Franklin Ford

It all began yesterday when I drove Ethan to school and the "check engine light" was on in my Ford mini-van. Ethan named my vehicle "Franklin." I have absolutely no idea why, but I call it "Franklin Ford." Since it was driving fine, I didn't think too much of it. I did call the dealer/garage we use and make an appointment for later in the week just to get it checked. When I left work later that afternoon Franklin wouldn't start. Go figure. My husband came by and thought he'd try and jump it to see if by chance it was just the battery and not a really expensive issue. Thank goodness it was the battery. He went and put a new one in and parked it back in our garage that night. Problem solved. Except with me things never go that easy.

So this morning I began to back out of our garage turning slowly to the right, as I do every morning to turn around in our driveway. Apparently I cut it a little too close. The next thing I heard was that awful crunch that signals you've really done something bad to your car. I'd hit the front left corner/bumper against the door opening of our garage wall. When I got out of the car to check the damage I just cried. At this point I would have been thankful with a scratch, some paint missing, even a little dent. I had all that and more.

The entire headlight had somehow popped out and was laying on the ground, totally disconnected from Franklin. Pieces lay scattered about our drive. A large crater now graces the front of my van and the color we painted our brick garage several years ago that I liked so much, now can follow me everywhere. After I pulled it together and had given what was left of the headlight a good kick into our garage, I noticed the door wouldn't go down. This isn't unusual in cold weather, so I ignored it. After all, in the grand scheme of things it wasn't a big deal.

Ethan asked me the entire way to school what had happened. Once he got out of Franklin he took one look at the damage and while shaking his finger at me said, "Dad is not going to be happy about this." No kidding.

To my surprise Nate didn't react the way I had planned. In my head I had excuses ready. It was not entirely my fault (i.e. he had pulled the van in crooked the night before). I had guilt covered (i.e. ability to cry). I even had a back-up rebuttal (i.e. last summer when he ran into our fence). But I didn't need any of them.

There must be something he's done lately that I haven't found out about yet, because his initial words after seeing it in person were, "It's not that bad." Was he looking at the same van I was?

Ethan was convinced that they could get super glue and put all the pieces back together for me. I'm surprised Nate didn't try to use nail glue. Many things around our house are held up with liquid nail glue - including our shutters. Some men think duct tape will fix anything, my husband uses nail glue.

All day today the dashboard on my car has had this orange light bulb warning symbol with an explanation point in the middle flashing at me. Anytime the car is running. Every time the car is on. Flashing. It is to serve as a warning if you have a light out. As if I need a reminder to the fact that I have a headlight out! Pretty obvious I think.

By the way, the damage wasn't isolated to my car. I also managed to mess up the garage door track. I'm unsure as to when and how we'll get all this fixed. I think I'll wait to make sure something else doesn't go wrong first. My grandma always said things happen in 3's...I'm at 2 and counting.

A Different Kind of Crazy

My mother celebrated her 58th birthday today and she did so by cooking her own birthday dinner. We had invited her to our house and I was going to provide dinner (remember I do not cook, so it probably would have been in the form of a square box via delivery). When she arrived wearing oven mitts I knew I was in trouble. Towards the end of the delightful dinner my mother announced she had a wonderful year, thanks to all of us. Alright. You're welcome. There was more. After gushing about how we all made her year she handed us each a sealed envelope. Everyone got one, including our 4 year old son who can't read. First reaction was "What is this?" I mean come on, first you cook your own birthday dinner, then you hand us cards? I know we've always been a little on the dysfunctional side, but this is high-society creepy weird.

It was a thank you card - with those exact words on the front. Mine stated:
Emily,

Thank you so much for being a daughter I can be so proud of. It has been another year in which I am in awe of the young lady you are. Thank you for another great year.

Love, Mother

I don't know if they make a medication for that kind of crazy? But isn't she a beautiful crazy 58?

Happy Birthday Mom!

Virgin Liar

Most people would start off an introduction with hello, but I'm not most people. When I send out e-mails (to family or friends - not work) I start off with "Word-up G!" I can't explain that, so don't ask. Everyone has a freak flag...some choose not to fly it. Mine flies in my middle name. Fenicle. Aside from what I write in this first "official" post, you're probably trying to remember high school French class. Racking your brain over what Fenicle really means. The suspense must be killing you!

Middle school is hell. Whether you are the bubbly, pretty blonde in Guess jeans, an ESPRIT shirt and Tretorn shoes or well…me. Imagine the monotone history teacher doing roll-call on the first day of school. In a class of 20 or so kids, you'd think first names would be sufficient. (Chances are there might be 2 Jennifer's?) This man felt it was necessary to read more, but butchering the last names wasn't enough for him. He felt compelled to read first, middle and last names. Out loud. Realizing what he was doing, I sat as he went through A-G, feeling my skin turn hot. My turn.

You'd have to ask my mom what drugs she was on when they let her sign my birth certificate. Granted, her intentions and sentimental determination to humiliate her only daughter on the first day of 6th grade were out of love. (She was obviously thinking way ahead.) First of all, the man couldn't pronounce this 3 syllable name. Second, he read it, looked at it, looked at me, and attempted repeating it louder. {Rhymes with pinnacle} Then, the question that echoes repeatedly in my dreams...."What does Fenicle mean?"

This is where my creativity was born. Up until this point I was a virgin liar. My sassy nature was born. My reply was simple and left no need for further explanation. "It's French for Nicole." Thus began my alter ego.

I have to admit, I've grown to love my middle name. It happened to be my grandmother's maiden name. She was one of 6 girls, so her parents had no one to carry on the family name. It's unique, it's different, it's odd, and it’s one-in-a-million. It's me. Enjoy!