Tag Archives: driving

Let’s do the time warp again. Just Sayin’.

This morning I was driving down Main street toward the high school, in a Jeep Cherokee, drinking a Dr. Pepper, tapping a cowboy-boot-clad foot to Echo & The Bunnymen, and running 15 minutes late.  It suddenly occurred to me that the EXACT same description could’ve been 20 years ago.

You can’t outrun the past, Keri.

Just Sayin’.

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Naming names.

I have a crippling habit of tendency to give names to inanimate objects.

I should probably stop, but Keri gets attached to things, m’kay?

So a little over a week ago when GiGi, my beloved Samsung Galaxy S3 started having serious issues functioning, I couldn’t contain my concern. (I’m not pointing any fingers at what caused her illness, but I’m pretty sure it rhymes with “smelly jean sore point tree.” If that means nothing to you, it’s ok… not the point anyway.)

She was fading fast, and no amount of the phone version of using Doctor Google was really helping.

I had to stop the powercycling madness.

So, after one last night with her sleeping on my chest, I took her down to the Sprint store and had her put down. There were tears, I can’t lie. (Mostly because there were also witnesses. Lots of witnesses.)

I suppose it is best not to acknowledge the depth of my phone obsession by giving the device a name. Lesson learned?


I emerged from the Sprint store with Samy the S4 all activated and full of GiGi’s information essence, beginning the story anew. (Mommy loves you Samy. )

It isn’t a new story. Not even close. In 1981 my family got a brand spanking new Ford Courier pick up truck which we promptly dubbed “Freddie Ford.” Freddie was a good little truck and when I got my license over 10 years later, he was my first car.

But teenage Keri was wildly mildly unprepared for the responsibility of driving, and so both Freddie and I ended up rolling into a cow pasture outside of Boulder just a few weeks before the start of my sophomore year of high school.   He wasn’t really totaled, but he wasn’t drivable either. So he sat on one side of the family garage for months, his various engine liquids leaked out from around his headlamps and made it look like he was crying.  I would pass him each day, and the guilt regarding his condition would be refreshed.  Oh Freddie, I am so sorry for what I did to you. You were a good family member and I took you down.

:::pausing to look for tissue:::

Years later I got my first Ford Escape, and in honor of Freddie, I named him (or rather my cousin did, I believe, because freak runs in the family,) “Frederico Escapé. ”

Now, after years of driving Escapes, my time with Frederico Escapé III grows short. Alas, Ford went and jacked up the body style of the Escape so much that Frederico Three’s name will retire with him as I move into a new era of vehicle choice.

Which makes me feel guilty about this Frederico, and those that came before, and even for the incident in the cow pasture all those years ago with Freddie the Family Ford.

I am forsaking them. I just know it.

It is this thought process that confirms that I probably shouldn’t name inanimate objects. Things aren’t people. That car does not feel bad because you are heartlessly throwing it over trading it in, Keri.



What’s a good name for a Jeep?


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Monday morning drop off.

This morning was the first time I actually dropped Jr off in the pre-school class room instead of his “twos” room. He is not two.  He is three.  Also he has been slowly spending more and more time in pre-school, and last week was there all day except for the very beginning and end of each day.  He was a bit trepidatious,  but saw a teacher he likes playing with blocks that he loves, and after one extra hug, off he went to join in the fun.

He was ready.

As it turns out, I was not.

I walked out to put his lunch in the fridge and ducked into the dark, quiet gym to try to get the tears out of my eyes (believe me, they know that Keri is a crier at his school, but I was surprised that it hit me like that, and wanted to pull it together. )

I could hear him giggle and start to tell his friends about his birthday party over the weekend “I got a fire truck and a bike and CUPCAKES….”    I gave up trying to stop the waterworks and decided to make a run for it and just get to the parking lot and let go.

Back in the Keri Mobile, I was winding up to do just that, when another mom came out and climbed in the minivan next to me.  Then she suddenly jumped out, shut the door and ran to the sidewalk where she stood clutching her chest and staring at the van.  I looked up at her in a teary haze.

