travel and monitoring of the donor basically cost the same amount as my doctor charged for the IVF: $8,500.  The grand total, after counting the donor’s fee, the donor agency fee, and medication came to $27,000. 

So ladies, learn from my experience.  Find out up front what the fee schedule for the center that your donor will be monitored at if it will be remote.  As you see, the cost can be significant.  Also, before you commit to one agency, get a look at the contract that you will be required to sign when you select the donor BEFORE you even engage in the selection process.  DO NOT just rely on their promotional material (like I did – and I’m an attorney – a desperate infertile attorney albeit). 

Once we had selected our donor and put down the $500 deposit with my doctor to hold the spot, I was mailed a contract and told to sign it with no changes in 10 days or go pound sand.  Which was a 180 degree change from the kindness and enthusiasm I experienced during the donor selection process. 

Which reminds me of a joke…There was a man who died and was greeted at the pearly gates by St. Peter.  The decedent was asked whether he preferred to go to heaven or hell for the rest of eternity.  He was surprised that he was actually given a say in the matter, but rather than look a gift horse in the mouth, he asked St. Peter whether he could take a look at both before deciding. 

St. Peter showed a video tape of Heaven in which there were beautiful gardens and angels playing harps; there was an overwhelming sense of calm and serene.  Hell was a stark contrast.  Hell was filled with provocative men and women, exotic foods and drink, and every decadent pleasure known to mankind. 

The decedent was surprised indeed.  Being no angel, he told St. Peter that, while heaven was very serene, he felt like he’d me more at home in Hell, so if he had his druthers, he’d rather go to Hell for all of eternity.  St. Peter, not one to argue, directed the decedent down the pathway to the entrance of Hell and when the door to Hell opened up, smoke billowed out and there was fire, demons and pestilence inside.

The decedent was startled and taken aback and cried to St. Peter “What happened?!  What happened to all the women? the food, the drink? This wasn’t the picture of Hell that you showed me before!”  And St. Peter replied “Well, that was when you were just a prospect, NOW, you’re a client.” 

So trust me when I say, caveat emptor in the donor egg agency business. 

On a happier note, I am 25 weeks pregnant with twin girls!  So when I write out my check to that crazy bitch in

Texas

, I can take solace in the fact it was not for naught.  For now though, I’m making that bitch wait out my artificial deadline. 

P.S. My sincerest apologies for being derelict in my posting duties.  Thank you to all of you who checked up on me. 

Man, its always something!

A few things about the egg donor agency that I used annoyed me.  Well more than annoyed me, really pissed me off. 

The donor fee that you are required to pay for the donor obtained by Surrogate Parenting Center of Texas, Inc. (SPCT) is $3,500 if the donor is not located within 60 miles of your physician’s facility or $5,000 if she is.  If the donor is located outside of the 60 mile mark, you are required to pay for travel for her and a guest, for which you are required to put up $1,500 in escrow. 

Sounds like that’s pretty income neutral right?  No, the rub is that if the donor is not located within 60 miles of your physician’s office, you are required to put up an additional escrow of $2,000 for her monitoring elsewhere.  AND your doctor will charge you additional for monitoring her as well. 

Since this little factoid went up my ass sideways, I was anxious to find out what exactly was going to be charged against the $2,000 monitoring escrow, since I know it does not cost $2,000 to monitor a cycle.  So back in January, I requested a full accounting to which I was told that their “policy” is to close out accounts 120 days after retrieval. 

I never agreed to this and it was never in the contract that I signed that they could have an interest free loan from me.  Amanda, the donor egg coordinator, was kind enough to give me a partial accounting prior to the arbitrary 120 days. 

Now, I was (and believe me still am) so grateful to be pregnant, I decided that I would have any balance in the escrow accounts paid to the egg donor when the accounts were closed.  When I got the accounting it showed a balance of $674 left in the account.  No monitoring fees were included in the payments that were made, which I found strange since my doctor expects to be paid in cash, up front.  The charges that ate up my travel and monitoring escrows were for travel, which totaled $2,700 for the donor and her “partner”. 

Today, I got a call from my husband (who is on his way back to Cinci) telling me that the bills have been paid and there is a $500 charge on my credit card account to SPCT.  Now previously, I had authorized payment on my credit card for my donor’s medication, period.  It was either that, or put up $3,000 more in escrow and wait for the 120 days after retrieval to expire to get any remaining balance back. 

So now, I find out they charged my credit card $583 in February without my authorization, without notifying me, without providing me with a complete accounting of the charges. 

