I believe I posted something yesterday to the effect of "Aw poop, nothing is happening to me." I would like to revise that sentiment to "Yay! Nothing is happening to me!" This is because I am very happy today due to the fact that nobody hit my car yesterday.
It was a typical Thursday evening at Tai's. I had eaten Chinese and been told I looked like a double amputee because I like to sit on my feet. MrSteve, who is annoyingly on the wagon, showed up and drank tap water because he is a traitor. He was followed by Pothead Pete. I don't remember anything Pete said to me and he probably doesn't either.* I had a delicious glass of Strongbow in front of me and all was right with my world.
From outside we heard the unmistakable sound of metal hitting metal at a high rate of speed indicating that, oh shit, there's been an accident. 911 calls commenced and the bar patrons poured out into the street like the nosy people we are. We surveyed the carnage: a blue car with its passenger side in some disarray was in the middle of the street. A white car had its entire front end smashed in including a broken front axle. In front of that was a white van that had been slammed into so hard that it jumped the curb and wrapped its back end around a parking meter, but not before it slammed into the car in front of it and buried its hood in the car's trunk.
Directly behind and a foot away from this insurance nightmare sat Alistair. I hadn’t seen Alistair all week. He was on loan to the bartender because his car is totally lame. He was being returned to me that night, and just in time because I have exactly no food in my house, not even cheese, and it’s time to buy some groceries. He was the last car in line parked on the very corner. He was also the only car on that side of the street that hadn’t been touched.
The bartender returned from checking on Alistair and looked at me. “Boy,” he said, “I was going to move your car to that spot in front of the bar earlier and I never got around to it. Good thing I didn’t.” Because if he had moved it Alistair would be a very large accordion right now. But he’s not, there’s not a scratch on him. Nothing happened to him.
Yay for nothing!
*Last week, MrSteve invented a great new game called "Let's See How Long". The way you play is to start a game of pool with Pothead Pete, accidentally knock the 8 ball in at the beginning of the game, and then wait and see how long it takes Pete to notice. Sadly, we learned it's possible to play this game more than once per night. Pete is not known for his attention span.
Showing posts with label Alistair. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Alistair. Show all posts
Friday, March 31, 2006
Monday, February 06, 2006
Ill-annoying
Honestly people, all I wanted to do was officially become an Illlinoisian. Illinoiser? Illinoisan? Whatever. I wanted to officially be from Illinois. That is, get Illinois plates for Alistair and an Illinois driver’s license for me. Well, let me tell you something kids: you better fucking be from here in the first place because they don't take kindly to foreigners in these parts.
Since I have a social phobia regarding any situation I haven't previously encountered involving other people, I checked first with my good friends out at the Liz to get the low down on what to expect. Their utter amusement did nothing to allay my fears.
"Do you have your old registration and proof of insurance? Your old driver's license and some proof of residency, like a utility bill? You should have everything you need then. And don't worry, if you don't, they're very kind and understanding," said Klug.
"Oh, and by the way, don't tell them you've lived here an entire year," JoE advised. "You're supposed to get an Illinois license within 10 days of moving here. Although, you can tell them how long you've really been here if you want. I’m sure they'll be very kind and understanding."
"Don't worry about where you need to go or anything," Fish assured me. "There's a guard at the door now. You tell him what you need to do, and he'll tell you what line to get in. He's very kind and understanding."
I suspected they were mocking me.
The guy at the door was a little Mexican guy in a very official looking outfit that implied if I said anything stupid, he had the authority to shoot me. He looked neither kind nor understanding, and I would come to find out that my first impression was correct. But he did know where to send me. Driver's license first. Line 2.
Line 2 was very short, although the area just beyond Line 2 looked like Ellis Island circa 1907. To get an Illinois license you need the following items: your old out of state license, proof of birth, proof of Social Security number, and proof of residency. I had on me the following items: my Ohio driver's license (with my Social Security number included), my birth certificate, and a bill from People's Energy.
"Where's your Social Security card?" asked the Line 2 attendant.
"I don't have it."
"Well, you need proof of your Social Security number to get an Illinois license, so you won't be able to get that today."
"Um, but it's printed right there on my Ohio license," I said. Because it seemed to me that if my Social Security number was ON MY OLD LICENSE that it should qualify as "proof" that this was MY Social Security number. Putting your SS# on your license is optional in Ohio, but as far as I know, you don't have the option of putting just anyone's number on there. It has to actually be yours.
