Reinstituting austerity

It's been a rough summer financially. I could provide you with the details, but that would be boring. I'll just say that the culmination came on Saturday when I woke up early to drive my old car to the house where the buyer lives, and the car broke down on the way. It could have been much worse -- had I not pulled over when I did, I might have ruined the engine; had this happened before I found a buyer, I undoubtedly would have declined to do the repairs and would have just donated the damn hunk of metal -- but it was a blow nonetheless.

Six hours and $600 later, I gave the car to the buyer, complete with a brand new radiator (somehow it seems I put a hole in the old one). In exchange, he gave me a check that covers all the repairs I did in 2013. Nonetheless, after this latest financial setback I am officially going back to my 50-50-50 Herman Cain-inspired austerity budget. For those of you who don't recall the details of the budget that I went off of exactly a year ago, I am allowed to spend $150 total per week: 50 on food, 50 on fun, and 50 on utilities (is there a word for utilities that starts with F? That would make my budget much catchier.)

No more fancy cocktails or nice dinners out for me for a while. And whatever happens do NOT let me buy clothes! If anyone wants to go out for cheap beers or, better yet, come share a six-pack on my porch, let me know.

Trading up

In high school, I owned a Volkswagon. It was a little dark red Fox, and I loved it. It was quirky and had lots of problems and had a manual transmission and was very fun to drive. Eventually it died on some black ice on a cold January night, and I traded it in for a boring silver Toyota, and the Toyota always seemed utterly devoid of personality by comparison.

It turns out that I am repeating that pattern as an adult. This week, I am giving up my little green hatchback Volkswagon, trading it in for a practical silver Toyota that will be (touch wood) reliable and get good gas mileage. It is quite possible that it will seem devoid of personality compared to my VW; it is also possible that, as a grownup who has to pay the bills and get to work on time and appreciates things like a working air conditioner, I will not care so much.

My Volkswagon and I have been through a lot together, and I thought I would feel sad saying goodbye to it. But like my old Fox it was a quirky car, and similar to some men I've dated, the quirks initially seemed cute but eventually grew to be tiresome (like the way it would randomly start beeping at me to close the doors when they were already closed, or the fact that one rear window had trouble opening).

As I mentioned in a previous post, one major downside to this decision is that I'll be spending much less time with my sweetheart of a mechanic. I've decided that the solution to this problem is for me to start making social calls, just to say hi. My plan is to make the first one tomorrow on my way home from dropping off the old car at the buyer's house and picking up my new car. It's been almost a week since the last time he saw me, so I think he'll be pretty excited.

Life advice from my mechanic

"Listen. Here's what you got to do. You only got, what, July, August left that it will be hard with no air conditioner. Those months, you just got to bring a change of clothes with you when you go somewhere. Then, you get sweaty, you change your clothes when you get there. You really want, I try to fix your air conditioner, but I don't really think it's worth it."

"You got some work that needs done. But it's not a rush. You just spent lot of money! Wait two, three, four months. When you got some extra cash, you come see me. We take care of it."

"What you want with a car? The bike brings you everywhere! Never needs new belts, new battery, nothing. Never runs into traffic. Just get rid of your car and use the bike!"

I heart my mechanic.

Whoopsies

My archnemesis and jerky ex-boyfriend, La Moustache, has returned recently from his quixotic, 15-month trip around the world. Congratulations on driving your gas-guzzling vehicle an astonishingly far distance, Moustache! How do I know this? No, not because I've been googling him or reading bad articles by him (thanks to the Sensitive Bostonian for bringing that one to my attention), but because I've been in touch with him quite a bit since his return to New York.

It turns out that that nagging feeling I had in the back of my mind that I should return my car's New York license plates to the DMV was correct. (Mental note: pay attention to nagging feelings.) Because the car was registered in Moustache's name, and because I stopped paying for my New York insurance but did not cancel my New York registration, they revoked Moustache's license and slapped him with some heavy fines, thinking he had a registered vehicle that he was driving uninsured. (How does this work in other states? Do you always have to "unregister" a car when you move? Seems like kind of a crazy system.)

While some might say this is karma for being a jerk, it actually feels less than satisfying to be furiously angry with someone and then be responsible for causing them a huge inconvenience and major expense. I've been working hard this week to right my wrong, Fed Exing the plates back, making up a bill of sale, and photographing documents. Still, I appreciate the irony that the man who is now notorious for driving around the world no longer has a valid license and can't even drive down the block in Brooklyn.

P.S. Tomorrow is the 6 month anniversary of my first date with Dreamy :) Time flies when you have a nice boyfriend.

