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A New Additon to ECMWC

Many of you repeat readers (if, in fact, you exist) know that this blog is a joint venture between myself and a friend of mine from back home in Boston.  I’m very pleased to announce that another dear friend of mine in Boston, infinitely brilliant and an exceptionally talented writer with an amazing voice, is also going to start contributing.  Look for his posts under the username “LetBe”.

LetBe and I became friends when I got my first job out of college and we were both smokers and would take our smoke breaks together.  A lifelong friendship was born, and I now consider him and his significant other to be the family I chose, who save my sanity every time I go home for a visit by welcoming me into their beautiful home, pouring me wine, and listening to me complain about my crazy family.  Everyone should be so lucky to have friends such as these.

Enjoy his posts and, as always, comment and let us know what you think!

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I Finally Concede Defeat

I remember when the first iPhone came out.  Having used a Blackberry for work for years, my first thought was, “But what about the buttons?”  My next phone after the iPhone and its competitive imitations came out was a slide phone – because it had a touch screen option but you could slide it open and still use buttons to type.  I was once shamed by some ad agency guy on a TV shoot I was on when I was using it. He said, “My daughter has that phone. She’s 13.”  Fair enough.

When that phone died, I sucked it up and got my first smart phone. Sometimes I like to be contrary for no good reason. Even though the majority of the free world has either an iPhone or Android, I decided I wanted a Windows phone. I’ve used Microsoft programs for the better part of my computer-using years, and arguably, most days of my life.  Where would I be without Word or Power Point?  Also, I have defiantly kept using the same Hotmail account since 1998 (it’s fine, and I hate having to update my email address everywhere). So I thought a Windows Phone would be great and work well with everything else in my life, the same way Mac users like their iPhones and iPads.  And it sort of worked.  I had a Samsung Focus and it’s been fine.

The biggest problem with the phone isn’t anything with the phone itself, but rather with the apps available for it. Or lack thereof.  Most publishers do not make apps available for a Windows platform. Last summer, at a work event, I was talking with one of my clients and our video game publisher. We were talking mobile games and how the publisher was making the game for our next movie for only iOS and Android.  As an aside sort of musing, I said to my partner, “I wonder what the Windows market share is if these companies don’t even bother making apps for the platform?”  Completely deadpan, he said, “My son has a Windows phone. Here’s how I look at it: Apple is two-thirds, Android is one-third, and Windows is you and my son.”  Fair enough.

I’ve been made fun a fair amount of time over the years for my phone.  The most recent was on a trip to Indianapolis. On the plane I sat next to a guy who was the spitting image for Danny McBride/Kenny Powers, except that he was completely bald.  Our section of the plane was filled with many of his colleagues, who were on their way home from some sort of conference.  I had my phone out, and he said something about my “crappy” Windows phone and not having any apps.  I told him that I had solitaire, which made everyone laugh even though I was serious.  Never one to cave into peer pressure, I ignored them. I was, however, frustrated with my phone multiple times on that trip, especially when I realized that the Facebook app posts, as a default, any status update or photo so that only I can see it.  If I want to make it available to my friends, I have to change it manually on a computer – I’m not able to do it from the phone.  This essentially defeats the entire purpose of social media.

I’ve been eligible for an upgrade since August.  I had been planning to get the Nokia Lumia when things changed drastically. My nephews back in Boston have iPod Touch’s.  My boyfriend has an iPhone (and all Mac software, really).  My nephews have been talking to him over Face Time while I am at work.  Since I love those kids more than life and never get to talk to them as much as I would like, this was pretty much the straw.  I will get an iPhone if for no other reason than to have easier access to my sister’s kids (they will be so sick of me).

I saw this story yesterday on the Daily Mail. Jessica Alba had an endorsement deal with Microsoft to promote the new phones. Apparently, her contract ended, she chucked her Windows phone in the bin, and immediately went out and got an iPhone.  I hate to admit that I am about to do the same (without the million dollar endorsement, unfortunately).  My phone up and died the other night and won’t even turn on.  I’m waiting until next Friday and will go and get my first iPhone, the 5S.  I’m still a believer in Microsoft and Windows products. I was actually excited for Windows 8 even though I had no intention of getting a new computer. I thought the Surface looked really cool.  But, unfortunately, if the platform never catches on, it will just end up going away entirely.  It is technological Darwin, and no one is surprised that Apple has emerged as the clear front-runner.