"That's not on the document list," he said, handing me a sheet of paper and circling Section C, "Proof of Social Security". Sure enough the items on the list included a U.S. Military ID, a State of Illinois ID card, a letter from the Social Security people officially stating your SS#, or your Social Security card. Out of state driver's license, whether you number was printed right on it or not, was not included. "Come back with your Social Security card. Also you'll have to take a written exam and a vision test." He shoved all the paperwork back at me, indicating that I was dismissed.
"Can I still get plates though?" I asked him. This was the more pressing issue, as my driver's license won't expire until next year, but my Ohio tags expired last week. He said I could, and also permitted me to just unhook the rope and get in Line 1.
Now I was in line 1, and for this exercise I had ready: my Ohio registration, my loan agreement, and my insurance card. I would not need any of these immediately. The woman behind the counter began rapid firing her automated list of questions at me and pulling out forms as I answered them. Because I bought the car outside of Illinois, new, from a dealer, still owed money on it, and used it outside of Illinois for a specified period of time, I was handed a stack of approximately 87 forms to fill out before I could receive my two metal rectangles indicating that my car lives here. I headed off to the long table in order to accomplish this.
As I was working, a surly employee made his way down the table peering over everyone's shoulder, deeming each of us stupid in turn, and sending us off to the auditors for "help" filling out our small forest's worth of forms. I was doing pretty well, I thought, but not well enough for the Form Enforcer. "Ma'am," he said in an exasperated tone as if I was just too dumb to understand (though I hadn't said anything to him at this point), "you need to go over to the Auditors and have them help you fill this out right now. We'd like to get out of here some time today." I'd been standing there for maybe three minutes when he said this and was already halfway done, due to my diligence with Having Things Ready. But this wasn't good enough, so I headed over to the Dummy line.
Turns out I belonged in the Dummy line. I handed all my documents and papers to the older gentleman assisting me, and of course the first thing he asks me for is the exact mileage on my car. That particular nugget being the one piece of information I did not have. I told him this and he looked around tiredly. "Doesn't look like the doors are locked yet," he said. "Better go out and get the mileage off your car." So chastened, I ran out to my car and diligently wrote down "14,242" on my forms before heading back inside.
I walked in and immediately headed back to the Auditor lime. But before I could take three steps the little Mexican man (hereafter, "the Mexi-nazi") stopped me with an authoritative bark. "Ma'am," he said sharply, "what's your business here?"
"Um, I was just here, remember? I need to get plates? I just had to get something out of my car."
"Line 1," said the Mexi-nazi coldly.
I thanked him stupidly, then ignored him and went straight back to the Auditors. At least he didn't shoot me.
I got a different auditor this time. She took my registration and loan agreement away and made copies of them (no one ever asked me for proof of insurance. WTF?), stapled them to my paperwork, signed and stamped a dozen things, and sent me off to stand in another line so I could give them my money. I stood in the line and glanced around, as you do. And in so glancing, I noticed a sign on the wall. "We accept, cash, personal check, money order, and Discover Card."
So rarely have I been in a place that accepts Discover but not Mastercard or Visa that I had to read it twice. And instantly I wished I had read it before going to take down my mileage, because in my purse I had no cash, no money order, and no Discover card (since I carry Mastercard like a normal person). I did have a checkbook....in my car. The Form Enforcer was nearby, so I went to him and timidly said, "Um, can I please run out to my car? I left my checkbook there by accident." He approved my trip and I went out to the car a second time.
I was gone, oh, 45 seconds, tops. When I got back, I discovered the front door was locked. So I did what any other rational adult who had been granted permission to get her checkbook from her car would do: I went in through the exit door.
A small but strong hand gripped my shoulder as I stepped inside, and I turned around and came face to face with the Mexi-nazi. "You can't come in Ma'am," he announced.
I heard a whiney little kid speaking and realized it was me. "But I was just here. The man told me I could go out and get my checkbook." I looked around for the Form Enforcer only to discover that he'd vanished into the ether. Instead I sheepishly held out my finished paperwork.
Mexi-nazi tightened his grip on my arm and shook his head at me. "You can't come in. We're closed." He steered me back toward the doors. It was clear that I would not be granted the privilege of giving the state of Illinois $143 that day.