The thing that I resent most is that these people (donor egg agencies and IVF doctors in particular) like to take this time to stick it too you with their take it or leave attitude.

As far as I’m concerned, I’ve been screwed enough so take your dick out of my ass, already!  

Are these people for real? NOT!

Have you ever picked up a maternity wear catalog?  Unless you’ve already had a child, probably not.  In the past, every time I passed by Mimi Maternity in the Galleria Mall, I almost threw up.  So unless you are an infertile with a hunger for pain, its likely that you’ve never looked inside a maternity wear catalog. 

So I will tell you what you are missing.  You will be surprised to know that Playboy and your maternity wear fashion catalog have a lot in common.  I know, hard to believe.  But what I mean by that is the pictures are distortions of what female beauty is supposed to be. 

So there I am, sitting in the waiting room full of pregnant women waiting for Dr. Delight.  Going to see Dr. Delight is a lot like waiting for a rock concert to begin, only the opening acts are a urine drop and a blood pressure reading performed perfunctorily before the big show.  So I had plenty of time to sit there and observe (something I never would have been able to do without consuming a fifth of vodka and a handful of Zanax before I got pregnant AND stayed that way - so far). 

And the only thing to read was a JC Penney maternity wear catalog.  In this seemingly innocent little publication are pictures of supposedly pregnant women wearing various outfits.  The main thing that I noticed about these models was not how well they wore their pregnancy, but how nothing, and I mean nothing about them except for their big bellyies appeared to be that of a legitimately pregnant woman. 

Around me sat these tired, big bellied pregnant women with their matching ass, thighs and arm bloat.  Not one of them wore the perky expressions of the models in the catalog, not one had collar bones that stuck out or the calf and arm muscles of a well trained tri-athlete.  But the models did. 

That’s how I caught on to this ruse.  The most absurd picture, however, was one of a woman modeling a nursing bra.  She looked like she could be in the bikini edition of Sports Illustrated, with her flat, well defined abs. 

This is what I'm talking about.  This woman is modeling a nursing bra for JC Penney.  How can you tell? note her right hand demonstrating the tear away front flap. 

Or how about this one:

This is the Bravado "Maternity" Thong - available at Nordstrom's - think this woman ever even had a baby? or eat a large pizza?

I thought it was bad enough being barraged on an everyday basis with Victoria Secret, Playboy, Cosmopolitan, Vanity Fair, etc…But now this? Maternity wear catalogs?!

Arrrrrrrrghhhhhh.  Enough Already.

Spotting

I’ll just give you the short version.  I woke up this morning and I had that “feeling”.  The feeling that I’ve had in other failed pregnancies that I was spotting. 

I got up around 7:30 and sure enough, as I wiped, I had brown spotting.  Yesterday, I had a horrible stomachache and was extremely tired.  I was sure that this coming Wednesday’s appointment would be good news.  Now, I have light brown spotting.   And my stomach feels much better. 

I called Dr. Harvard’s office and of course, they are closed from Friday, 12:00, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday in observance of the New Year’s Day weekend. 

I called his service and of course, his nurse was on call.  She told me not to worry, that it was probably old blood, just some leftover implantation spotting.  Since spotting has always been the precursor to all of my miscarriages, some how I’m not comforted. 

I also took today off for the New Year’s Day weekend b/c the partner-in-charge is off this week in Florida and I sulked all day. 

I told my mother who is here volunteering giving me progesterone shots while my husband is away.  I did not tell my husband.  He has enough to worry about.  Why should we both be tortured?

So my mother mentioned to me that the nurse was probably right about the leftover implantation bleeding to which I replied “who the hell knows, all I know is I’m probably going to be in a bad mood until after Wednesday’s ultrasound, and maybe in  a worse mood thereafter”. 

To which she offered these comforting words: “Well then you should stop off at the Radisson [Hotel] on your way home after work tomorrow and I’ll pick you up after then…”

This from a woman who said to me “I have to go into therapy to find out why every time someone is cut, I bleed”. 

Sorry, wrong diagnosis I’m afraid. 

NBHHY – NOT!!!!

Yesterday started out just perfectly (said dripping with sarcasm).  I got up with the best of intentions and took Bruiser for a walk after getting jabbed in the ass with a 1 ½ needle full of Progesterone.  By the way ladies, (note worthy hint) ice does wonders to dull the pain of that shot.  I credit my cyber friend K with that one. 

But I digress, let me get back to the fucked up shit that is my life.  I took my cell phone with me on the walk because I was waiting for Dr. Harvard’s office to call with the results of the fertilization.  As I’m walking down Swarthmore, this old red Toyota looking car passed me by.  Then the driver turned around at the end of the divided street and drove back up. 