I’m sorry, Microsoft. I really tried.  I have been swayed by the promise of Facebook apps that work, games beyond solitaire, and screen time with my nephews.  Maybe when Windows 10 comes out things will be different, but for now, I am defecting to team iPhone.

I have a lot of pet peeves in life, and a lot have to do with gum chewing.  But my pet peeves are not just limited to gum chewing.  I hate hearing people chew in general, and seeing people chew with their mouths open drives me nuts as well.  First, it’s gross. Second, if you are chewing with your mouth open, you are unnecessarily amplifying the sound of your chomping, and no one needs to hear that.

I used to just chalk this aggravation up to things that were peculiar about me. I was a weird kid (I was petrified of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, and Halloween terrified me), so this just seemed to fit into that category of things that made me a difficult and not-so-fun child.  I remember sitting at the dinner table, scowling at my mother, and being asked what was wrong, only to give this reply: “I can hear you chewing!!!”  I was no more than 7 and it made me so angry I wanted to cry.

So I felt somewhat relieved when my Mom, who apparently doesn’t even hate me after all this time, told me that she and my Dad were watching Live with Regis & Kelly, and Kelly Ripa started talking about how she can’t stand how her husband chews certain things. She diagnosed herself with something called misophonia, where certain sounds can “literally drive a person crazy.”  As my parents watched, my Dad laughed and said, “We have one of those.”  At least there is a name for it and I am not alone. So that’s a relief.

However, going back to the gum chewing, I think that the older I get the less I can stifle my annoyances.  This comes into play when snapping of gum enters the equation.  I HATE when people snap their gum. I just can’t stand it. I try to ignore it. I’m very strong mentally, and can get myself to ignore or get by many things, but that is not one of them.

I find that people chew and snap gum a lot when traveling. Maybe it’s because of airline flights and the air pressure. Maybe it’s because they’re bored. All I know is, the more people that chew gum publicly, the more likely it is that someone will be snapping their gum, and it’s torture.  My boyfriend and I just got back from some marathon travel to the east coast where we flew cross country and took trains and cabs all over the northeast while visiting family and friends.  On the flight to Boston, we helped ourselves to as much wine as we could drink on a 6 hour flight (i.e., a lot).  So, I was not the most rational by the time we landed.  As we waited at baggage claim, a young girl (20s, maybe?) stood next to me snapping her gum.  I wanted to punch her in the face.  She had previously been across the baggage claim area, and I heard her then, too (I have dog ears when it comes to this stuff, I swear), so when she was in my ear, I could take it no more.  I turned to her and said something to the effect of, “Can you please stop snapping your gum?!”  I don’t really remember the details, but I’m sure I was rude about it. My boyfriend told me that he heard her with her friends afterwards talking about how I must be a meth head or something (I don’t see the correlation, but maybe that is the insult du jour among the youth?).  I was so incensed by the gum chewing, this didn’t bother me in the least. Maybe she’ll think twice before being that obnoxious again.

Taking the train from Long Island to NYC, we were sitting in front of a girl who was snapping her gum.  My boyfriend didn’t even hear it.  I asked him if we could move because I couldn’t take it.  Then, getting ready to get on the plane to come home, I spied a guy at the gate who was chewing gum obnoxiously with his mouth open.  I knew it was bad news.  He ended up sitting two rows ahead of me.  I could hear him snapping periodically throughout the flight. When we landed, I was a little grumpy from flying and we had to wait forever for our bags after the carousel started and then stopped again. So when I spied the guy, who looked like a jerk anyway, now with a friend, who also looked like a jerk and was equally obnoxious in his open-mouthed gum chewing, I wanted to hurt him. When I heard the gum snapping as I anxiously waited for my bag, I wished I had a shiv so I could fly across the baggage claim area and stab him in the side of the neck.

These are not rational thoughts. Besides being most irrational, they are actually kind of crazy and homicidal.  I am not that person. I swear, in all respects of my life, I am pretty normal, if not boring. That is why I think if I am ever going to snap and lose it and become a crazy person, it will be the gum snapping that gets me there.  It will make a great “Weird News” headline some day. I think Kelly Ripa would feel my pain.