Defeated, I let myself be escorted off the premises without obtaining an Illinois driver’s license or Illinois plates. When I got to my car, I immediately called Fish to complain. When he answered I announced I was moving back to Ohio because everyone here was mean and then promptly burst into tears.
Fish was very kind and understanding.
Since I have a social phobia regarding any situation I haven't previously encountered involving other people, I checked first with my good friends out at the Liz to get the low down on what to expect. Their utter amusement did nothing to allay my fears.
"Do you have your old registration and proof of insurance? Your old driver's license and some proof of residency, like a utility bill? You should have everything you need then. And don't worry, if you don't, they're very kind and understanding," said Klug.
"Oh, and by the way, don't tell them you've lived here an entire year," JoE advised. "You're supposed to get an Illinois license within 10 days of moving here. Although, you can tell them how long you've really been here if you want. I’m sure they'll be very kind and understanding."
"Don't worry about where you need to go or anything," Fish assured me. "There's a guard at the door now. You tell him what you need to do, and he'll tell you what line to get in. He's very kind and understanding."
I suspected they were mocking me.
The guy at the door was a little Mexican guy in a very official looking outfit that implied if I said anything stupid, he had the authority to shoot me. He looked neither kind nor understanding, and I would come to find out that my first impression was correct. But he did know where to send me. Driver's license first. Line 2.
Line 2 was very short, although the area just beyond Line 2 looked like Ellis Island circa 1907. To get an Illinois license you need the following items: your old out of state license, proof of birth, proof of Social Security number, and proof of residency. I had on me the following items: my Ohio driver's license (with my Social Security number included), my birth certificate, and a bill from People's Energy.
"Where's your Social Security card?" asked the Line 2 attendant.
"I don't have it."
"Well, you need proof of your Social Security number to get an Illinois license, so you won't be able to get that today."
"Um, but it's printed right there on my Ohio license," I said. Because it seemed to me that if my Social Security number was ON MY OLD LICENSE that it should qualify as "proof" that this was MY Social Security number. Putting your SS# on your license is optional in Ohio, but as far as I know, you don't have the option of putting just anyone's number on there. It has to actually be yours.
"That's not on the document list," he said, handing me a sheet of paper and circling Section C, "Proof of Social Security". Sure enough the items on the list included a U.S. Military ID, a State of Illinois ID card, a letter from the Social Security people officially stating your SS#, or your Social Security card. Out of state driver's license, whether you number was printed right on it or not, was not included. "Come back with your Social Security card. Also you'll have to take a written exam and a vision test." He shoved all the paperwork back at me, indicating that I was dismissed.
"Can I still get plates though?" I asked him. This was the more pressing issue, as my driver's license won't expire until next year, but my Ohio tags expired last week. He said I could, and also permitted me to just unhook the rope and get in Line 1.
Now I was in line 1, and for this exercise I had ready: my Ohio registration, my loan agreement, and my insurance card. I would not need any of these immediately. The woman behind the counter began rapid firing her automated list of questions at me and pulling out forms as I answered them. Because I bought the car outside of Illinois, new, from a dealer, still owed money on it, and used it outside of Illinois for a specified period of time, I was handed a stack of approximately 87 forms to fill out before I could receive my two metal rectangles indicating that my car lives here. I headed off to the long table in order to accomplish this.
As I was working, a surly employee made his way down the table peering over everyone's shoulder, deeming each of us stupid in turn, and sending us off to the auditors for "help" filling out our small forest's worth of forms. I was doing pretty well, I thought, but not well enough for the Form Enforcer. "Ma'am," he said in an exasperated tone as if I was just too dumb to understand (though I hadn't said anything to him at this point), "you need to go over to the Auditors and have them help you fill this out right now. We'd like to get out of here some time today." I'd been standing there for maybe three minutes when he said this and was already halfway done, due to my diligence with Having Things Ready. But this wasn't good enough, so I headed over to the Dummy line.
Turns out I belonged in the Dummy line. I handed all my documents and papers to the older gentleman assisting me, and of course the first thing he asks me for is the exact mileage on my car. That particular nugget being the one piece of information I did not have. I told him this and he looked around tiredly. "Doesn't look like the doors are locked yet," he said. "Better go out and get the mileage off your car." So chastened, I ran out to my car and diligently wrote down "14,242" on my forms before heading back inside.
