This weekend I had a surprise inadvertent adventure - one that led me down a path of deception, battles, loss, and midlife crisis aversion. An adventure I recognize as a trip through a jungle of terror with rabid creatures attacking your jugular - trying to steal your precious property at every turn in the road, every slash of the underbrush. An adventure that requires steely manparts, a firm resolve, and a commitment to survival in the pursuit of triumph. You, on the other hand, will likely recognize it as a new car purchase.
On Saturday, we received in the mail a flyer from a nameless auto dealer that had all of the telltale signs of lies, deceit, and crookery - "Bring in your car! Trade in for $1500 above Kelly Blue Book Value! We'll give you a great deal! Promise!" Hm. I know I'm not always the most commonly sensical of beasts, but I detect something the brilliant writers at South Park refer to as 'a turd in the punchbowl.'
As it turns out, the flyer was referring to MY car. I would have just ignored it, but I have to be honest - the prospect of a new car is a bit enticing. I didn't want to fall for this tactic right away. I've been involved - in one situation in particular - with car dealers giving me the "chance of a lifetime" to hand over my precious vehicle in exchange for a "much better deal". In this particular case of "fooled you!" buggery, if I handed over my Element and a nominal down payment of $1500, the car dealership couldn't wait to LEASE me a new car at the bargain basement price of $199 a month and 10,000 miles per year for ....drumroll please... a Nissan Sentra.
"Oh boy! Please? Can I? Can I GIVE you my car to RENT a new one? One that is sporty and speedy and sexy and sleek - like a Sentra? Oh, go on now, boys. That's not fair. I'd get arrested for highway robbery with a deal like that. I can hear my Catholic grandmother just screaming in agony at the egregious sin I would commit. In honor of the deceased, it is my moral obligation to pass on this screamin' deal. An extra 5,000 years in purgatory just doesn't sound like a good spiritual trade for this once-in-a-lifetime. Shucks."
But...as I said before, the prospect of a new car is a bit enticing. So, Steve and I packed up the 'mento and took it to the aforementioned dealership who sent me the flyer. I mean, after all, if someone is begging to pay me over the KBB value, I may as well let them have a gander at the single vehicle in the known universe that has as much personality as a Marshmallow Bear. Have fun, boys. Don't get pickpocketed.
As it turns out, the fine people at aforementioned unnamed dealership were reasonably uninterested in selling me a new vehicle. A very perky girl at the front counter was welcoming and courteous, but that's about where the pleasantries ceased. As we requested to speak with a dealer, a man slowly sauntered up to the front desk, making an S-shape with his footsteps as though lunchtime had provided a welcome relief from the pressures of swindling innocent and non-common-sensical beasts such as myself. I proudly presented him with my flyer as he leered sidewards at me with an authoritative and accusatory eye.
"Where'd jeeu giiiit dis?" His steely glare suggested that I had broken in to a printing press over the weekend to produce pictures of vehicles on shiny cardstock with bright red numbers on it that somehow suggested that he would not earn appropriate commissions.
"Uhhh...I got it in the mail." He whipped his head around to a nearby technician.
"Tom, are we honoring these uh...little cards, here?"
Tom, as he will now be forever known, plucks the card out of Dealerman's hand.
"Well, Jim, I don't know. I haven't seen these yet."
Little did these fellows know - they were dealing with a scientist. Common-sensical I am not, but observant? Consider me an urban lioness.
I point to the countertop Jim and Tom are leaning against. "You have a whole stack of them on your desk right behind you."
Jim slowly rotates his upper half counterclockwise, giving the obvious stack of flyers ample time to scamper off the countertop so he can proudly proclaim their absence. Apparently they had a good lunch, too, because they remained motionless on the desk. (Or, this particular stack of flyers was oddly inanimate - however unlikely.)
I could hear Jim's inner monologue dressing him down as I proudly pointed at the immobile flyer stack. "Dammit, Jim! You're a car dealer, not a magician! Duped again by a flippant blonde! Prepare to do battle with the flyer savant - she will remember all things...."