Royal Baby Fever

I love the British royal family. I have no sane reason for being this way.  I am a huge Anglo-phile and love all things British (it’s a country that embraces pub culture – what’s not to love?!).  Most of my favorite authors are British, and some of my favorite TV shows are on BBC (Sherlock, Gavin & Stacy, the original Inbetweeners).  Their humor is so dry and so smart. Or maybe they’re not smart, but their accent makes them seem so. Either way, I dig it.

When I was a young lass back in the 80s was when Lady Diana Spencer became Princess Diana of Wales by marrying Prince Charles.  I remember watching the wedding at my aunt’s house – I was about 5 or 6 years old.  It was quite the event and certainly seemed to earn it’s nickname of the “fairytale” wedding. Especially to a little American girl watching the festivities outside of Boston at her aunt’s house.  That dress!! Hideous now, but spectacular then. We watched someone essentially become a Princess!  Although the day seemed like a fairy tale, the rest of her life would turn out tragically less so. I remember when her boys were born, and how adorable they were. I almost felt like I watched them grow up – essentially, we all did because every move they made was documented.  I don’t think the reality of how terrible that was actually struck anyone until Princess Diana died in that terrifying and awful car accident, essentially trying to get away from the paparazzi who made their living by stalking her every move.  I’ll never forget where I was when I found out – a group of us from college were on a white water rafting trip in Maine, and our guide casually said something about it, and we were all like, “what are you talking about?” and he bluntly responded with, “Didn’t you hear? Princess Diana is dead.”  We sat in stunned silence in our raft.  I felt like crying but I didn’t understand why.  To this day, I also feel like crying when I see the image of her sons walking behind her casket at her funeral. Especially Prince Harry – his expressions is angry, and sad and lost. I want to go back in time and give him a hug.

My fascination with the British Royal Family continued through the years, and has certainly not been helped by high speed internet connections and the Daily Mail.  Years ago, I started reading about “Waity Katie,” as the British tabloids had nicknamed Kate Middleton for seemingly waiting around for Prince William to propose to her.  They can snark all they want, because it seemed to work, and we got another fairy tale 30 years later when a “commoner” (an ugly word, but I guess they easiest way to say her family has no “royal” ties) married into the monarchy.  Of course, Kate Middleton is anything but common. How could she be to enter into the life she did? She is beautiful and glamorous without being too much so; she seems elegant and gracious and like she was born for a life like this.  I’m only slightly embarrassed to say that I set my alarm for the middle of the night to get up and watch her wedding to Prince William.  It was beautiful (then I fell back asleep, because, sorry, I think weddings are boring; I was bored during my own).  I felt happiness for them as though I actually know them, maybe because Prince William has grown up in front of cameras and the media and I was one of the people on the other side, watching.

Of course, I was as excited as anyone to hear that they were expecting a baby.  Earlier last week when it was reported that Kate had gone into labor, I said to my boyfriend, “How am I supposed to concentrate on work today?”  I obsessively checked the internet for news and updates, and got a little choked up when it was announced they had a baby boy.  Both William and Kate are so good with the media – I’m sure the last thing they wanted to do on their way out of the hospital was pose and smile with their newborn. But they did so graciously, made some adorable banter, and then whisked their little bundle home. It wasn’t until I saw the photo below that i struck me how horrible it must be to have that much scrutiny on your every move all the time, but especially when you are a new parent just trying to keep your feet on the ground.

Royal baby born

Can you even imagine how overwhelming that must be?! I guess they are so used to it by now, but it never occurred to me before what it must be like for them, to have every move they make scrutinized and captured on film.  I’m so clumsy, I trip all the time. What if I was walking down the street and people randomly took my picture when I was tripping over a curb? The mere fact that William and Kate have never been caught like this leads me to believe they are super human.

Not all that long ago, some news organization had an interview with Prince Harry, wherever he was in the world serving in the Army (somewhere in the Middle East, perhaps?).  He was polite to the interviewer, but just barely.  It wasn’t that he was being rude, but there was definitely a thinly veiled feeling of contempt coming from him. At one point he even said something to the effect of, “I didn’t want you to come here.”  The frankness of that statement will take you back a bit, but when you think about it, you can hardly blame the kid.  He’s lived his entire life with every move he makes scrutinized, and how can he not blame the world media for what happened to his mother?

