Be Smarter than the Thieves

           I recently read a post about what to do when visiting a large city, and your car is filled with presents. Where can you park so that your gifts won’t get stolen?

          Advice poured in.  Most people said it can’t be done. Sad that we even have to consider this, but I promise I have the solution.

          Some recommended valet parking at a hotel, but then others claimed that even valet service isn’t safe anymore.

          One guy suggested leaving a big dog in the car, but then you risk people reporting you for leaving a pet in the car. (And what if the dog
tears up your packages? Or the burglars steal your dog?)

          My brilliant idea? And you could take this on Shark Tank:  Blankets that look like garbage. Or snakes. Or vomit. Or body bags with dead parts sticking out. Simply transfer sharp photos onto fabric, and your stuff will look untouchable. 

          Hey, if AI can create posts that look completely believable, surely this can be transferred onto fabric or sturdy paper. Simply tuck it around your valuables, and off you go, worry-free.

          You’re welcome.  Scan through my blog for more ingenious solutions. OR… watch my short Youtube Mom videos filled with hundreds of life hacks.

Almost Crazy

           Yesterday I was driving along behind a car that had a sticker on the back which said, Santa Girl.

          Well, kindred spirit, here!  I have an entire guest bedroom, as you recall, decorated for Christmas year-round.

         I smiled and thought, “Maybe I’ll follow her and tell her I’m a Santa girl, too!”  Or I could pull up beside her, motion for her to roll down her window, and shout the same thing.

          Folks, you will be glad I did not do either of those things. As I followed her for a few more blocks, I realized the sticker (written in a very difficult font, by the way) actually said, “Santa Cruz.” 

         
This is a beach town about 2 and ½ hours away, known for its amusement park boardwalk, surfing, and lovely beaches.  

Apparently she likes that more than Christmas. What is the world coming to?

Stay home where you cannot mis-read bumper stickers, and watch my Youtube Mom channel, full of quick life hacks.

World Champion Haggler

          I honestly think St. Bob should come with a warning sign. It would say, “Enter into negotiations with this man at your own risk.”

          He competes at this “game” like it’s the Chiseling Olympics, and he’s defending his gold medal. If he gets even a whiff that a price is negotiable, the day is gone and he will wheedle and bargain until closing time. Had he been born in a country with open markets and flexible prices, I would never see him again.

          But in the U.S. this hobby is pretty much restricted to car dealerships. And heaven help the car salesman who doesn’t match Bob’s talents. It is a point of pride that Bob can finagle a make and model for less money than anyone else you will ever hear of.

          This week he sold his SUV, so the haggling began. Over and over he “walked away.”  At one point he told me he really did want a certain car, so I said, “Then call and tell them.”

          Ha! He looked at me like I was crazy and said, “Whoever calls next loses.”  There’s a method to his madness and he can tell exactly when the salesman is ready to lower the price, throw in a warranty, and include a new set of tires.

          Finally it was over. “Did you get the price you wanted?” I asked.

          “Even lower,” he said. “Plus he threw in new floor mats, a tank of gas, and Sirius FM.”

          Good grief. No wonder he was so good as the host of NBC TV’s Let’s Make a Deal during the 90s. These poor salesmen haven’t got a chance.

          Yes, you can watch episodes of St. Bob wheeling and dealing, but don’t forget to watch a few of my Youtube Mom life hack videos as well!

My Latest Lucy Moment

           I just got back from my Book Club’s Christmas gathering. We always meet at someone’s home for a luncheon, and someone else does a book review. But for Christmas, we all share Christmas books and stories we love, and even gift ideas.

          This time we met at the lovely home of a new member, about 30 minutes away for most of the gals. Her pretty home has been in magazines. Here are a few pics, before I tell you what happened:

          Driving off, I noticed Tina was pulled over.  I pulled up beside her and rolled my window down. “Just stay on this street until you hit Sunset, then turn left,” I called.

          And then, as I drove off, I noticed she was following me in her car. I thought I'd continue to wave at each turn, to help her find the freeway. A friendly, helpful thing to do, right? 

          We actually made several turns, and I waited for her to catch up a couple of times. Everything was going great until we got to Sunset. I looked over and realized IT WASN'T EVEN HER! 

             Yes, I had been motioning to a total stranger in a similar car, who probably thought I was complete lunatic. Or a creeper. Or a combination of both (a creepatic?)  She certainly didn’t suspect that I was being friendly or helpful.

          I sighed. It was anyone’s guess where Tina actually was. Probably way ahead of me.  So… if you need help finding your way, just dial

                                                  1-800-LucyStrikesAgain.