Jim determines that the best place to take me (via S-Shaped sauntering) is to the used car dealers. Clearly only a USED car salesman would stoop so low as to give $1500 over Kelley Blue Book Value for a trade-in. Now, at this point, I must declare that used car dealers get a bad rep. The only decent interaction I've had with a car salesman up until this point in my life was with a used car guy. He got me a great deal to purchase my leased car. The vehicle in question was oddly enough sold to me initially by the same unnammed car dealership I was currently at after a classic bait and switch deal. Apparently at this point in my life, I was only an Urban Cub. Used car guy took pity on me and rolled me in to a purchase. He also shared his sushi while the paperwork was prepared. Good man.
Used car guys at unnammed dealership had not seen the flyer, either. So, CarManJim was now in the uncomfortable position to try and actually do some work while his lunchtime scotch worked on him. First order of business? Bring in the heavy-hitter.
He walks us over to the hot seats and asks us to just "wait right here to see what he can do for us." About five minutes later, he reapproaches the desk with a Jerry Stiller look-alike in tow. Jerry Stiller had all of the flair of a Casino owner a la Reuben Tishkoff - olive and soil patterned golf shirt, polyester pants in the same suffocating hues, wing tip shoes, and giant turtle shell glasses reminiscent of an era gone but certainly not forgotten. His finger waved orange coif clashed brilliantly with the rest of his outfit - but blended seamlessly with his personality. I knew the kind of guy he was before he ever opened his mouth. All he needed to do was prove me right.
He started off in a calculated and somewhat threatening tone. "Now...we can give you good money for this car - I know your liddle...uh...card there says $1500 over Kelley Blue Book, and we might - just might - be able to get that for you today. That all depends." He sneers at Steve. I look directly at him. The urban lioness extends her front claws and recoils into attack position -ready for battle. Steve looks at me, and I pounce.
"It should only depend on what the ad says. The ad says $1500 over. I'm prepared to give you my great car for great money. But that all depends." Steve pinches my large toe between his shoe and the floor with an even "shut up, Staci" kind of pressure. I return Jerry Stiller's slimy smile.
"Well, now, we might be able to get you more money if you're willing to drive out of here in a new car today." Already I can tell this guy was gunning for a fight. The last time I tried to buy a car, this sort of talk didn't happen until the salesman had worn me down some. Either he was not interested in car dealership foreplay, or just completely interested in getting back to a delicious lunchtime cocktail.
"What kind of car?" I ask casually. I realize this guy hasn't even tried to figure out what kind of car I would even want to drive - never asked what I liked and didn't like about my Element, never even asked me my name, now that I think of it. Although he did brag briefly about the "amount of inventory on his lot" - so much that "his dealers have no place to park." I'm beginning to understand why this is his state of affairs. He points to the nearest SUV, assuming that this must be my car of choice.
"Well, darlin' any kinda car you'd like. How 'bout this nice CR-V over here? What would it take to get you in to one of those?"
"A family of four and a soccer carpool," I whisper to Steve. Now don't ge me wrong, a CR-V is a great car. It was the car I decided I would want in the event of a trade-in when Steve could finally get me to verbalize the kind of vehicle I wanted. The conversation went like this:
"What kind of car would you want?"
"A Blue one."
"Okaaaayyy....but what KIND?"
"The blue kind. With good gas mileage."
"We'll look at CR-Vs."
"Are they blue with good gas mileage?"
Steve sighs his exasperated sigh. "Probably."
"Allright. I'll have one of those, then." I swear I'm the only person who decides on the kind of car she would like to drive much in the manner of deciding what she wants to eat at Taco Bell.
I glance out at my little Element, and back at the CR-V. I then look at CarManJim and Jerry Stiller who are looking very expectantly at me. They're hungry, and Element with a celebration double scotch in honor of highway robbery is on the menu. I decide I don't want their pushy tactics and smarmy smiles. I just want my car.
I look at Steve. "We're done here." No one is going to steal my Element out from under my nose in such a crooked and frivolous manner. Unless it's the Toyota dealership across the street.
To be continued...
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Sunday, January 1, 2012
There are no problems.