I walked in and immediately headed back to the Auditor lime. But before I could take three steps the little Mexican man (hereafter, "the Mexi-nazi") stopped me with an authoritative bark. "Ma'am," he said sharply, "what's your business here?"
"Um, I was just here, remember? I need to get plates? I just had to get something out of my car."
"Line 1," said the Mexi-nazi coldly.
I thanked him stupidly, then ignored him and went straight back to the Auditors. At least he didn't shoot me.
I got a different auditor this time. She took my registration and loan agreement away and made copies of them (no one ever asked me for proof of insurance. WTF?), stapled them to my paperwork, signed and stamped a dozen things, and sent me off to stand in another line so I could give them my money. I stood in the line and glanced around, as you do. And in so glancing, I noticed a sign on the wall. "We accept, cash, personal check, money order, and Discover Card."
So rarely have I been in a place that accepts Discover but not Mastercard or Visa that I had to read it twice. And instantly I wished I had read it before going to take down my mileage, because in my purse I had no cash, no money order, and no Discover card (since I carry Mastercard like a normal person). I did have a checkbook....in my car. The Form Enforcer was nearby, so I went to him and timidly said, "Um, can I please run out to my car? I left my checkbook there by accident." He approved my trip and I went out to the car a second time.
I was gone, oh, 45 seconds, tops. When I got back, I discovered the front door was locked. So I did what any other rational adult who had been granted permission to get her checkbook from her car would do: I went in through the exit door.
A small but strong hand gripped my shoulder as I stepped inside, and I turned around and came face to face with the Mexi-nazi. "You can't come in Ma'am," he announced.
I heard a whiney little kid speaking and realized it was me. "But I was just here. The man told me I could go out and get my checkbook." I looked around for the Form Enforcer only to discover that he'd vanished into the ether. Instead I sheepishly held out my finished paperwork.
Mexi-nazi tightened his grip on my arm and shook his head at me. "You can't come in. We're closed." He steered me back toward the doors. It was clear that I would not be granted the privilege of giving the state of Illinois $143 that day.
Defeated, I let myself be escorted off the premises without obtaining an Illinois driver’s license or Illinois plates. When I got to my car, I immediately called Fish to complain. When he answered I announced I was moving back to Ohio because everyone here was mean and then promptly burst into tears.
Fish was very kind and understanding.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Chicago: Week One
Ah, the Windy City. Mother Fucking Cold as a Witch's Tit City would be a more appropriate moniker, I think. Despite that, things are going well. Some highlights:
I found an AWESOME apartment, one which I was repeatedly told did not exist. It's a one bedroom in a two flat, and it's in Roscoe Village. For those of you I've lost (most of the Cleveland contingency, I would think) a two flat is a rowhouse with two apartments in it, basically a duplex. Much of this area consists of two flats and three flats. And almost all of those are two or three bedroom places. When Cap asked me what kind of a place i was looking for I said I wanted a one bedroom, and I wanted it in a house, like his. Oh, he laughed and laughed. So did all of his fraternity brothers, the bartender and his crew and a girl I made out with at Tai's. One bedrooms don't exist in two flats and three flats, they said. Hmm. Well. I found one. And not only that, but the kitchen and bathroom were both completely remodeled so everything is new AND I have a dishwasher AND a dining room big enough for my ginormous table. So raspberries to all of them.
I also had an interview this morning. The firm really seemed to like me, so I hope it pans out. It's an even smaller office than where I came from, only 6 people. In fact, I interviewed with every single person in the firm. I'd be the only Analyst/Support Consultant in the firm if I get it. We will wait and see.
Cap is thoroughly enjoying Alistair. For one thing his car no-go right now. But more importantly, as he puts it, "This thing corners like it's on rails! ON FUCKIN' RAILS!" I've been pretty much letting him do all the driving since he knows where he's going and I don't.
Speaking of not knowing where I'm going I had the chattiest cab driver EVER on Wednesday morning. The guy would not shut up. I didn't really mind, I played along, told him I just moved on Sunday, loved it here, yada yada yada, and was rewarded with a comprehensive list of, I think, everything there is to do in Chicago. Then he asked how I was getting around, so I told him I never have any idea where I am, unless I can see it from Tai's. He suggested that I learn the grid system, and then launched into a monologue about how great the grid system was and why don't other cities have this? I said, "Well, it helps if you've burned down the entire city and started from scratch."