I really didn’t think much of it until he continued to drive up and down the street.  “Was he lost?” I began to think.  Then I turned and walked down Balson and the car passed me again from behind.  Then I saw the car come back up Balson towards me.  Now the driver of this car looked like some Orthodox Jewish teenager, which is the demographic in my neighborhood.  Except for the fact that if he were Orthodox, he would be walking to temple instead of driving his Toyota as this was Saturday. 

So I came to the end of Balson and turned left on Central and then headed west on Amherst thinking to myself “good, I’ve finally lost crazy Jew boy”.    Crazy Jew Toyota boy then passed me again from behind.  At this point, I pretty much concluded that this was a serial killer in training.  When I got back to the intersection of Swathmore and Balson, I decided to change directions again.  So did Crazy Jew Toyota boy and drove past me again.  Having had enough of this, I whipped my cell phone out of my dog potty bag (which I really only use as a prop) and called my husband to come get me.  That was the last I saw of Crazy Jew Toyota boy. 

In hind sight, I should have took down his license plate, called the cops and reported this wannebe kidnap/rapist.  Another note worthy hint, always carry a charged cell phone with you if you have one in case of emergency.  Also, remember the license plate of your stalker. 

So after I got back home, I still had not heard from Dr. Harvard’s office.  Finally, around 11:30 I got a call from Melanie, the nurse.  “We have seven (7) embryos!!!” she exclaimed.  “Seven?!” I replied.  “So only the ones that you ICSI’d fertilized?” I asked.  “No, none of those fertilized” she responded. 

Now we had 21 eggs to go with.  My husband’s sperm motility was a mere 49% so to be on the “safe” side, Dr. Harvard asked to ICSI 11 of them – just over the half I’d agreed to in the beginning.  AND NONE OF THEM FERTILIZED. 

Knowing that I only have 7 embryos to work with, I then asked/accused Melanie “Well then I probably won’t get a 5-day blastocycts transfer right?!”  “You’ll probably be transferred on Monday” she replied.  Then we got into an argument over whether a 3-day versus a 5-day transfer is better, her trying to convince me they only do a 5-day transfer to cut down on multiples.  RIGHT!!! P’leeease!  I retorted that its better to do a 5-day transfer b/c you know the embryos you are transferring can make it to blastocysts unlike the ones you transfer on day 3; b/c we all know, not all 3-day embryos make it to day 5. 

After hanging up the phone, I became incensed and called Melanie back and told her I wanted Dr. Pearlstone to call me back b/c I wanted to speak to him before the Monday transfer.   She told me that speaking to him would not change the course of my treatment so there was no reason to have him call me.  They would call me on Monday before 9 am. 

So there it is.  I paid for the best possible chance I could have and bought myself a lawsuit instead.  I gave him a proven 21 year-old donor, good eggs, good sperm, and he managed to fuck it up.  If this doesn’t work, I’m suing that bastard. 

So how do you go into an embryo transfer relaxed and upbeat when you want to kick your doctor in the face while you are in the stirrups?

I don’t know.  I really don’t know.  The only thing I do know, is its Enough Already, and I can’t take much more of this shit.  NBHHY "Nothing Bad Has Happened Yet" - Plenty bad has happened, so far not much good.  Seven (7) is going to have to be my lucky number. 

Fat Bastard

I  finally got to bed around 11:00 pm.  I can never fall right to sleep when I get into bed.  I have to wind down.  This takes about an hour.  I knew I had to get up at 6:00 am the next morning to make the 9:30 flight b/c I had to be at the airport by 8:30 to check baggage. 

I arrived on time at the airport and made my way to the gate. My plane, however, must have overslept b/c it didn’t roll into the gate until 10:00 am.   Ahhhh, the start to a perfect day. 

The pain that settled into the back of my neck since Bo Bo had died began to squeeze down as I sat and waited for the plane.  I deliberately sat in the seating area next to my gate b/c at the very core of my sole, I am an anti-social person.  I saw the client talking to the airline clerk at the gate and pretended that I didn’t see him.  Fortunately, he and his wife toddled off to sit in some private airline club and I didn’t have to deal with them until our plane landed. 

Finally, our plane boarded.  I meandered my way through the aisle and came to my seat: 14 E, right smack dab in the middle.  And what to my eyes should appear? Not a reindeer; but Jumbo man sitting in his and my seat.  I actually let out an audible “Oh no” under my breath.  Then I explained to fat ass that I was assigned to the seat his right butt cheek was now occupying.  It sounded more like this: “I have to sit there” accompanied by a worried expression.         