As I sat in my hotel room interviewing with the crew from PolarTREC, I expertly answered a very tough question to which I gave a telling response - "How do you solve problems, situations, or issues that you encounter in life?" Heh. Heh. Heh. I casually looked around my posh DC hotel room, rubbed my still-tender knees and hip, and thought briefly on the many times I had found myself (and usually Steve, too) in the middle of a "problem, issue, or situation." I chuckled - cackled, really - and replied, "There are no problems. Only adventures."
I was thinking in particular of a recent adventure on solid (albeit slippery) ground partaking in an activity that left the lower half of my body - oh, come on, who am I kidding? - left my entire body and ego aching, sore, and bruised. That activity is known by many Coloradoans as "skiing".
What person answers "yes" to the question, "Would you like to strap your feet to two waxed planks moving independently of each other, hold tightly onto two spiked poles that double easily as weapons, and hurtle yourself down a snow-packed hillside chocked full of both visible and invisible obstacles such as trees, rocks, or other people?"
After three glasses of wine and a full day on a perfectly functional snowboard, I did.
Now... I can explain everything. This boneheaded decision was all in response to the extraordinarily crappy snow I encountered in the previous six hours of my life. Winter Park is an outstanding resort, but like all mountains, it occasionally falls victim to dry spells, with no new accumulation to replace the tons of snow that get skiied off the mountain. This particular dry spell lasted for about five weeks. If there was 3 inches of snow on the runs, I couldn't find it. I spent most of my day on my snowboard dodging exposed rocks, branches, and tumbling sections of tree trunks lolling their way down the mountain in the same path I was trying to follow. The chairlift ride up was filled with cacophonious "sccccrrrriiiissssshhhh, scccrrissshhh" sound of skiiers and riders trying desparately to gain purchase on the icy hillslopes - a foreshadow of the trouble I would soon encounter on the ride down. In addition, it was cloudy that day which would have normally been tolerable had the flat light been accompanied by deliciously large snowflakes. None were to be found. At around 2 in the afternoon, I split off from the group who went to the terrain park because I couldn't see the landings any longer. As it turned out, it didn't matter that avoiding obstacles which required landing would keep me safe. As I popped over the lip of a hillcrest, a rogue skiier (the likes of which will be defined later) crossed my path. I turned hard, heard the telltale "scccrrriiisssshhhh" and scrubbed out on a larger than average patch of ice. Hard. I found myself face-down, sliding down the mountain on my knees and digging into the ice with my gloves as if that were going to slow down my tumbling body as it hurtled down the hillside. Ouch. At that point, I smartly called it quits. It wasn't worth the injury for a poopy day on the mountain. What can I say? I'm a snow snob. Thank you, Colorado.
At the bar waiting for our friends to finish up with their day, Steve and I discussed what we should do about these yucky conditions. We figured a trip to Copper would alleviate some of the issue, and planned on asking our friends, Brad and Theresa, if they wouldn't mind popping over there for the day to see if conditions were better. As it turned out, Brad and Theresa only had passes for Winter Park. After my third glass of wine, Brad expertly suggested that if the conditions were awful, maybe Steve and I would have a better day if instead we were on skis. "Surrrrreeeee!" I say. "I've always wanted to try skiing." Problem. Wait. Strike that. Adventure.
This is exactly how I found myself strapped to two waxed planks moving independently of one another, grasping tightly to poles which easily double as weapons, and a hurtling myself down a hillslope whilst trying to avoid visible and invisible objects. Mainly, I was trying to stay out of my own way, as in this case, I was my own worst obstacle.
I discovred that I knew volumes less about skiing than I thought I did.
The first thing I learned about skiing from watching other skiiers is that if you want to go fast, you make your skis look like "french fry." If you want to go slow, you make your skis look like "pizza." I spent many days of yore entertaining myself on chairlifts by proclaiming the food status of other skiers below me who were grappling with this concept. Therefore, I deserved whatever pain I got that day. What I learned while actually wearing the skis is that even if you make a dinosaur sized piece of pizza, you still can't stop the cursed things. The only definitive way to stop on skis is to tip over. Which hurts.