“That’s not my car!” she exclaimed.

She got in someone else’s minivan.  In a parking lot in the burbs.  Because there are so damn many out here.  This struck me as VERY funny, in my over emotional, crazy mom state.  I laughed so hard, it probably looked like I was being tickled by the invisible man or something.

She giggled and turned red, then walked to the next (fairly well identical) van, got in, and drove away.

I half expected the owner of the van to climb in and pause, sensing a disturbance in her swagger wagon force, but she just drove away, sitting where a stranger’s buns had been only a few minutes before.

It was a roller coaster of emotion to deal with before 8 a.m. on a Monday morning.

Keri had to stop for a coffee.



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A Suburban PSA. Just Sayin’.

Attention women within a 20 mile radius of me right now:
Hang up your damn phone and concentrate on piloting that mini van in a way that shows you have any understanding that you are sharing the road with others.
That is all.

Just Sayin’.

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Cue the theme from “The Odd Couple”

Yesterday was a textbook example of what Mr. Rogers must have meant by “a beautiful day in the neighborhood.”

Sun shining, birds chirping, green things starting to poke their way up through the winter mulch as neighbors cleared away the layers in gardens and planters.


After a morning of playing at the park with Jr (and making nice with the other moms and kiddos- because Keri really is capable of being a nice lady, I swear,) we headed back to the house to find The Mr just finishing a lovely washing of his new ride.  If the previous Mr Mobile was “the Jeep he treated like a Bentley,” that would make this latest ride “the brand spankin’ new Jeep he treats like an M-F’in’ G6.”  It is no secret that The Mr. and I have decidedly different ideas about what is important in car-keeping.


Since the MUV was in need of some de-dirt-ifying as well Jr and The Mr headed into the back yard while I got started washing my whip.  Except Jr was feeling very “mom-centric” yesterday and before I could even get my sponge soapy, I had 2 helpers out in the front with me.  And by “helpers” I mean 1 who wanted to  sweep, but only in the middle of the street, and one who wanted to supervise and offer judge-y “tisk” noises at my technique.

Um. No thank you.

To keep The Mr. from pulling a muscle “tisk tisking” and throwing “is she kidding me with that scrubby technique” looks, and to contain the toddler, I handed over my bucket and hose to my husband and let him have at it.  After all, it just needed a quick little scrub and rinse of the outside.

See that last part?  Yeah…  I should have known.  20 minutes later all of the doors of the MUV were wide open in the driveway, and the entire contents (which is kind of substantial, I confess,) was on the ground while The Mr picked through the piles with a GARBAGE BAG poised in one hand.


I rummaged through the “trash” to find art projects, work papers, and memos from Jr’s teachers, and started stuffing hoodies , toys, snack containers and everything else we use every day back into my car.


BACK AWAY FROM THE MOM UTILITY VEHICLE.   After telling him to return the Tupperware lid to the bin on the floorboard (while Jr indignantly asked over and over again “why does daddy have my steering wheel?”)  I managed to get things back where they belonged, and get my car parked in the garage and locked where he couldn’t Felix Unger the situation up any more.

However, this morning as we loaded in to head for day care, NOTHING was where it should be.

“MY BLANKET!!” Objected Jr, as I dug  for his beloved dinosaur lap cover, LIGHTYEARS away from where it should have been located for easy use.

When he sneezed and I reached for my supply of extra napkins in the door? Alas, those were victims of The Mr’s trash bag.

A coffee cup bobble resulted in an actual spill, as there was no old copy of Boulder Weekly on the passenger side floor board to absorb it.

Extra “bubby” (pacifier) in the cup holder for when “I don’t want to go to school” clinginess ensued?  No where to be found.


Jr and I worked hard laying in those supplies.

I begrudgingly confess that there was a layer of baby supplies that he removed that we don’t really need, and it did free up space.  But it is very begrudgingly.

Because we need our stuff, yo.

I mean, really.

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