          And you might want to order my books. Check ‘em out here.

Bear With Me

          Having just returned from Alaska, I found myself telling bear stories. Not because we saw any, but because that's simply what you do. 

I grew up in the Rocky Mountains, with many a family trip to Yellowstone, when they still had hundreds of black bears. We were told to steer clear of them, always good advice.

          Unfortunately, no one has trained bears to avoid humans.  So when my dad, an avid fly fisherman known for his uncanny ability to sense a good bend in the river, pulled over into a meadow and took off in his waders for a perfect place to fish, my mother, sister, and I waited inside the car, where it was safe. 

Dad disappeared into the trees, and we sat.  Within five minutes, we saw a gigantic bear lumbering towards us from the far end of the meadow.  Instinctively, we locked our doors.

          He got closer.  And then closer.  We looked around to see if there was something else he could be heading for, but we were the only item of distinction in the meadow.

Within seconds he was behind our car, his long nose jabbing up into the air as he sniffed.  It was at this moment that my mother realized she had wrapped up some bacon and put it in the trunk.  Yikes.

The bear took a swipe at our bumper.  Then at the fenders, denting them in.  He growled.  He knew there was bacon somewhere in this metal contraption.  He placed his mammoth paws atop the trunk and pushed down, bouncing the car on its shock absorbers.

“Don’t move!” my mother whispered.  But the bear was bouncing my sister and me like this was a trampoline.

Now he roared, slammed all his weight onto the trunk, broke the car’s axle and popped a tire. It also bent the trunk lid in enough to pop it open, revealing all our luggage and, of course, the bacon.

My mother was shrieking, my sister was wailing that she had now sat on a fish hook, and I was frozen in panic.  The bear rummaged hungrily through our belongings, piercing a 3-inch thick book with his teeth, and finally finding the bacon.  A few chomps later he sauntered off, apparently unwilling to break windows and eat screaming females.

No way were we going to open the doors and survey the damage.  Besides, my sister’s fish hook was her greatest concern and getting a barbed hook out of human flesh is no small project.

Five minutes later my father returned, having decided this was not the best fishing spot after all.  But as he approached the car, you can imagine his surprise.  The trunk lid was up, clothing was strewn all around, and the entire back end of the car was destroyed, like a bomb had gone off.

“What on earth happened? I was gone ten minutes!”

And that, my friends, is all it takes.  

I recommend staying in the safety of your home, and watching my Youtube Mom videos right here.

To Bee or Not to Bee?

         Our son, Brandon, had tickets to a concert in Joshua Tree, California. He and his girlfriend Melissa, rented a car so they could take Odin, his 165-pound Great Dane.

They had just arrived when Brandon abruptly injured his back. It was one of those “last straw” moments when he hardly did anything, but managed to tear a disc! He couldn’t walk or stand and said his pain level was eleven.

Melissa dashed him to the nearest emergency room, where they couldn’t do much. And here is where we learn how very much Brandon is like his mother, and cannot have one mishap without more bizarre mishaps piling on.

First of all, as Melissa picked him up at the curb and was trying to help him out of his wheelchair, a BEE flew up Brandon’s shorts. Who else has this happen? 

                

Brandon called the car rental company and asked if his girlfriend could bring it back for him.

          Absolutely not, he was told. His was the only name on the forms. Brandon explained that he couldn’t walk or drive, but their only suggestion was to have the car towed, for $150.00!

          Instead, Melissa drove it to half a block away, then Brandon carefully crouched behind the wheel and drove it in.  CRAZY!  And it turned out the folks there didn’t even care, as long as the car was back.

          That night a friend told him that sleeping on a mattress topper on the floor might help his back, so Brandon was just drifting off when the Great Dane, asleep on the sofa next to him, STEPPED ON HIS EYE!  And now he has scratches on his face.                                                                

          I’m telling you, he is three-for-three living my same life.  Maybe he should start writing a blog.  Meanwhile, sorry for the DNA, Brandon.

          Try to avoid injuries by sitting still at your computer and watching my Youtube Mom life hacks right here.

Double Trouble

           St. Bob was just in Mississippi.  As executor of his brother’s estate, he had to fly there for meetings with bankers and attorneys, and naturally had to rent this car:         

         But if you look closely you’ll notice he promptly got not one, but TWO flat tires from a local pothole.  It also prompted our son, Richie, to text, “You shouldn’t drive if you’re two-tired.” 

          However, this problem pales in comparison to what happened next. The rental company brought him a replacement, but when he opened the door to get in, there was a gigantic spider in the hinge!

