We count only blue cars

I saw my old car the other day. Our much-loved navy-blue VW Jetta TDI, which we sold 18 months ago because we couldn't all fit in it anymore - car seats and sufficient legroom just weren't compatible partners.

It cut me off as I was attempting to back the Dorkmobile out of a spot at Petco. I didn't realize it was our car until the driver (who I was already calling an unprintable word under my breath) whipped into a nearby parking spot, and I managed to finally back all the way out and noticed that it was the same model and had the same dealer decal as ours. I'd never met the guy who bought it but got a good look at him as he hastened into Petco, probably irritated that here it was right before the Eagles game and he'd run out of kitty litter or Nature's Miracle.

So I called DH and asked him, "Was the guy who bought the VW a skinny little guy with horn-rims?" He answered in the affirmative. Meanwhile, I'd circled around to check for the telltale chip in the front grille, and hopped out of my car to peer around the other cars blocking my view. Yep, that was our former car.

Utter dork that I am, I quickly said hi to it and told it we missed it. (I've been known to talk to inanimate objects before.) I then got out of there before someone saw me acting suspicious...or just weird and stalkerish. It was a pretty and wonderful little car and it killed me to have to sell it, but if you can't fit your family in the car, it's not much use. Extreeeeemely good fuel mileage notwithstanding.

It was weird seeing it though. Sort of like a familiar sight resurfacing after having been forgotten for however long. How many times did I park that car somewhere and then need to find it, using those same three clues to distinguish it from all the other VW sedans? And as I concluded my blissfully solo errand, it was a reminder of a not-so-long-ago-but-very-far-away time in my life when we could drive a cute, zippy little car, all our belongings fit easily in the trunk, and our only backseat passengers, if any, were dogs.

Those were the days, as Archie and Edith would screech. "Gee our old VW ran great, those were the DAAAAAAAAYS!!"

A medically unpleasant week

It's been a rough week around here. We got home from travels with the family on Monday evening. As I was reuniting with my buddy George, I noticed a lump the size of a marble on one side of his throat that was not there a week ago. So, we're on Round 4 with his "benign" tumors. He went to surgery yesterday and came home from the vet last night looking like Frankenpoodle with his neck all shaved and stitched back together. They sure gave us our money's worth on the incision length and sutures, and they damn better with what this is costing us. No wonder these people are so happy to get us right in there when we need to see them. They know every time we walk through the door with this poor lumpy dog that we're good for $1,000 and up.

Meanwhile, since Wednesday afternoon I have developed the sore throat from hell, accompanied by low-grade fever, ear pain, aggravated tonsils, and chills. Literally every swallow feels like I'm being stabbed in the tonsils, and trying to swallow anything besides my own spit is like being stabbed twice. I've tried every home remedy known to man. Hot stuff, warm stuff, cold stuff, carbonated stuff, fruity stuff, salty stuff, bland stuff, numbing stuff, and lozengey stuff are all painful to ingest. Ibuprofen and Tylenol are doing squat. Sleep is difficult at best. I got up at 5AM this morning of my own volition, wishing I had access to one of those dentist vacuums that sucks all the spit out of your mouth, just so I wouldn't have to swallow for awhile.

Of course things started to get really miserable today, when I was trapped in a hot van with a bunch of state DOT people doing a field view two hours from home. In 93-degree weather. At lunchtime, I snuck in a call to my doctor to see if I could get in there at the end of the day. But nooooo! They're taking a long weekend and the office has been closed since last night. I probably should have called the backup doctor at this point, but I had to attend to matters at hand.

So I finally get home around 7, decide the pain situation is now too much to handle, and call the backup doctor. After a good long wait, I hear back. He's all "If this is bothering you so much, why didn't you go see someone yesterday?" Um, because I work and had to travel? Because I thought I would feel better by today? Because I've never had a sore throat go on this long? Because I haven't had strep since I was probably 18, so why would it pop up now at 35?

He then cemented his membership in the Antibiotic Nazi Club and flatly refused to prescribe me an antibiotic for the strep throat or bacterial infection the Internet has convinced me I have. He did say there is this Minute Clinic at the nearby CVS with a nurse practitioner who might be able to see me.

(Note to self: Find a doctor like my mom's, who will write an antibiotic prescription at the slightest fever or cold symptom)

So I call CVS. Yes, they have a Minute Clinic. And it just closed. But there is hope - they reopen at 10AM tomorrow. I might not have to suffer til Monday and risk developing rheumatic fever, which the Internet warns might happen if you have strep and don't take an antibiotic right away.

So then DH demands to know whether this Minute Clinic takes Blue Cross, or will a visit there mean a hideously expensive non-covered and non-refundable bill. Having offended in this manner at least once before, I call Blue Cross to check our coverage. A voicemail sweetly apologizes that their entire system is being updated and is offline today and tomorrow, and thus the call center is not accepting calls. At all. Please try back on Sunday!!!

You've gotta be kidding me.