I also attended two new bars on Tuesday night. Vicodin Jim was texting me like there was no monyana trying to get me to go out with him because he is depressed and needs someone to talk to. Yeah, alcohol is good for that. "IM AT THE MUTINY. U HAVE TO COME I NEED HUMAN COMPANY," he sent.
"I am tired, I want to go to bed, [the bartender] blew me off earlier and I don't even know where that bar is," I replied.
"WESTERN"
"Western? Western and what? I'm not from here remember?"
"WESTERN AND FULLERTON"
At this point, Cap, who was following the play by play, volunteered to drop me off. "on my way" I sent to Jim.
The Mutiny is a complete dive that looks extremely sketchy from the outside, but on the inside is a very nice bartender named Rhonda, who immediately liked me because I ordered her favorite drink. Also inside was a worn out looking stripper who was shooting pool with Jim and trying to distract him by flashing her tits and rubbing herself everytime he took a shot (Jim won). And my friend Karen, the aforementioned girl-I-made-out-with-at-Tai's. She was not feeling so hot, so Jim ordered her a Sprite so she wouldn't puke on us, and shortly thereafter the girl she was with took her home.
The Mutiny closes at 2, but here in Chicago, the party is just getting started at 2, so Jim and I hopped in a cab and headed over to the Under Bar, which is a late night bar that is filled with punks. Everyone was decked out in black, most had chains, interesting haircuts, 7 pounds of metal in their face and arms full of tattoos. Also everyone was very very nice, and were polite enough not to make fun of me, despite the fact that I looked like a complete asshole in my khakis and t-shirt with a cartoon chearleader on it. I told Jim that if I was going to hang out with him on any kind of regular basis, I was just going to have to own many more black shirts and pants. There are dozens and dozens of mirrors on the wall in this place. I pointed out to Jim that it was freaking me out. "You're freaked out by mirrors?" he asked.
"No, no, it's just that there's so many of them. Everywhere I look I see multiple copies of the same people and the people who are here just aren't attractive enough to warrant this many images, including us. I mean, look, I'm everywhere."
"But we're cute," Jim replied. I tried not to look anywhere but at Jim or the table. Way too many mirrors. I sent a text to the bartender, "Underbar? All I know is there's a lot of mirrors in here."
So. Witch Tit City has treated me well so far. We'll see how next week turns out.
Oh, by the way, my keychain vibrator? Showed it to Jim. He pretended to think it was wierd, but I think he was secretly digging it.
I found an AWESOME apartment, one which I was repeatedly told did not exist. It's a one bedroom in a two flat, and it's in Roscoe Village. For those of you I've lost (most of the Cleveland contingency, I would think) a two flat is a rowhouse with two apartments in it, basically a duplex. Much of this area consists of two flats and three flats. And almost all of those are two or three bedroom places. When Cap asked me what kind of a place i was looking for I said I wanted a one bedroom, and I wanted it in a house, like his. Oh, he laughed and laughed. So did all of his fraternity brothers, the bartender and his crew and a girl I made out with at Tai's. One bedrooms don't exist in two flats and three flats, they said. Hmm. Well. I found one. And not only that, but the kitchen and bathroom were both completely remodeled so everything is new AND I have a dishwasher AND a dining room big enough for my ginormous table. So raspberries to all of them.
I also had an interview this morning. The firm really seemed to like me, so I hope it pans out. It's an even smaller office than where I came from, only 6 people. In fact, I interviewed with every single person in the firm. I'd be the only Analyst/Support Consultant in the firm if I get it. We will wait and see.
Cap is thoroughly enjoying Alistair. For one thing his car no-go right now. But more importantly, as he puts it, "This thing corners like it's on rails! ON FUCKIN' RAILS!" I've been pretty much letting him do all the driving since he knows where he's going and I don't.
Speaking of not knowing where I'm going I had the chattiest cab driver EVER on Wednesday morning. The guy would not shut up. I didn't really mind, I played along, told him I just moved on Sunday, loved it here, yada yada yada, and was rewarded with a comprehensive list of, I think, everything there is to do in Chicago. Then he asked how I was getting around, so I told him I never have any idea where I am, unless I can see it from Tai's. He suggested that I learn the grid system, and then launched into a monologue about how great the grid system was and why don't other cities have this? I said, "Well, it helps if you've burned down the entire city and started from scratch."