I also learned from watching others that when wearing ski boots on the ground, one must have a distinctive stick-up-the-arse gait that screams out "I am a rich douchebag who wears a jumpsuit, has poor taste in said jumpsuit, and laughs loudly with all of my rich, frat boy friends." What I learned is that it is damn near impossible to walk in ski boots and the exaggerated heel-toe oddity is the only way to grapple with the fact that your ankles and calves are in a giant, plastic vice grip. Which hurts.
I learned finally from my snowboarding life that the distinctive way to find new skiiers on the mountain (which certianly need to be avoided at all costs) is to look for the tell-tale knock-kneed, 45 degree bent-at-the-waist body position with skis permanently in pizza postion skittering slowly ACROSS rather than DOWN the mountain. After actually wearing the skis, what I really learned is that this position is quite valuable if you are trying desparately not fall down or crash into a tree while troglodyte snoboarders scream past you at 45 miles per hour. Which hurts.
Did I mention skiing hurts?
Did I mention that when you fall down on a snowboard, if you can actually right yourself again, you stand up in the position that leaves you able to remain stationary? This is not a luxury skiiers afford themselves. If you feel so inclined to stand up, you better feel so inclined to continue skiing. And if you aren't ready, you will fall down immediately. Which hurts.
I consider skiing to be quite aggressive. You know how the dog whisperer always approaches aggressive dogs from the side? And when he is trying to be dominant, he faces the dog directly? Me facing directly down the mountain rather than sideways is much like trying to stare down a territorial pit bull. Why on earth would you ever do that? That can only lead to one logical conclusion. Which hurts.
I spent most of my day longing for my perfectlly functional snowboard that I can operate with reasonable confidence. Every time I tipped over, I considered returning back to my car to swap out equipment. I swore if I listened hard enough, I could hear my snowboard all the way from inside the car, weeping softly because it was left out of the day's fun. Then I realized that getting to said snowboard would require me skiing to it. Which, clearly, I was failing at. Miserably. I mean, seriously. Who has ever fallen on skis face down with legs in the "frog" position with the heels of the skis crossed? I can tell you right now, at least one person in this conversation has done it three times. I spent ten minutes taking directions from Brad trying to untangle myself.
I also expected much more out of my ski poles. When throwing temper tantrums from falling down, I expected that the ski poles would make excellent candidates as objects to beat into the mountain - an extension of banging your fists into the carpet, if you will. What I learned was that when one bashes ski poles into the mountainside in manner of expressing frustration, they bounce. And hit you in the face.
I didn't hate skiing. In fact, there were some definite benefits to being a skier. Take, for example, chairlifts. Chairlifts are much easier to maneuver on skis. I did not spend the day battling the chairlift or planning an exit strategy as I approached the dismount. This season on a snowboard, the current score is Staci - 12, Chairlift - 2. On skis, however, it is Staci- 5, Chairlift - 0. Take that, sucka.
I also learned that catwalks are a non-issue on skis. I was very pleased to announce that I did not spend ANY portion of my day humping along a short uphill section with my board trailing awkwardly in the distance while skiers sped deftly past me.
I also liked that if I didn't like what I was skiing over, I could just pick up my foot. In snowboarding, we call that a "jump." In skiing, I just moved my foot around whatever I didn't want to steer over. Lovely. One time, I was so stealthy in this endeavor that I gradually started to lose my balance. In order to regain said balance, I just lifted my leg higher and higher and swam backward through the air with my ski poles. On-slope judges gave me a 5.8.
I think if given the opportunity, I may ski again. I may make slightly less a spectacle of myself, so don't invite me if you want to see me flail all over the place. You already missed all the fun. I have no idea why I succumbed to this ridiculous peer pressure that made my hind parts ache for three weeks, but I guess it was worth it. Skiing was a day of problems, but I think at the end of the day, I could safely call it an adventure. One I may be persuaded to re-live.
I was thinking in particular of a recent adventure on solid (albeit slippery) ground partaking in an activity that left the lower half of my body - oh, come on, who am I kidding? - left my entire body and ego aching, sore, and bruised. That activity is known by many Coloradoans as "skiing".