          It would quickly scoot back towards the engine area, so Bob could never capture it to get rid of it. He drove that car for days, always playing hide-and-seek with this spider.

          I would not get in the first time!  Nope, nope, nope.

           I would call the rental company and ask them to bring me a third car, a spiderless vehicle to swap out with this death trap. Had I been with St. Bob on this trip, I would have refused to get in and sit down in this already-occupied space.

          But, with my luck, they’d bring me a Batmobile.     

    Hey, if you're ever stuck on the side of a road, first get away from all spiders. Then tune in to my Youtube Mom videos-- there are hundreds of them!

Unbelievable!

           The following is a true story and happened just last night, at my next-door-neighbor’s home.

          It was late evening and I got a call that there were several crashed cars in front of our house, including a Range Rover.

          WHAT?!?  My daughter and I ran out to investigate. There were flashing lights, sirens, and a gathering crowd. I stood on the front lawn and saw two crashed sedans, but no Range Rover. Then I turned to face my neighbor’s house, and there was a Range Rover INSIDE THEIR GARAGE.

          Did they get a new car? Nope. The driver of the Range Rover had come zooming down the street, crashed into one of their cars which was parked on the curb, then turned up their driveway and crashed into a second car there.

          Was this enough? Nope. The driver then smashed through their garage door, all the way into their garage.

        The word that comes to mind for their garage door is "smithereens": 

               My neighbor and her family were standing about, stunned, and a police officer was already on the scene. The driver had taken a breath test, and was first claiming to have fallen asleep, then to have had a seizure.  Uh, which one was it? Or none of the above?  Who falls asleep in 200 yards after turning onto our street, and who makes a 90- degree turn like that?

          They also offered my friend a $20,000 check. Hmm… somebody doesn’t want insurance involved.  The plot kept thickening and neighbors were speculating as to the real cause.

          Meanwhile, my friend got her insurance company to board up the open garage. “You know,” I said, as the Range Rover was towed out of the garage, “You could hardly have sustained more damage if a meteor had hit your house.”

   Imagine—two cars and one garage demolished in just seconds. It could’ve made the nightly news. Luckily no one was hurt.

Stay safe-- order and read one of my books!

Pump it up!

           St. Bob has long been known for ingenuity. But now he’s done something I’ve never even considered: He dragged the gas nozzle around to the other side of the car: 

          You and I both know there’s a little triangle near the gas gauge on your dashboard that points to the side your gas tank is on. (If you did not already know this, you’re welcome.)  And this is great to have if you’re renting a car, but usually you know if your own car is a righty or a lefty.

          However, until now, it never occurred to me that it doesn’t matter. Those hoses are long enough to reach all the way around, exactly as you see above. So, instead of waiting for a slot to open that accommodates your gas tank’s side, you can just pull into any empty spot and drag the hose where you need it. No more long lines! What a time saver!

         But St. Bob never performs a miracle without a parting line. This time, when he got back in the car and I commented on how clever he was, he shrugged and said, “I’m ambigastreous.”  Somehow I just don’t think it works as an adjective you’d like to be labeled.

Are you ambi-books-treous? If you want to read more than one book at a time I have dozens for you to choose from, right on my website.

A New Job for Joni

          Do you know anyone who ALWAYS gets the best parking spot? Are you, in fact, one of these lucky ducks?  My jealousy is tried to the breaking point anytime I go anywhere with St. Bob because he always finds an empty spot right in front of the store or restaurant. Always. I should have a little button that sneers, “Of course!” whenever he’s driving. (I blogged about his amazing luck here). I have often speculated that secret spies see him leaving the garage then phone ahead to clear the decks for him.

          I, on the other hand, never find such spots. Never. In fact, the only open spots for me are several lanes away, and at the far end of the parking lot. Again, it’s as if someone has called ahead to wave dozens of cars into the lot to fill it up before I can pull in.

          So here’s my idea: Stores should send me checks every month (we can debate the high amount), just so I’ll pull into their parking lot. This will virtually guarantee that hundreds of people will now be parking there and dashing in to purchase everything they sell. All it takes is for me to swerve in their direction. I don’t even have to park-- nor could  I anyway—just the presence of my car assures their profits will quadruple. Hey, we all have our talents.

          While we await the profitable response to this brilliant idea, you can enjoy one of my books. Or watch one of my short Youtube Mom videos.  

Now THAT'S a bumper sticker

              I’m going to confess something.  It’s not something we writers often admit, but it’s true for every one of us: Sometimes we silently edit people while they’re speaking.  We hear you, but we’re also thinking how much more concisely you could say that.