I also attended two new bars on Tuesday night. Vicodin Jim was texting me like there was no monyana trying to get me to go out with him because he is depressed and needs someone to talk to. Yeah, alcohol is good for that. "IM AT THE MUTINY. U HAVE TO COME I NEED HUMAN COMPANY," he sent.
"I am tired, I want to go to bed, [the bartender] blew me off earlier and I don't even know where that bar is," I replied.
"WESTERN"
"Western? Western and what? I'm not from here remember?"
"WESTERN AND FULLERTON"
At this point, Cap, who was following the play by play, volunteered to drop me off. "on my way" I sent to Jim.
The Mutiny is a complete dive that looks extremely sketchy from the outside, but on the inside is a very nice bartender named Rhonda, who immediately liked me because I ordered her favorite drink. Also inside was a worn out looking stripper who was shooting pool with Jim and trying to distract him by flashing her tits and rubbing herself everytime he took a shot (Jim won). And my friend Karen, the aforementioned girl-I-made-out-with-at-Tai's. She was not feeling so hot, so Jim ordered her a Sprite so she wouldn't puke on us, and shortly thereafter the girl she was with took her home.
The Mutiny closes at 2, but here in Chicago, the party is just getting started at 2, so Jim and I hopped in a cab and headed over to the Under Bar, which is a late night bar that is filled with punks. Everyone was decked out in black, most had chains, interesting haircuts, 7 pounds of metal in their face and arms full of tattoos. Also everyone was very very nice, and were polite enough not to make fun of me, despite the fact that I looked like a complete asshole in my khakis and t-shirt with a cartoon chearleader on it. I told Jim that if I was going to hang out with him on any kind of regular basis, I was just going to have to own many more black shirts and pants. There are dozens and dozens of mirrors on the wall in this place. I pointed out to Jim that it was freaking me out. "You're freaked out by mirrors?" he asked.
"No, no, it's just that there's so many of them. Everywhere I look I see multiple copies of the same people and the people who are here just aren't attractive enough to warrant this many images, including us. I mean, look, I'm everywhere."
"But we're cute," Jim replied. I tried not to look anywhere but at Jim or the table. Way too many mirrors. I sent a text to the bartender, "Underbar? All I know is there's a lot of mirrors in here."
So. Witch Tit City has treated me well so far. We'll see how next week turns out.
Oh, by the way, my keychain vibrator? Showed it to Jim. He pretended to think it was wierd, but I think he was secretly digging it.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
I Think I've Joined a Cult
I'm pretty sure I've accidentally joined a cult. I didn't mean to join a cult; I only meant to buy a car. But the MINI Cooper people? They're a cult. And everyone who has one has to join the cult.
It started with the MINI owners lounge. You have to register to get in there. Okay, by itself this is no big deal. But this was only the beginning.
Then the e-mails started. Once the MINI people get a hold of your e-mail address, you start getting quirky little messages about once a week. They aren't even really about anything, they're just nutty. This started about 6 weeks before my car was even delivered to me. I'm still getting them. I'm starting to think I will continue to get them for ever and ever in perpetuity.
About two weeks after I got my car, an envelope arrived in the mail from MINI. It contained a little note, "Carve out a space for your baby!" and a stencil that reads "MINI Parking Only". You are apparently supposed to stencil this on the wall of the garage where you park your car. I don't have a garage now; I've moved to Chicago. Perhaps I should stencil the street in front of my house? I just don't know. Perhaps I'll learn what to do with it in one of the e-mails.
Since I got the car a month and a half ago, MINI customer service has called me three times to find out if I'm happy with my purchase. They remind me of the Verizon guy: "Can you drive it now? Good! Can you drive it now? Good!"
Last week, I came home from work and found a box by my door. I was hoping it was the braille t-shirt I had ordered. (This is how I know I'm an attention whore. A braille t-shirt, a vibrator on my keychain...just wait until I get myself a Playboy bunny belly ring!) As I approached, however, I immediately noticed the seemingly omnipresent winged logo with "MINI" stamped in the center ring. Inside was a mini-MINI cornacopia:
So you see, I am now into something way over my head, and I'm pretty sure there's no way out. But, um, I think I like it that way. At least that's what the MINI people tell me.
It started with the MINI owners lounge. You have to register to get in there. Okay, by itself this is no big deal. But this was only the beginning.