All of this is to say, I wish the Cambridge family the best, and certainly more than I should be wishing people I’ve never met and have most everything in the world they need at their fingertips. But they seem like lovely people, and their baby is cute, and they make a sweet little family.  I do hope that they are able to find some privacy and normalcy as little Prince George grows up. It seems like a long shot, but for my part, I am going to consciously try to temper my interest in their lives. That’s what feeds the frenzy, isn’t it?  If there were no interest, these photographers and journalists wouldn’t make money from stalking them. But because we care, their lives will always be lived under a microscope.

This will surely be easier said than done for me. I might need to find a 12-step program.

It’s been a long time since I was the “young” person of the office, feeling smugly like I was so much better, cooler, hipper than the older people around me. I was in the know about pop culture and the way of the world, and they were aging dinosaurs with children and PTA meetings.

Most of the time I try to ignore the schism between myself and the young people of the office (this is usually accomplished by not eating lunch with any of them).  I’ve accepted that I am the older generation, at least comparatively, to these young upstarts. And I’m ok with it, truly. When I start to feel a little out of it is when I realize how different these damn kids today are from the rest of us.

This occurred to me today when I received a LinkedIn request from a young girl who’s an assistant to someone on my floor. She’s very sweet and our paths have crossed a few times work wise since she joined the company less than a year ago.  I think she’s sort of shy, because she doesn’t know how to properly greet someone in the kitchen or walking down the hallway without coming off as rude or stand offish. But because I know her to be nice, I give her the benefit of the doubt and chalk it up to some kind of social awkwardness.  The LinkedIn invitation was amusing to me, because this is someone who can barely muster a, “Hi, how are you?” in the kitchen, but thinks nothing of sending out invitations to connect in social media.

Is it a generational thing?  I saw this today on BuzzFeed and realized I’ve seen stuff like that on BuzzFeed before (a website, by the way, meant to amuse people 10-20 years younger than me, but I love it anyway).  They are speaking to a generation of people who grew up hiding behind their technology and social media personas, and don’t know how to socialize face to face. I think we will see more of it as people who are growing up with handheld technology become adults.  People have to be taught how to be social when there is no technology, and that is sad. I might be a culprit of that myself, since I would mostly prefer to send people an email than talk to them live, but I really do hate talking on the phone.

As my life careens at warp speed towards my 40th birthday (2 and half years seems right around the corner), I often contemplate the idea of age and getting older.  People in my family tend to live for a really long time (90s, a few 100s, etc), and I’ve seen people age gracefully and not-so-gracefully.  I think if you’re prepared that it’s happening – and manage not to be depressed about – you can actually choose which route you go down. I will do my best to age gracefully, and I think the first step of that is to stop being horrified about getting older and embrace the parts of getting older that are actually good.

For example, there’s a lot to be said for the wisdom that only age can provide. Not that getting older will make you smarter (if only), but that experiences you’ve had will teach you lessons about situations or human nature or all of the above. You get better at dealing with things.  You stop wasting time on relationships that don’t matter and focus on the ones that do. I mean, sure, every day I am fighting a losing battle against gravity, and sometimes 2 glasses of wine will give me hot flashes in the middle of the night and a headache that would slay a walrus, but I’m trying to focus on the positive.

I remember the day I realized that the oldies stations are playing 80s songs from my youth. Indeed, I was so upset, I even wrote a blog entry about it.  The other day on my way home from work, I found something very comforting about the fact that songs from my youth can be easily found just north of 100 on the FM dial in Los Angeles.  Beyond the 80s songs, I also enjoy the 60s/70s songs they play, because my parents always had the local Boston Oldies station on (now defunct, RIP Oldies 103), so I grew up listening to a lot of older music.  It’s like getting a hug from an old friend, and most of the time older songs will bring up a lot of happy memories, and who doesn’t like that?

Another thing I like about getting older is not giving a f* about things that don’t really matter.  Remember being younger when so many things seemed like such a big deal, and it felt like your world was continuously ending?  It’s nice to grow up and realize – none of that stuff is that big of a deal. And of the stuff that is a big deal, you’ll figure it out.  I think some people get more nervous/anxious as they get older. Maybe I’m that way about some things, but I think my experiences have led me in a different direction. I often joke about my job, “No one dies if I do a bad job today,” but I mean it.  It’s a nice job and all, but we’re not curing cancer over here.  It’s nice to have that sense of levity about things.  There’s a certain peacefulness that comes with it.