          We’re not trying to be rude; it’s just a natural reflex, like a singer thinking how you might tighten your diaphragm, or an athlete mentally imagining you swinging that club better. We still love you, we just automatically think of, well, improvements.

          And we do it with signs, as well. We do it every time we’re watching a movie on TV and it says, “This film has been modified from its original version. It has been formatted to fit this screen."  Why not just say, “This film has been modified to fit this screen”?  Redundancy abounds, and our brains wince.

          Which brings me to bumper stickers.  Usually they pose no extra verbiage problems, right?  Like billboards, most of them are six or seven words, max.  This is because people driving along can’t take their eyes off the road for much longer than that, and can only read so many words as they’re zipping by.

          But folks, in the quest to communicate from one’s car bumper, I think I have found the world’s all-time champion, right here in Rocklin, where I live:

          I was riding along with St. Bob and snapped this picture through my windshield.  We had to turn, so I couldn’t catch up to see what vital message this driver felt justified TEN PAGES of standard-sized paper, plastered to the back of his car.  Or her car.

          My first thought was, “Boy, does that person ever need a good editor.”  But then I thought, wait a minute.  Maybe this is a manuscript they hope to sell, or a scientific breakthrough we all should read. Maybe it’s a legal document in a nasty divorce.  Maybe it’s correspondence with spies and they’re whistle-blowers.  Maybe it’s an impassioned plea for help, with lots and lots of justification.  Maybe this person is selling everything they have, and unwisely started with their computer, thus can no longer use eBay.

          Whatever it is, I have to wonder who will ever have time to read it, even if they wind up behind this person at a stop light.  There is no stoplight in the land that lasts fifteen minutes. 

          But no matter what it is, I’m telling you, I could cut it down by at least nine pages.

Be sure to visit the BOOKS tab at my website (perfect for Mother's Day), and scroll through my YouTube Mom channel.  Yes, you can mentally edit my words.  I understand.

          

I Brake for Idiots

            I realize I am in danger of writing Jalopy-opolis, instead of Joniopolis, but you will not believe what just happened.

            I’m in the car with St. Bob and we pull out of the driveway to run errands.  On the way, we decide to pick up our mail, which arrives down the block, in one of those multiple-family mailboxes they’re using these days.  I thumb through the bills and magazines as we head to the freeway.

            I’m still opening mail as we get on the freeway, and I see one envelope with a red stamp on it that says, SAFETY RECALL NOTICE.

            Well, it must be for a small appliance, I decide.  Something wrong with a blow dryer or a blender, no doubt.  Probably a cord overheats, or a button falls off.  I tear it open.  But it’s not from Conair or Cuisinart—it’s from Chevrolet!  Hey, we just bought a—uh oh.

            Sure enough, it’s about the car we renamed Baby Bugatti, to keep me from riding around in a misspelled car (which you can read about here).  Chevrolet says they apologize and they’re concerned for our safety.  Not concerned enough, however, to get it right the first time.

            This is like those recordings that say, “Your call is important to us,” but not quite important enough to hire sufficient staff to answer it.

            I keep reading.  “Brake assist may be intermittently reduced or lost,” it says.  One of the sentences ends with, “increasing the risk of a crash.”  Oh, only a crash. 

 

            And then they choose to capitalize this line: PARTS ARE NOT CURRENTLY AVAILABLE.  But when they are, Chevy will provide them, and the phrase they decide to put in bold lettering is at no charge. 

            Wow, is this our lucky day or what?  No charge!  Why, I would fully have expected to pay for Chevy’s death-defying blunder out of my own pocket, but they have stepped up in wild generosity and agreed to cover it themselves!  Almost brings tears of joy to your eyes, doesn’t it?

            “So let me get this straight,” I say to Bob.  “We are hurtling down the freeway, and our brakes don’t work.”

            “Well, they work a bit,” he says.  A bit!  Well, that’s all you really need, I believe.  No wonder Chevy chose snail mail instead of a phone call or email.  It’s only the piddling, little, unimportant brakes.  And when will parts be available?  No mention of that.  Hey, maybe Chevy will send us a Christmas present—the essential brake parts! 

            I sigh.  Really, I shouldn’t be surprised.  I mean, how much attention to detail can you honestly expect from the maker of a misspelled car?  Chevrolet, at least you’re consistent.

Hey, have you ordered any of my books, yet?  I promise you will not receive a letter recalling various defective pages, and promising to send the correct ones later.