Automobile Antics

Despite my protestations of being a capable adult who can do things like file my taxes and pay my bills, I have to admit to being a bit of a car ditz. And yes, I am sending my tax documents to La Moustache to file them, but not because I can't do it! I simply choose not to because Moustache did work in my name in '09 (visa restrictions), and I think he should deal with the headache of figuring it out.

Lately it seems like it is one thing after another with my car. It started shortly after I officially became a Masshole, registering my car in the Bay State and even putting the dreaded MA license plates on my car. Was it punishment for becoming a Masshole? Perhaps. I had absent-mindedly noticed a few times as I got into my car that it was foggy inside, and wondered idly about it. Then, one day during the epic rains we had in mid-March, I heard a distinct sloshing sound as I pulled up to my afternoon job at School #2. I looked down just in time to see a wave of water swoosh from the passenger side in front toward the back of the car.

The rains finally let up a couple of days later, and I spent an hour or so sopping up the pond until most of it was gone. I cracked the windows and waited patiently for the rest to dry up, hoping that my problem would disappear.

This did not turn out to be the case. Instead, my car problems took an unexpected turn one day the following week when I visited the Harpoon Brewery for a beer tasting. They sell growlers, solid 64-ounce jugs that they fill up with beer, and my friends and I eagerly bought several of them. One friend had biked over to the brewery, so we loaded up my trunk with her growlers and mine, four in total.


As I drove home, I heard an ominous cracking sound, then thought I detected the delicious smell of fresh-out-of-the-growler beer. I hoped against hope that I was imagining things, but this did not turn out to be the case: when I got home, I discovered that I had lost one beer growler and one cider growler, leaving me with one remaining growler of each and my pond with a compelling new odor.

The next morning, I was driving my friends to the airport early, then staying at their house for a few days. I packed the remaining two growlers into the car so that I could enjoy the one while housesitting and drop off the other after my trip to the airport. This time, I was much more careful with the deceptively robust-looking bottles: I wedged one into the floor of the backseat, and kept the second one next to me up front. Sadly, the cap broke off Cider #2 despite my precautions. As I drove the last leg of the way to drop off the final growler, I held it in my lap, praying nothing would happen.

The last growler did make it, but less than a week later the monsoons began again, and the depth of the pond again began to increase. I wish I could say that I've found a solution to this problem, but sadly that is not the case, and frankly the beer smell does not seem to be going away either. Most of the time I don't mind it and even enjoy it a little bit, but if I ever get pulled over I doubt the cop will be impressed.

Then today as I rushed out of the parking lot of School #1 headed toward School #2, my car began beeping with an urgency that surprised me. I looked down, and saw to my horror that the oil light had flashed on. This prompted vague recollections of instructions I received from La Moustache prior to my departure: something about when I should get the oil changed, as well as information about the plug being broken, necessitating a vacuum oil-removal technique. I briefly contemplated my options, wondering whether I should try to find a service station, pull over and call for help, or just drive and pray.

The light flashed off a moment later, and I breathed a sigh of relief and continued on my way. After completing my 11-hour workday, I set off in search of a service station. The only one I could find open was manned by an elderly Greek man who was in the midst of a major repair job and told me he couldn't help me today, but I could come back tomorrow. I explained my predicament and he promised to check my oil. “Pop dee hood, please!” he called to me. “Ummm... how do I do that again?” I replied, wishing for the millionth time I had pain more attention to all the attempts anyone has ever made to teach me anything about cars. He laughed, waved me out of the car and popped it for me.

When he checked the oil, it was bone-dry. “Honey!” he said, drawing out the O so it rhymed with phoney, “you can't let that happen! Gotta be careful or it's gonna cost you a whole lotta money.” He sent me on my way with three liters of oil in my engine and brushed off my attempt to pay, no doubt out of pity.

Tomorrow I'm turning over a new leaf in car ownership. I've scrapped my plans to wait until the Brazilian comes back from a trip to Italy to figure out the leak, or to hold a contest and let whoever fixes my pond problem be my new boyfriend. Instead, I'm going to bring my car back to my new Greek friend and have him change the oil, and ask him about ideas for how to deal with the pond. Who knows, I may even invest in an air freshener.

Oprah

I promised myself that this blog wouldn't be all about La Moustache. He doesn't deserve to be the subject of my blog, and I hope to move on soon and write about more worthy subjects. Next week I'll be hanging out with a litter of kittens in my new apartment in a new city, Moustache will be off on his voyage, and it will be easier to pretend he doesn't exist. But right now it is awfully hard to think about anything else. Somehow the fact that a school I was supposed to work at is threatening to sue me and is (falsely) accusing me of taking computer equipment is like a punch from a baby mouse compared to the painful public demise of my relationship.