What person answers "yes" to the question, "Would you like to strap your feet to two waxed planks moving independently of each other, hold tightly onto two spiked poles that double easily as weapons, and hurtle yourself down a snow-packed hillside chocked full of both visible and invisible obstacles such as trees, rocks, or other people?"
After three glasses of wine and a full day on a perfectly functional snowboard, I did.
Now... I can explain everything. This boneheaded decision was all in response to the extraordinarily crappy snow I encountered in the previous six hours of my life. Winter Park is an outstanding resort, but like all mountains, it occasionally falls victim to dry spells, with no new accumulation to replace the tons of snow that get skiied off the mountain. This particular dry spell lasted for about five weeks. If there was 3 inches of snow on the runs, I couldn't find it. I spent most of my day on my snowboard dodging exposed rocks, branches, and tumbling sections of tree trunks lolling their way down the mountain in the same path I was trying to follow. The chairlift ride up was filled with cacophonious "sccccrrrriiiissssshhhh, scccrrissshhh" sound of skiiers and riders trying desparately to gain purchase on the icy hillslopes - a foreshadow of the trouble I would soon encounter on the ride down. In addition, it was cloudy that day which would have normally been tolerable had the flat light been accompanied by deliciously large snowflakes. None were to be found. At around 2 in the afternoon, I split off from the group who went to the terrain park because I couldn't see the landings any longer. As it turned out, it didn't matter that avoiding obstacles which required landing would keep me safe. As I popped over the lip of a hillcrest, a rogue skiier (the likes of which will be defined later) crossed my path. I turned hard, heard the telltale "scccrrriiisssshhhh" and scrubbed out on a larger than average patch of ice. Hard. I found myself face-down, sliding down the mountain on my knees and digging into the ice with my gloves as if that were going to slow down my tumbling body as it hurtled down the hillside. Ouch. At that point, I smartly called it quits. It wasn't worth the injury for a poopy day on the mountain. What can I say? I'm a snow snob. Thank you, Colorado.
At the bar waiting for our friends to finish up with their day, Steve and I discussed what we should do about these yucky conditions. We figured a trip to Copper would alleviate some of the issue, and planned on asking our friends, Brad and Theresa, if they wouldn't mind popping over there for the day to see if conditions were better. As it turned out, Brad and Theresa only had passes for Winter Park. After my third glass of wine, Brad expertly suggested that if the conditions were awful, maybe Steve and I would have a better day if instead we were on skis. "Surrrrreeeee!" I say. "I've always wanted to try skiing." Problem. Wait. Strike that. Adventure.
This is exactly how I found myself strapped to two waxed planks moving independently of one another, grasping tightly to poles which easily double as weapons, and a hurtling myself down a hillslope whilst trying to avoid visible and invisible objects. Mainly, I was trying to stay out of my own way, as in this case, I was my own worst obstacle.
I discovred that I knew volumes less about skiing than I thought I did.
The first thing I learned about skiing from watching other skiiers is that if you want to go fast, you make your skis look like "french fry." If you want to go slow, you make your skis look like "pizza." I spent many days of yore entertaining myself on chairlifts by proclaiming the food status of other skiers below me who were grappling with this concept. Therefore, I deserved whatever pain I got that day. What I learned while actually wearing the skis is that even if you make a dinosaur sized piece of pizza, you still can't stop the cursed things. The only definitive way to stop on skis is to tip over. Which hurts.
I also learned from watching others that when wearing ski boots on the ground, one must have a distinctive stick-up-the-arse gait that screams out "I am a rich douchebag who wears a jumpsuit, has poor taste in said jumpsuit, and laughs loudly with all of my rich, frat boy friends." What I learned is that it is damn near impossible to walk in ski boots and the exaggerated heel-toe oddity is the only way to grapple with the fact that your ankles and calves are in a giant, plastic vice grip. Which hurts.