Current plan of attack is to somehow get through tonight, which should be doable if I can find that hidden stash of Vicodin I swear we still have from when Magoo was born. Then head to the Minute Clinic in the morning, and ask them if they take my benefits, and if not how much it will cost to pay off the nurse practitioner to get me drugs that will either get rid of this evil malady or at least dull the pain.

Moral of the story: Get sick at the beginning of the week next time. And ignore anyone who tells you it will probably go away in another day or two, and hie thee to the doctor.

Oh, and how I used to think I was so special growing up because I was the only person I knew who still had their tonsils? Not so much. I want those suckers out. OUT! I've now had 4 bouts with tonsillitis since last fall. Don't want any more.

Eyes in the moon of blindness

So we are down to the two Davids on American Idol. I am betting on Archuleta, though I could go either way. Cook is good, and probably more original, and probably more talented, but the raspiness makes me want to clear my throat, or pop a lozenge. Ow. Also, it seems like the producers and judges have too much power in the finale - they can assign one person a great song and the other person a sucky song, and effectively slant the competition. And trotting out Ruuuuben! at the end to celebrate me home was just shoving our noses in Velveeta. Really. Gagh!

Meanwhile, I am just hitting the wall on exercise. I need to get busy and sign up for a 5K and force myself to go to bed earlier, and get up earlier so I can get in a run or strength DVD before the kids get up. Anytime after that just isn't feasible.

It's tough to go to bed when Facebook is so fascinating and absorbing, though. All these people from my present, my past, and my really long-ago past coming together in my Friends column. All kinds of catching up and seeing where people are now. It's definitely helped a lot on the "neglecting my blog" front.

Even before I joined Facebook, I've been rehashing my past a lot, particularly my teenage years. Maybe it's because I'm just a few years from my 20th reunion, or that I'm having a relapse of my youthful angst, or that I still have issues from that time that need resolving. Getting a glimpse of these people I spent time with 20 (or more) years ago stirs this pot even more. With my schoolmates in general, I wonder whether (if we had the opportunity to get together) the people we are now would give each other more of a chance than we did way back when. I like to think we've all become better people; certainly I've talked to people at reunions who I thought would never give me the time of day in high school.

As I've probably mentioned, I was a total target in middle school, and spent most of high school trying to reach the point of being both accepted and left alone. I didn't identify with any particular defined group, even the ones that are supposed to attract the smart misfit kids. I never took journalism (big regret) so I didn't work on the school paper. I didn't fit in with the drama club or the AV kids, although my inability to act, sing, dance, wear black, listen to Joy Division, or figure out how to work those big TV-VCR things was probably a factor. The pre-Ivy League group was too elite.

So I flew under the radar, tried to blend in, and really didn't know a lot of people beyond my small core of friends. And now I'm struggling with a lot of regret about that, and wanting to somehow rectify the situation, or at least put it to rest. I'm sure there were people in high school who were nice to me, who I regarded with suspicion, because at one point people would make fun of me by being publicly nice to me so other people would laugh at this. I hope I didn't blow them off. Others I simply didn't interact with - we didn't have classes or activities together. There were many tiny pockets of people who weren't part of the identifiable cliques. Though invisible to me at the time, these pockets have become apparent from running into these people here and there as a young adult, having a great conversation, and thinking, "Hey, this person seems really cool -I wish I had known him/her back then."

I also think a lot about Tom Ryan. He was a guy I met in 4th grade, even had a little crush on that year. He was in the elementary school gifted program with me, wore striped polo shirts and horn-rim glasses, was sweet but quiet. In high school, he emerged into a talented writer and editor on the school paper, with a thoughtful, wise presence, but still quiet in demeanor. He blended both with the preppy popular genius kids and the alternative AV people. He was always kind to me, if not overly friendly. I would never have dared to call him my friend, but his refusal to treat me like everyone else did was meaningful nonetheless.

Tom died suddenly of meningitis our freshman year in college, right before Thanksgiving. I couldn't get home in time for his memorial service, and nobody I knew well was there, but my memories combined with those of others who wrote tributes to him made me realize what a remarkable person he was. I'm sure he was no saint, but there was something very powerful about him nonetheless. And though other classmates of ours have died since, he is the one who stays with me, and who makes me wonder the most.

As I've passed into adulthood, career, marriage, parenthood, at each step I've wondered what Tom would have done with his life. What he would say about the events shaking our world (I am sure he would have continued to write), what positive change might have occurred because of his existence, whether he would have his own family. I sometimes want to write a letter to his parents, telling them he is still remembered, even by those who were probably a miniscule dot on his radar. And tell them that he was one of the few people I have known in my life who I believed would really make a difference. And that it's wretchedly unfair that he was taken from us much too soon. Though I didn't know him well, dare I say I miss him as he was when he left us at 18, and I miss what he could have been.

I met Tom's father once, when a memorial tree was planted at the town youth center Tom helped to found. It was probably 4 or 5 years after he died. I introduced myself and gave him my condolences and he looked at me and said "He talked about you. I'm glad to finally meet you." I still think about that flash of acknowledgment, and it still makes me cry.

I have yet to work up the guts to write the letter, but every time I'm back home and drive past that building, I look for Tom's tree.