I announced to La Moustache yesterday that I am going to be on Oprah. In my fantasy Oprah will thoughtfully ask me about the horrors that have happened to me recently, beginning with the injustices that I lived through as a first grade teacher in a nightmarish Brooklyn public school last year. In an outraged tone, she will question me about the end of this traumatic year, when I was offered a series of dream jobs that fell through one after another. How as this difficult period dragged on my boyfriend became depressed and gradually transformed from supportive and comforting to an empty shell, and how the situation culminated when my final job offer fell through and he was so emotionally absent that he lied via text message and told me he couldn't call me because he was in a meeting. How I decided I needed to go away to Europe to convalesce, and how upon my return my boyfriend asked me if I would travel the world with him, then abruptly changed his mind and announced that he would be doing the trip alone. Finally, she will ask me about the effects of the media circus surrounding my now-ex-boyfriend's voyage.

Following this moving conversation about my suffering, Oprah will open her arms to me and hug me to her. Oprah's hug will be heartfelt and comforting, and I will tear up a bit. Oprah will pull back, offer me a tissue, and then resume the hug as the crowd claps compassionately. Finally, toward the end of my time on her show, she will hand me the keys to a new car. No, not a Land Cruiser, a Prius. Oprah knows that I don't have the slightest interest in owning a Land Cruiser. The audience will roar their approval.

I spoke recently with a Wise Woman who helps me navigate the intricacies of life, and she gave me some advice: I need to hitch up my britches and start protecting myself. That means not Googling articles about La Moustache in the news, and not reading comments people post about how cool his trip sounds. Not perusing lists of people who have donated money to help him pay for gasoline. Not checking his blog or his Twitter, and not glancing out the window at his Monster. I am good at protecting myself, and I know how to do it. Most of the time, I have great powers of self-control.

I did really well with this the day after our conversation. Not a single click on his website or a peek out at the driveway. However, over the weekend it has felt that I would need to be buried under a glacier in the Antarctic to avoid mention of the Great Adventure. Three days after Moustache's article came out, I thought the media was ready to move on, but it turns out that the weekend is when newspaper travel sections come out, and things were just beginning to heat up. Mutual friends are posting it on Facebook (and then immediately getting blocked by me). My friends' parents are calling them to report having spotted it. Moustache is spending his days talking on the phone to television producers and literary agents and answering e-mails from adoring fans.

Dutifully trying to follow my Wise Woman's advice, I asked La Moustache kindly not to mention any news about his trip to me. However, I later amended my request: If there was some news that I likely would hear elsewhere, like if Moustache were to be the subject of a reality TV show, it would be easier to hear about it first from him. As an afterthought to emphasize my seriousness, I threw a block of Gruyere forcefully on the kitchen floor.

But recently some of the media frenzy has taken a subtle turn and honed in on our relationship, briefly mentioned in Moustache's article and leaving much to the imagination. One website put the piece on its homepage and for a time (I've been told) attached the description, “Man leaves girlfriend and job to travel around the world.” How many comments did it receive? 902 and counting. How many did I read? I didn't count, but probably in the neighborhood of 830. I know, not very good in the self-control department. Many of these comments were about me, and a handful were actually insightful. Naturally, others were offensive. Today Moustache met with a TV producer who is interested in doing a show on the trip, and is interested in our relationship. He envisions a scene of us Skyping on Christmas day. Let me tell you, if a television station ever gives me airtime, I will have a thing or two to say about La Moustache, and I seriously doubt that the words “Merry Christmas, darling” will be involved.

(In an ironic little twist, this same producer suggested that La Moustache could make a killing through corporate sponsors, and specifically told him that the outdoor clothing company where my father is a vice president would surely be happy to give him tens of thousands of dollars if Moustache would don some of their outerwear. Little does he know that the chances of this happening are even less than his happy Christmas scenario. As my father said, “Over my dead body.”)

It feels very strange to have people I don't know speculating about me, and particularly strange that my self-involved ex is controlling the discourse. I am thankful that this is all anonymous. I'm looking forward to cozying up with the kittens in Boston, and thinking that a vacation to Antarctica may also be in order. If Oprah tries to reach me, let her know she can find me there.