So I put the arm-rest down and took my seat.  Jumbo’s gut lay on the arm-rest between us.  The rest of him spilled over into my seat.  I couldn’t put down my tray table b/c Jumbo’s arm was in the way.  I had to cozy up next to this normal size Asian man seated on my right.   I sat this way for 4 straight hours.

And this was just the beginning of this leg of the trip.  After I landed, I had to hook up with the client or what would have been the point of the trip after all?   

So you think you can [fucking] steal from me?!

In the midst of Bo Bo passing, my husband being deployed in Cincinnati, and trying to nail down an egg donor, the Sunday after Bo Bo died, I went to shut off the hot water in my bathtub and a slight trickle kept running.

My husband, strong determined man that he is, said he’d fix that and gave the faucet knob a good hard, weightlifter turn. To no avail. Okay, whatever. Monday, the “trickle” was more pronounced. By Tuesday morning, I could not turn the hot water off. Vaguely, I remembered from our home inspection 3 years ago where the main water shut off was – hidden behind the place in the basement where we store 50 or so boxes b/c we may move someday.

So after taking my bath, I fought my way through the box brigade to the main shut off valve and finally shut the water off. Phew! “Wait” I thought to myself, “I can’t use the toilet or the sink with the water shut off.” See how quick I am? 20 years of education has not been wasted. So I turned the water back on until all grooming rituals had been completed and then shut it back off after I left for work.

Desperate, I called OctoRooter here in St. Louis, Missouri. A plumbing service we used previously this summer to “fix” a toilet problem (more on that later). Well, they could get someone out here right away in fact.

And so I dropped what I was doing and met the man @ 11:30. The plumber[?] gave me quite an impressive lecture on the mechanics of bathtub faucets; explained how it was probably just a cheap seal in the faucet handle that had worn out, but our valiant efforts to turn off the hot water had cause a damage in the “seat” upon which it rested, and because that was one overall piece of the faucet, that could not be repaired, the whole faucet would have to be replaced, and end of story, that would cost [drum roll please – here comes the climax!] $785!!!!!

I was shocked to say the least. But what choice did I have? I had to get my hot running water fixed. Mr. Plumber was very accommodating; he could fix it that afternoon. But he couldn’t fix it that afternoon b/c I had appointments and he couldn’t be in the house alone. Rosh Hashana was on that Thursday and we would be home so I figured I’d have to tough it out until then. Oh, and the extra little aggravation – the hot water valve shut off on the hot water heater? Broken as well even though we’d just replaced that damn thing 2 years ago.

So I get back to my office and share my woes with Cigarette and B.O. Secretary. But Cigarette and B.O., I found out, is profoundly smarter than I am in these matters of home repair and improvements and said “He’s ripping you off.”

So I get on the phone and start calling about the costs of replacing a Gerber, two handle, faucet. Roto Rooter must come out to give an estimate. Well, by the time I’m fired from my job from taking off work for this little project, I won’t be able to afford it anyway. Finally, A.A. Quick Electric Sewer Service, Inc. gives me an estimate right over the phone: Max $400 with labor, and then adds “Ma’am, are you sure you don’t want to just fix it instead?” AM I SURE I DON’T WANT TO JUST FIX IT?!!!!! (Visualize hair flaming on fire now).

So, I had time to get Mr. Honest Plumber (who was missing a few front teeth – but this turned out to be a good thing b/c he could not lie through them) into assess the damage: $150 to fix the $785 replacement faucet. Oh, and the best part, when I related how OctoRooter was out at my house and told me they could not fix my toilet (apparently they only replace things) and I would have to have a whole new toilet installed for somewhere around $800? That should have costs $350 max.

So I guess in the end, those Sum Bitches did steal from me. But my husband had an excellent idea. He said “Let’s not cancel the appointment with OctoRooter. Let’s let that bastard show up, hold him at gun point, and get our $$ back!”

Again, they say that G-d doesn’t give you more than you can handle – and I say HA – Enough Already!!!! Stop It! Please! Give me a break already!!!

Burn Baby Burn

The day after Bo Bo passed, I woke up with the biggest pain in my neck ever. I could not rotate my head from left to right and just getting out of bed was a challenge. It was like the deep pain in my heart from losing Bo Bo had settled right into my neck.

I rallied and went to work. I prayed that I could keep my composure at work. The only person who knew I had to put Bo Bo down was the Partner-in-Charge that I work for. I didn’t want to hear a bunch of “I’m sorry’s ” that would make me break out in tears all day.

