Jeepers

Our go-to pet sitter, a recent college graduate, lives in a one-car household with her parents and 20-year-old brother. She's reliable, though, and when we go out of town, there's always a car left behind, so we lend her the second vehicle when she's on the job. 

That used to be a Honda HRV, a basic little subcompact crossover SUV, which was similar to her folks' C-RV, and which she liked very much. Recently, though, our second car became a Jeep Wrangler, and when we communicated the good news, she was clearly a bit daunted, as was her mother. "She keeps asking me how a Jeep handles and whether it's different from a car," confided a former colleague about conversations with the mom.

"Can I come over and test drive the Jeep?" our pet-sitter texted earlier this week. "Just to see how it is?"

"Sure," I replied, "but we're flying on this trip, so you can have a choice of either the Jeep or the Subaru."

"Oh, then I pick the Subaru, lol," she answered.

"The Jeep is really fun," I assured her, but she stood firm, and this evening came by to pick up the keys and the car.

As Heidi walked her out, they ran into our downstairs neighbor (who also happens to be a Jeep driver) and his dog. After a quick chat, the pet-sitter excused herself and headed home.

A minute later, the neighbor turned to Heidi, wide-eyed. "Wait!" he said. "She's taking your car!"

"I know," Heidi laughed. "But it's not the Jeep!"

He nodded, satisfied that the situation wasn't as dire as it could have been.

Timing is Everything

In general? I trust the service department at the car dealership where we bought our Subaru in 2018, and we have taken the car there for its every need since. Their service representatives are responsive and transparent, and I feel like the dealership is playing a long game: they value their reputation enough to avoid any shenanigans aimed at making a quick buck at the expense of repeat customers and good consumer ratings. 

But lately, every time I bring our aging Outback in for a scheduled service or to address a specific issue, the complimentary scan reveals another major repair that needs attention. Oh, I know our car is seven years old, and admittedly, they have a conflict of interest, selling new cars as they do. I also confess to occasionally clicking on offers for newer models when I receive them. Still, part of my strategy in bringing the vehicle there, despite the distance and extra cost, is to make that good old station wagon last a while longer.

Today, though? They may have tipped their hand. The estimate for service (on something I didn't suspect was a problem) was a couple grand, and the repair time was long enough that they offered me a loaner. And when I went up to the cashier to get everything squared away, I saw an envelope with my name on it clipped to a little easel nearby. 

"What's that?" I pointed, curious.

"That's a personalized trade-in offer," the cashier told me. "Do you want to look at it before you sign the approval?"

"No thanks," I answered, tucking the envelope into my bag. Not gonna lie. I left feeling less confident in the service I was receiving.

Presently Missing my Robot

I was sitting on my yoga mat yesterday, immersing myself in my morning practice, when I noticed the Roomba was gone! I scanned the room, and, seeing no robotic vacuum, closed my eyes, vowing to set this distraction aside and stay in the present moment.

"Om," I chanted.

Where could it be?? I thought.

"Om," I chanted.

When was the last time I saw it? I thought.

"Om," I chanted.

Am I sure it's not here, somewhere? I thought.

"Om," I chanted, and then hit pause on the recording and went to find that Roomba!

Ask and You Shall Receive

Heidi, ever the conscientious coach, did some research into dribbling drills for 5 and 6-year-olds when the head coach let her know that she would be handling that station at today's practice. She found one that looked fun but required hoops, like croquet, but big enough for a soccer ball. 

"Are you going to the store today?" she asked me this morning. "Will you look for hoops?"

"Where, at the hoop store?" I grumbled irritably, but agreed. 

My first stop was Target, and although I thoroughly scoured their sporting goods aisles, I did not find anything useful. At my next stop, the big box sporting goods store near us, I found two dozen adorable little cones, which I purchased, but no hoops. It occurred to me that a hardware store might carry something we could repurpose, so that big box was my next stop, unfortunately, to no avail. 