Then the e-mails started. Once the MINI people get a hold of your e-mail address, you start getting quirky little messages about once a week. They aren't even really about anything, they're just nutty. This started about 6 weeks before my car was even delivered to me. I'm still getting them. I'm starting to think I will continue to get them for ever and ever in perpetuity.
About two weeks after I got my car, an envelope arrived in the mail from MINI. It contained a little note, "Carve out a space for your baby!" and a stencil that reads "MINI Parking Only". You are apparently supposed to stencil this on the wall of the garage where you park your car. I don't have a garage now; I've moved to Chicago. Perhaps I should stencil the street in front of my house? I just don't know. Perhaps I'll learn what to do with it in one of the e-mails.
Since I got the car a month and a half ago, MINI customer service has called me three times to find out if I'm happy with my purchase. They remind me of the Verizon guy: "Can you drive it now? Good! Can you drive it now? Good!"
Last week, I came home from work and found a box by my door. I was hoping it was the braille t-shirt I had ordered. (This is how I know I'm an attention whore. A braille t-shirt, a vibrator on my keychain...just wait until I get myself a Playboy bunny belly ring!) As I approached, however, I immediately noticed the seemingly omnipresent winged logo with "MINI" stamped in the center ring. Inside was a mini-MINI cornacopia:
- Two little notes from MINI, one is yet another greeting from MINI, one is a reminder that MINI financing is right there should I need any help.
- A packet of MINI business cards in a little case, with instructions to please hand them out to people who seem like they "should" have a MINI (read: weirdos). Each card has a picture of a MINI on the front and some pithy saying on the back ("Sip, don't Guzzle." "Let's leave the off road vehicles off the road." and of course the always popular "Let's Motor.") along with the MINI USA web address.
- The "Unauthorized Owners Manual". This is completely different from the owners manual I received when I picked up my car (at which time, if you'll recall, I also received a second toy MINI and two boxes of "MINI Mints"). This manual has instructions for picking up chicks, tips for places you can stick your toll tickets in the dash, suggestions for sandwiches which you can either heat or cool in your special heating and cooling glove box, "secret" features of the car (I'm not sure what would happen to me if I divulged them here, but I'm quite sure I don't want to find out), and other sometimes helpful, sometimes completely bizarre information.
- A sheet of stickers for relabeling my toggle switches. It is suggested that I memorize what each switch is for and them put new labels over top. A few examples are Self-Destruct, Up Periscope, Ejector Seat, and Tacks. I am so completely not kidding you.
- "MINI Motoring Message Kit." This is a little jewel case which contains a bunch of signs you can hold up to the window as you drive past people, and some blank cards in the event you'd like to write your own. The only one I can remember offhand reads "Hey, sexy."
- A ballpoint pen with a little picture inside: Hollywood on the left, and New York on the right. A little red MINI is also inside and appears to "drive" from LA to NY as you tilt the pen. The pen comes in handy when I want to write in my
- Motoring Journal. The inside cover suggests that I should be keeping a diary of my MINI experiences. Like the brainwashed cult-follower I am, I have already made three entries.
- Last but not least we have two cards for playing "Motoring Bingo". Motoring Bingo cards have different pictures on them: train tracks, state line, stop sign, etc. You look out your window for these things and slide the little window over when you find one.
So you see, I am now into something way over my head, and I'm pretty sure there's no way out. But, um, I think I like it that way. At least that's what the MINI people tell me.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
Realizations
Things I realized while cleaning out my cars last night in preparation to trade them in for Alistair:
1. My kids were not as clean as I thought they were. They've been out of my life for over 6 months and I'm still dealing with their snotty kleenex and half sucked Jolly Ranchers.
2. So that's where I put those shoes and my favorite pair of khakis! Silly me, I never thought to look in the trunk of the Mustang.
3. Having a friend who will let you borrow her boyfriend for boyfriend-type grunt work such as driving one of your cars to the dealership is a good friend to have.
4. Having said pseudo-boyfriend drive the Mustang Convertible makes it easier to give it up since I didn't get one last ride.
5. I own three umbrellas. I had previously thought it was zero.
6. Naming my new car Alistair Cooper is just as funny as I thought it would be. At least that's what my best friend and boyfriend-on-loan tell me.
So Alistair is home now. I like driving him; it's smurfy. Pics to follow, hopefully in a few days. Also, when you buy a car from MINI, they give you mints. In case you were interested.