Don’t get me wrong – there are still a lot of parts of this aging process that seem totally unglamorous, and I’m not looking forward to them.  But maybe by the time you get there, for the stuff that is truly gross like uncontrollable flatulence, you’ve reached another level of not caring where it really just doesn’t matter.  I have sciatica. I’ve had a stroke and take blood thinners every day.  Additional grey hairs seem to pop up daily around my temples.  But it’s not so bad.  If I ever start to get down about it, I’ll just crank up some oldies and lose myself in good memories.

Back in 1998, one year out of college, I got into a car accident with the Plymouth Sundance my parents had handed down to me.  It wasn’t a terrible accident, but it was enough to total the car. Since I was a member of the working world at that point, I was in the position of having to buy my first car.

My Dad was always a Chrysler man, so just to be contrary, those cars held no appeal for me.  I had my heart set on a Toyota or Honda.  I test drove a Civic and didn’t like it, then test drove a Corolla and loved it.  I had intended to buy a used car, but the sales guy at the dealership convinced me to lease a brand new one.  Skeptical, because his level of enthusiasm about leasing set off some kind of instinctual alarm bells that this couldn’t possibly be to my benefit in the end, I brought in my Dad to help me make my decision. Probably not the best idea, since he was more enamored than I was by the fancy Japanese engineering and the suave sales guy.  So my first car that I got all on my own was a leased 1998 Toyota Corolla (in white).  It had a souped up tape deck and cloth interior!! I felt like I had arrived into adulthood. I loved the car immediately.  At that point, I was always living close to the city and taking public transportation to and from work every day, so staying under the 12K miles per year was not a concern for me.  Keeping it pristine in this crazy world, however, was. I’d had it for no more than a year when it was damaged while parked on the street. There was a deep gauge in the driver side rear panel one day, seemingly out of nowhere. There was construction at the end of the street during that time, and I was convinced one of the construction people did it with their equipment.  I couldn’t prove anything, but did get into a fight with the foreman one day, who surely thought I was a lunatic. Without proof of them being at fault, I had to pay to fix the damage myself.

At the end of the 3 year lease, I had to decide what I wanted to do. Did I want to start the lease cycle over?  After I got the car, I got a job at John Hancock and was surrounded by financial wizards, each one telling me how infinitely stupid it is to lease a car. Overall, it’s a really bad long-term financial move.  So I didn’t want to lease again.  I thought I would buy a car, but I couldn’t afford a new one, so I had to buy used. I still liked Corollas, and even still liked mine.  I came to the conclusion that if I was going to buy a used car, I may as well buy the one that was used by me. So I bought out my lease with a 4 year loan.  I essentially paid for my car for 7 years.  It was painful at points, but paying it off felt great, and I swore I wouldn’t have a car payment any time before I absolutely had to.

When I decided to move to LA, I drove my car out here.  I was still making payments on it at that point.  My dad and brother-in-law helped me fill it up with all of my belongings, Tetris-style, so I could drive it across the country.  When you are moving some place unfamiliar, and everything you own in the world is in your car, your car starts to take a bit more importance than it normally would. It is your mode of transportation, and your shelter of sorts (not that I ever lived out of my car, but it did hold that was dear to me in this world).

When I was in graduate school, I made my final payment to Toyota. As part of my financing, they had given me a warranty for the life of my loan.  Two days after I put my final payment in the mail, my “Check Engine” light came on. I brought it to the nearest dealership and found out it needed about $2000 worth of work.  I had no job at that point, and was totally panicked. The man who was the manager of the service department of the dealership was some kind of angel sent from Heaven, and took pity on me. He called the Financial Services people and told them I’d been trying to make an appointment, but they were busy and had to put me off. So certainly it wasn’t my fault that I was a few days past my warranty?  They agreed to cover most of the work.

A few years later, I started having battery issues.  I brought my car to the mechanic I was using at the time, and they changed my battery. Well, turns out, it was the alternator, so my problems persisted.  One day as I was running errands, my car wouldn’t start in the parking lot of my bank in Toluca Lake.  I called AAA and they came to jump my car.  The tow guy asked where my mechanic was, and I said, “North Hollywood.”  He said, “No problem! You can drive it there yourself! Anytime you’re stopped at a light, just rev the engine to keep the battery charging.”  Dubious, but without concrete knowledge to refute this statement, I attempted to drive the less than 2 miles to the mechanic’s.  Unfortunately, I got caught at this notoriously massive intersection in North Hollywood, where Lankershim crosses over with Vineland and about three other major streets. I just missed the light, so I had to sit at the red light while my car slowly died. I revved the engine like a mad woman. Surely, everyone around me thought I was a weirdo. As soon as the light turned green, my car died. I was all the way to the left of about seven lanes of traffic and had to get to the right. To this day, I don’t know how I did that without killing myself or anyone around me.  I had to call AAA again and I think the same guy came back, and this time just towed my car the rest of the way. I knew only one person who wasn’t at work at that time, and luckily she was available to come and get me off the streets of NoHo.