Neighbors

I was on my way down to my garden to harvest my heirloom tomatoes for dinner recently when I ran into my downstairs neighbor, Pink. Pink is my landlord Big Guy's nine-year-old daughter from a now defunct relationship, so she's only my neighbor part-time. I took advantage of her presence to enlist her help with my tomatoes, and she happily tagged along, pointing out the red ones and wondering out loud which were too ripe to eat and should be left behind in the soil.

When we were done, she trudged up the stairs behind me, hands full of tomatoes, and politely asked if she could come in for a visit with Green Bean. Bean is my and Moustache's pet lovebird, and I like to use him as an excuse to invite the neighborhood kids up for visits. It's not his favorite activity, but I enjoy having them come in, pepper me with questions about him, and nervously allow him to perch on their shoulders (actually, I'm not sure who is more nervous when this happens).

After feeding him a few seeds, Pink and I settled into my kitchen so I could start working on dinner. I gave her a glass of cider and put her to work making tortillas, which she turned out to be a natural at. She talked to me about school, telling me the escapades her classmates get into, and asked if my students ever act in similar ways. When I told her that I'm not working at the moment, she told me she wished I could come teach at her school, but wisely advised me that the time to find a job there would have been over the summer; by now, a month into the school year, they had enough teachers.

It was only after we had been working for half an hour or so that she told me why she was having a rare midweek visit with her dad: her mom was in the hospital, giving birth to a new baby sister. Pink reported this casually, then burst into tears. Her mom wasn't due until two weeks later, and while she was excited about having a sister, she wasn't ready. She thought the baby should have waited until the due date. She wanted to be with her mom, but was also upset because when she called her aunt she could hear her mother crying out in pain in the background, and she was angry with the baby for putting her mom through this. I told her how great it is to have a sister, and shared stories of my friends' birthing experiences (not the graphic ones). I told her that I was sure the doctors knew what to do to make sure her mom and new baby sister were safe. After a while, her brother came up to tell her that dinner downstairs was ready, and Pink left with a tortilla in one hand and a cookie for later in the other. I continued solo with my tortillas.

When La Moustache and I moved in together, I gave up a charming, pricey little studio on one of the most desirable blocks in Brooklyn. I was half a block away from Prospect Park and dozens of amazing bakeries, restaurants and bars were close by. My street was lined with stately brownstones, and neighbors included famous writers, actors and politicians. We moved to a new neighborhood a few miles away, and were able to get a spacious apartment for much less than the two of us had been paying together for our studios. The downside is that nearby restaurants mostly serve fried chicken, the delis are devoid of organic milk, and the closest place to get a latte is a mile away. It was a difficult transition for me. I missed my warm croissants in the morning. At times, I felt out of place and intimidated being in the minority as a white person on the block.

Moustache and I gradually got to know our neighbors, who turned out to be kind and welcoming. When it was someone's birthday, we would come home to the offer of a celebratory glass of cognac. I took to spending a few minutes each evening when I returned home from work chatting with neighbors who congregated on my front porch; as time went on, the minutes stretched longer. We invited a few neighbors over for dinner a few months after we moved in, and La Moustache made his specialty, boeuf bourguignon. Midway through dinner, Big Guy expressed his appreciation and his happiness that we had moved in, finishing with the unintentionally humorous statement, “You two add a lot of color to the neighborhood.” He wolfed down two slices of my apple cake and asked for another one for the road so he could “really get into it”; this started a tradition of me baking him an apple cake each fall.

Big Guy and his brother Little Guy, a mechanic, took particular interest in La Moustache's purchase of a red convertible Chrysler LeBaron, and I started calling them the Car Fairies because of the way they magically fixed any issue that came up. If we ever forgot to move it to the other side of the street on cleaning day, they would take care of it for us. One morning, while backing out of the driveway, I hit the brick gate on my way out, and the driver's side mirror was left dangling by a few wires. At the end of the day I came home, showered, and by the time I came out to drive over to my friend's house I found the mirror reattached. When I started driving to school every day last year, I would drive home and park the LeBaron face-first in the driveway. An hour later, it would be facing the other way for easy exit (this may have been related to the earlier gate issue; they never said so, but my backing-out skills had proven to be weak). The LeBaron finally died last February, and Big Guy offered to loan us his BMW for emergencies. After a year of living here, I still missed the croissants, but it started to feel that the tradeoff was worth it.

An hour or so after Pink left, a timid knock came on my door. I opened it to find her smiling broadly with the news that her new baby sister had been born. I gave her a hug and told her she'll be a great sister. I didn't add that I'll miss her when I'm gone and am sad I won't hear stories about Pink's prowess as a big sister, but I think she knows.

Portrait of me and Bean by Pink