1. My kids were not as clean as I thought they were. They've been out of my life for over 6 months and I'm still dealing with their snotty kleenex and half sucked Jolly Ranchers.
2. So that's where I put those shoes and my favorite pair of khakis! Silly me, I never thought to look in the trunk of the Mustang.
3. Having a friend who will let you borrow her boyfriend for boyfriend-type grunt work such as driving one of your cars to the dealership is a good friend to have.
4. Having said pseudo-boyfriend drive the Mustang Convertible makes it easier to give it up since I didn't get one last ride.
5. I own three umbrellas. I had previously thought it was zero.
6. Naming my new car Alistair Cooper is just as funny as I thought it would be. At least that's what my best friend and boyfriend-on-loan tell me.
So Alistair is home now. I like driving him; it's smurfy. Pics to follow, hopefully in a few days. Also, when you buy a car from MINI, they give you mints. In case you were interested.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
My Car is Coming!!!
I just checked the MINI USA website, and my car is currently crossing the pond. Which means that I need to get to work on picking out a name. Here's some background information:
My car is a boy, and he's very very British. In fact, he's british racing green. Here's some ideas I've come up with so far:
Alfred
Alistair
Blaine
Cecil
Collin
Geoffery
Harry
Maxwell
Niles
Rodney
Sinjin
Spencer
Stuart
Wesley
I'm kind of liking Alistair. What do you guys think?
P.S. I know naming my car is extreme cheese, but I can't help it. It's a MINI for Pete's sake!
My car is a boy, and he's very very British. In fact, he's british racing green. Here's some ideas I've come up with so far:
Alfred
Alistair
Blaine
Cecil
Collin
Geoffery
Harry
Maxwell
Niles
Rodney
Sinjin
Spencer
Stuart
Wesley
I'm kind of liking Alistair. What do you guys think?
P.S. I know naming my car is extreme cheese, but I can't help it. It's a MINI for Pete's sake!
Monday, November 29, 2004
MINI Cooper
I got a production number for my MINI Cooper today. I ordered a MINI back in October. I knew I was going to move to Chicago, so my current rides seemed impractical. I am currently driving a Mustang Convertible and an Explorer. The Explorer sucks up gas like a porn star, which at $2.36 a gallon is not nearly as cheap as a porn star, and also is not your friend when you feel like parallel parking, which in Chicago is always. The Mustang is great fun in the summer, but once it starts to snow you'd be better off driving a sled, because at least you'd be able to steer it.
So I went with the MINI. It handles well. It has top safety ratings in it's class. It can fit in half a parking space. And it's a BMW so it makes me feel like I'm moderately successful.
My friends all seem to fall into one of two camps on this subject:
1) "Amber, you are the epitome of cool. You are the end-all, be-all of cutting edge trendiness, and I am so very envious of your discerning taste in automobiles. It is an honor to be counted as one of your friends. Perhaps you'll even permit me to ride with you among the elite. I hope someday to have a fraction of the coolness you exude from your every pore."
2) "Amber, you are a sucker and borderline retarded. I can't believe you would actually drive that little toy-looking hunk of junk. You are so pathetic that I'm only keeping you around out of morbid curiosity. I hope someday you live to regret this decision, and in the meantime I'm going to laugh at your stupid ass every single time I see you driving that thing."
I figure, if it's good enough for Marky-Mark in The Italian Job, then it's good enough for me. British Racing Green. Can't wait.
So I went with the MINI. It handles well. It has top safety ratings in it's class. It can fit in half a parking space. And it's a BMW so it makes me feel like I'm moderately successful.
My friends all seem to fall into one of two camps on this subject:
1) "Amber, you are the epitome of cool. You are the end-all, be-all of cutting edge trendiness, and I am so very envious of your discerning taste in automobiles. It is an honor to be counted as one of your friends. Perhaps you'll even permit me to ride with you among the elite. I hope someday to have a fraction of the coolness you exude from your every pore."
2) "Amber, you are a sucker and borderline retarded. I can't believe you would actually drive that little toy-looking hunk of junk. You are so pathetic that I'm only keeping you around out of morbid curiosity. I hope someday you live to regret this decision, and in the meantime I'm going to laugh at your stupid ass every single time I see you driving that thing."
I figure, if it's good enough for Marky-Mark in The Italian Job, then it's good enough for me. British Racing Green. Can't wait.
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