After that, my car was great for years.  I found a much better mechanic who knew how to check the difference between an alternator and a battery.  I took care of it as needed, and it worked well for me.  One day, leaving for the gym at 6 AM, I was coming out of the underground parking garage of my old place as someone was coming in. I tried to move over to make room for him, and ended up driving the side of my car into a pole (that until that day, I hadn’t even known existed because it was painted the same color as the building behind it, camouflage style).  I was in this awkward position that any move I made just made the damage worse. I had a massive dent in the rear passenger side.  It was also covered with the paint from the building, a terrible peach color, on my white car.  A few weeks later, parking in a garage for a restaurant, some car wash detailing guys offered to get the paint off for $20. It was money well spent, because even though the dent was still tragic, it looked a lot better without peach paint all over it.  I came to the conclusion that, at that point, with the car being almost 10 years old, the damage had to be more than the car was worth, so it made no financial sense to fix it. So I left it as it was, and it remains that way to this day.  It’s embarrassing to drive it around, especially in a city where everything is about status, and people on food stamps are still driving BMWs and Mercedes (I don’t know how or why that is).  If I have to valet my car anywhere, it is a humiliating experience.

Still, with all of that, I love my little car.  Because the damage is on the passenger side, I can often convince myself it’s not there.  Over the years, I’ve had to put a little more work into it, but nothing so expensive that it made sense to get a new car. Until recently.

A few months ago, I left my car at work overnight on a Friday. I went to pick it up the following Saturday morning, and on my drive home, the battery light came on. It was strange, but the car seemed to be driving ok. Still, I was paranoid.  We tried to start it the next day and the battery was dead.  I called AAA the next morning and they came to jump it, and said it was fine. Having fallen for that before, I just had them tow it straight away to my mechanic (I couldn’t bear a repeat of the North Hollywood incident – see above).  The call from the mechanic later that day was a real bummer.  His exact words were: “It’s a mystery!”  At that point I concluded that you never want to hear the words “It’s a mystery!” from 1) your doctor, or 2) your mechanic.  He said the battery and alternator were both testing completely normally. So it was most likely that the problem was electrical, but it was hard to pinpoint that. So he said it would be ok to drive around, but to be careful if the battery light came on again.  Driving the car after that freaked me out.  I was always waiting for the battery light to come on.  I felt insecure driving it anywhere, because I would always wonder if was going to start again when I needed it to. Or worse, would it die on me while I was driving it?

At this point, my 1998 Corolla is 15 years old. It makes zero sense to attempt to fix an electrical problem in a 15 year old car. The writing is on the wall. It is time to say good-bye (a direct quote from my Dad: “That car owes you nothing.”).  I got my tax refund back a few weeks ago, which I can use for a down payment.  I got pre-approved for financing through USAA.  My boyfriend and I test drove some cars yesterday, and I’m leaning towards a VW, probably a Golf because it will be nice to have the extra space a hatchback can offer. And, after having had a sedan for 15 years, it will be nice to have something different.  The idea of something new after all this time is sort of exciting, even if I am apprehensive about having a car payment again after so long without one.

But more than that, I’ve realized, is the fact that I’m actually really going to miss my car. It was my first! Those always have a special place in your heart, right?  That car has been a constant in my life for 15 years. I’ve lost friends, gained others, broke up with my college boyfriend,  drove across the country, went to graduate school, got married and divorced, lived in 5 different places in LA, and have had 3 different jobs. Through it all, it was just me and my Corolla against the world.

Of course, I am not one of those wackos in love with inanimate objects. I know my car does not have feelings.  Still, I cannot help feeling sad that it won’t be around anymore.  It has been good to me over all of this time, and it’s a weird feeling to have something that you’ve relied upon for so long to no longer be a part of your life. So, with a heavy-ish heart, I bid adieu to my white, 1998 Toyota Corolla, with fondness and gratitude for seeing me through so many important life moments.