I knew there was a craft store around the back of the strip mall, and so I headed there next. On the way, I spotted a five-dollar store I'd forgotten about, and so I parked in between and went there first. There was nothing in their sports section that would work either on its own or with the mini cones, and I was just about to walk out when I saw a box of pool noodles on clearance for a buck a piece. 

I plucked one from the box and bent it into an arc thoughtfully. A possibility was definitely there, but I needed something to hold it in place. I figured I could spare two dollars in pursuit of the concept, and so I skipped the craft store and headed home, mulling the situation over.

The cones were out, although they were so cute I knew both Heidi and the kids would be charmed by them, and so they were in on their own. Back at the house, I cut the noodles in half and considered how they could be kept in the shape of an arch. I thought of garden stakes, and then it hit me. Wooden skewers! I took one of my half noodles outside with a couple of skewers and stuck them in the ground. Then I bent the noodle and threaded the skewers through the center hole. 

Voila! There was a colorful dribbling hoop. Total cost? Fifty cents.

And? They were a big hit at practice, too.

Off Peak

When Heidi and I pushed our way through the plate-glass doors into the black-lit gloom of the bowling center this afternoon, the place seemed deserted. Once our eyes adjusted to the light cast by the enormous TV screens playing a combination of music videos and football games at the end of each darkened lane, we saw just one other couple sitting at a table, eating chicken wings. 

It took a little while for anyone to emerge from the back and check us in; so long in fact, that had I not been committed to testing out my new ball, I would have been tempted to leave. Eventually, a personable man of perhaps 30 waved to us and made his way behind the counter. "What brings you in today?" he asked, ignoring the obvious.

"Believe it or not, we're here to bowl," I answered, stating the obvious.

He laughed and looked around the cavernous, nearly empty building. "Well, thanks for renting out the whole place!" he said.

Go Cheetahs

This fall, Heidi agreed to co-coach a kindergarten soccer team with one of our former colleagues, and today was the first game. The weather at the park when we arrived at 10 am was classic: blue skies, lots of sunshine, and a light breeze. The place itself was chaotic: cars were parked along the entrance drive, families packing their minivans to leave the first set of games, while others arrived for their own contests. 

Ordinarily set up as two regulation soccer pitches, the green was now haphazardly dotted with a dozen or more small nets. Upon closer inspection, we could see faint chalk lines marking the space into six or possibly seven small fields. It was disorienting until we spotted the blue and red jerseys of the Cheetahs and headed over that way. A minute later, the other team arrived in their black and gray kit. It turned out that they were the Cheetahs, too.

The match was four-on-four, played in four 8-minute quarters with at least three squad substitutions per quarter. Neither team fielded a keeper, so it was open goal. There were no referees, and the coaches ran the field with their teams, reminding them of the rules as they played. 

Of course, no one kept score. Officially, that is. I did hear a couple of dads talking about how many goals their players made. Even so, two things were certain: the kids had a good time, and the Cheetahs won.

You Crazy Kids

"What does he look like?" I asked a friend and former colleague about the teacher I was subbing for. He was a new hire this year, and I hadn't met him yet. Still, the way the kids talked about him in the first two classes made me curious. 

"Oh!" I heard more than once. "Mr. C. does NOT play!" and I sort of believed it based on his notes to me. If anyone even looks at you the wrong way, he wrote, leave the name. I will be the bad guy!

"He looks like Benson Boone," my friend laughed. "Young and kind of goofy."

"Who are you in for today?" a young teacher asked me at lunch, and when I told her, she nodded. "I went to grad school with him."

"Someone told me he looks like Benson Boone," I said.

She looked at me skeptically. "Do you know what Benson Boone looks like?"

"Of course!" I answered, a little indignantly, although it was a fair question. 

She pulled out her phone and showed me a picture of her friend. He had a mop of curly hair and a wispy beard and mustache.

"I guess there's a little Benny Boone vibe there," I shrugged. "Does he do backflips?"

"No," she replied, and I think she was satisfied that I knew what I was talking about. "But he does do handstands!"

It sounds like he plays a bit to me, I thought, but I kept it to myself.