I went home for lunch to let the dogs out. Of course, I spent the entire time crying. I fixed my makeup and went back to work. The Partner-in-Charge called me into conference with him. In the middle of going over the closing checklist he said “Is there something wrong with you?” And I told him that I couldn’t move my neck. But then he persisted “Your eyes….” And I said “are red?” “Why is that?” he replied. And I said “Why do you think?!” “Maybe you’re hung over?” he responded. “MAYBE, it’s because MY CAT DIED” I retorted.

AND THEN, that Son of a Bitch said “How’d she get along with the dogs?” And to that I dissolved into a puddle of tears. DEATH to that Son of a Bitch. I hope he burns to a cinder in Hell.

That sure is Enough Already!!!!!

The Pacifica and the Harrowing ride through Hell

So I spent Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday morning at Dr. Harvard’s office. Officially, I was at the car dealer repair shop on Monday morning b/c my air conditioner is broken (of course it is – its July after all).

The reality was we spent Saturday at the car dealer repair shop (after my follicle scan before I picked up my fertility meds) when the told me that my fan blower was out AND the relay switch that does something or other was broken as well, oh, and the front brakes are bad…and that’ll be $1,600, thank you ma’am.

Good thing I got a bonus at the beginning of July. But I couldn’t get my air conditioner fixed right away. They will have to get some parts from Sweden first and I will have to bring it in Friday – early – and then drive a rental car to work.

So after having gotten up early for doctor’s appointments almost all week, I got up early to go to the car dealer. And while it was of the utmost importance that I arrive early to have my car serviced, they did not feel it particularly urgent to get my waiting car into the shop.

I was told to go over to the other side (the SAAB side as opposed to the VOLVO side) and wait for “Rick”. Rick finally checked me in. I asked him if I could borrow one of their many SAAB’s to drive instead of a rental and b/c I’m a woman, the answer was an unequivocal “NO” (they always give my husband whatever he wants).

So this 4’ 11” nymph shows up from Enterprise in a 2 ton Dodge Ram truck. I am 5’ 3”. I could not get into this vehicle without grasping onto this handle at the top of the window and hoisting myself in. I ask you, who needs a vehicle this big? Cattle rustlers?

Time to get out of Dodge as they say? No. A Fed Ex truck was blocking the exit to the dealer’s parking lot. The 4’ 11” nymph asked the employee of the dealer to have the truck moved so we could get out and the response was a surly “We’re almost through”. To which the nymph and me simultaneously said “and that means ‘No’”.

I was beginning to like the nymph and considered asking her to be my egg donor – but she was blond – a blond midget.

I finally got to Enterprise and was told I had a choice of vehicles to choose from. One was some sort of SUV, which after the Dodge Ram experience I wanted no part of. I choose the Chrysler Pacifica – what I thought was a reasonably sized vehicle. Somehow, the statement that “it’s just like a limo” didn’t register with me. I thought – “it’s just like a limo” meant it was a luxury vehicle – not that it was as long and big as a limo and just as tall as an SUV.

This thing was enormous. Three rows of all leather, huge full size adult seats in this thing and it drove like a tank. You had to push the petal to the metal to get this monster moving. And you didn’t dare whip in and out of traffic. I white knuckled it all the way to work where I had to reach down to swipe my garage passkey and looked cautiously upward to make sure it cleared the entrance to the garage. I parked it next to an SUV and noted after I got out of this thing that it was exactly the same height, only longer.

Realizing I had to get rid of this thing as soon as possible, I pestered the dealer until my car was done. Then, like the idiot that I am, I left @ 4:00 p.m. in rush hour traffic to go and retrieve my car. It was all I could do to just stay in the right had lane and sail this ship safely through the treacherous steel waterway that is 64-40 at rush hour.

I finally made it with adrenaline pulsating through my veins by the time I arrived at Enterprise. The amazing thing was that as I sat as a passenger in this vehicle on the way back to the car dealer, I noted what a comfortable ride it was from the other side of the car. The Pacifica – kind of like some cities: a good place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there – a good car to ride in, but you wouldn’t want to drive it.

I picked up my car and was quite please with the chili breeze coming from the air conditioner. However, I noticed that the brakes were not at all responsive. “Strange, I just had the front brakes redone” I thought to myself. So after almost plowing into stopped traffic on the highway in rush hour traffic, I concluded that it was not my imagination and telephoned “Rick” for an explanation. “Oh” he says “it takes a while for the roter majigs to feed in to the something or other” So I said “So I should be careful until then?” You #$%&** !!!!

It’s like thanks for the warning – Jack ASS!