I learned finally from my snowboarding life that the distinctive way to find new skiiers on the mountain (which certianly need to be avoided at all costs) is to look for the tell-tale knock-kneed, 45 degree bent-at-the-waist body position with skis permanently in pizza postion skittering slowly ACROSS rather than DOWN the mountain. After actually wearing the skis, what I really learned is that this position is quite valuable if you are trying desparately not fall down or crash into a tree while troglodyte snoboarders scream past you at 45 miles per hour. Which hurts.
Did I mention skiing hurts?
Did I mention that when you fall down on a snowboard, if you can actually right yourself again, you stand up in the position that leaves you able to remain stationary? This is not a luxury skiiers afford themselves. If you feel so inclined to stand up, you better feel so inclined to continue skiing. And if you aren't ready, you will fall down immediately. Which hurts.
I consider skiing to be quite aggressive. You know how the dog whisperer always approaches aggressive dogs from the side? And when he is trying to be dominant, he faces the dog directly? Me facing directly down the mountain rather than sideways is much like trying to stare down a territorial pit bull. Why on earth would you ever do that? That can only lead to one logical conclusion. Which hurts.
I spent most of my day longing for my perfectlly functional snowboard that I can operate with reasonable confidence. Every time I tipped over, I considered returning back to my car to swap out equipment. I swore if I listened hard enough, I could hear my snowboard all the way from inside the car, weeping softly because it was left out of the day's fun. Then I realized that getting to said snowboard would require me skiing to it. Which, clearly, I was failing at. Miserably. I mean, seriously. Who has ever fallen on skis face down with legs in the "frog" position with the heels of the skis crossed? I can tell you right now, at least one person in this conversation has done it three times. I spent ten minutes taking directions from Brad trying to untangle myself.
I also expected much more out of my ski poles. When throwing temper tantrums from falling down, I expected that the ski poles would make excellent candidates as objects to beat into the mountain - an extension of banging your fists into the carpet, if you will. What I learned was that when one bashes ski poles into the mountainside in manner of expressing frustration, they bounce. And hit you in the face.
I didn't hate skiing. In fact, there were some definite benefits to being a skier. Take, for example, chairlifts. Chairlifts are much easier to maneuver on skis. I did not spend the day battling the chairlift or planning an exit strategy as I approached the dismount. This season on a snowboard, the current score is Staci - 12, Chairlift - 2. On skis, however, it is Staci- 5, Chairlift - 0. Take that, sucka.
I also learned that catwalks are a non-issue on skis. I was very pleased to announce that I did not spend ANY portion of my day humping along a short uphill section with my board trailing awkwardly in the distance while skiers sped deftly past me.
I also liked that if I didn't like what I was skiing over, I could just pick up my foot. In snowboarding, we call that a "jump." In skiing, I just moved my foot around whatever I didn't want to steer over. Lovely. One time, I was so stealthy in this endeavor that I gradually started to lose my balance. In order to regain said balance, I just lifted my leg higher and higher and swam backward through the air with my ski poles. On-slope judges gave me a 5.8.
I think if given the opportunity, I may ski again. I may make slightly less a spectacle of myself, so don't invite me if you want to see me flail all over the place. You already missed all the fun. I have no idea why I succumbed to this ridiculous peer pressure that made my hind parts ache for three weeks, but I guess it was worth it. Skiing was a day of problems, but I think at the end of the day, I could safely call it an adventure. One I may be persuaded to re-live.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
An Inadvertent Adventure Begins
Welcome to the Inadvertent Adventure – thanks for visiting. The Indadvertent Adventure was created after finishing my Adventure at Sea on my other blog, www.mrsdisonaboat.com. At the conclusion of my trip, many people asked if I would continue to write. At first, my question was “Write about what?” And there sat mrsdisonaboat, dormant and uninspired for a good two months. But then something occurred to me – our lives are full of inadvertent adventures. I don’t need a planned adventure in order to find inspiration and humor hiding in the juice of our lives. Most of the time, getting up the stairs without a major casualty is adventure enough for a gal like me, but wouldn’t ya know it? The times I don’t sure make for a good story. Hence, the giant is born…
I’m hoping to get a blog posted in the next couple of days, so stay tuned!
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