Shopping for the Featureless Car

Featureless, perhaps is not the best word to describe the kind of automobile Jim and I were looking for. Perhaps basic transportation is more appropriate.

We wanted a car without bells and whistles. One with standard manual transmission. You know, those old ones you shift yourself. The kind we grew up with.

The type of car we wanted should have hand cranked or roll up windows because we are convinced that someday we might drive into a lake and be unable to open power-assisted windows to escape. Never mind that I don't swim.

It should get terrific mileage and be capable of living on the streets of NYC. It shouldn't look fancy. It shouldn’t be desirable to anyone but us.

This is not a popular kind of car.

Our sweet old Mazda Protégé 2002 fit the bill. It had roll up windows and the ignition worked with a key. You had to manually lock and unlock the doors. Our grandsons thought all this was hilarious.  Friends said things like “I didn’t know they still made cars like this.” They helplessly waited for us to lock and unlock the doors.

The CD player was a newfangled contraption to us when we bought the Protégé thirteen years ago. We weren’t too happy about it because it replaced a tape player and left us with lots of nice tapes we could no longer listen to in the car.

The Mazda didn't talk back, something Jim particularly liked. No GPS for Jim, the human compass, who remembers directions and seems to know where he is at all times. Not an ability I share. I kept atlases in the glove compartment and drove around a lot until I saw a major department store. Then I knew where I was.

The rear window was wiper barren.

It was a good car.  It didn't need a major repair outside normal maintenance in the all its 13 years. It stood by us through long trips and traversing the Cross Bronx on a daily basis. We took care of it and it took care of us.

Sometime over the years we started calling it Car.

But at 140,000 miles, and a lot of dents and scrapes, it was time to say good-bye and shop for a new basic car.

We thought that environmentally speaking we should go for a Prius, but wow - talk about bells and whistles. Forget it.

Two sub-compacts, the Honda Fit and the Mazda 2 seemed closer to filling our requirements.

Everyone loves a Fit they say. And we were quite pleased with how our Mazda had performed.

So we headed north to a Westchester Mazda dealer to be told that absolutely no one wanted a Mazda 2. It was too basic. It was withdrawn from the American market and sent back to Europe where it belongs.

We looked at a Mazda 3, the Protégé’s replacement model.  Although it was bigger, fancier and more expensive it had a lot of appeal until we learned that it no longer had a CD player. CD players are passé. Now that we have built up a new collection of music on CDs they tell us the Mp3 player is taking over.

We would actually have had to buy a fancier model to get the downgrade to a CD.

We looked at the Honda Fit, but the salesman’s face turned from warm to cold when we mentioned manual transmission. “That will be hard to find. They just aren’t out there. No one wants one,” he repeated a few times.

Finally we went to the Nissan dealer who had the least fancy car on the market: the Nissan Versa Note. Real hand cranked windows, no extra windshield wiper, and it even used a real key to open the doors.  No power anything. And a CD player came with it. It was cheap too. You could sort of fit four people in it. Our Mazda accommodated five.

You would think we would have jumped at this opportunity to practice what we preach. But we went home and did some research and found that Consumer Reports wasn’t impressed by the Note’s performance on the road and Car and Driver mentioned that the wheels failed to grip the road.  Plus it had the tiniest trunk I have ever seen outside a Fiat 500.

I, not so secretly, yearned for one of those cute little things. The Fiat 500 is all about adorable. But small, very small, as in miniscule.  I love the commercials for the slightly larger Fiat 800 that comes equipped with an Italian family to teach you how to be Italian. But we couldn’t afford the espresso bills.

So it looked like we were going to have to pay more to get less. Basic is just not popular. Big, strong, safe, easy and fun are what is wanted, which pretty much translates into an SUV. Or something sleek and expensive.

I suggested we forget our values and go for a flashy Mazda Miata roadster. Hunter green with tan interior. Would need a garage though. Even in today’s almost crime free NYC you can’t park a sports car on the street and expect it to survive. And no room for anybody but us. Where would our daughter and her dog fit?

Which brings us back to the Fit. And Queens. We found a plain Fit at a Honda dealer in Queens. Seems basic is OK in Queens. They had at least four basic models on the lot to choose from, all of them with standard transmission.

The one we chose is nice. Gray. CD player. Decent size trunk. No GPS. I have my smart phone now anyway.

We will just have to get used to the power windows and try to stay away from large bodies of water.

It’s small but not too small. In fact the salesman, who was at least 6’4”, fit into the back seat with Jim and me. Pretty much.

It’s parked on the street right now. Another gray vehicle among all the other gray vehicles.

Jim wants to name it Car Junior. Want a ride?

Aging with Benefits

I see myself as a couch potato. I don't exercise enough. My favorite activity in the daytime is reading and in the evening I watch TV.

But it seem as though everything I read in the newspaper or hear on the TV screams Exercise! Exercise! Exercise!

I am plagued with guilt.

So you can imagine my glee when Jane Brody, in her NY Times column, quoted a Dr. Jungwha Lee, “You don't need a gym membership to promote good health. Build movement into your daily routine. Don't park right next to the store. If your job involves prolonged sitting, set an alarm and stand up every twenty minutes. Use a remote printer. Take a lap around the floor after using the restroom. Go for a walk during lunch.” *

Hey! I’m not doing so badly after all. I am sure I am more fit than I was five years ago and I have been losing a little weight lately too.

After reading that article I figured out why. It’s memory loss.

Yes, memory loss has accelerated the amount of walking I do each and every day.

Think about my typical day. I walk around my apartment at least five times a day in search of my glasses. Then there is the time I put in going from closet to closet trying to remember where I hung my coat. I have to look for keys, gloves, and scarves not just in the closet but anywhere I might have deposited them when I used them last.

The timer I set to remind me something is on the stove repeatedly summons me to the kitchen.

And since I can’t remember recipes, I keep resetting the timer over and over. I must get up from the couch at least 15 times to check on a casserole baking.

My appliances are aging too and don't work as well as they used to. Take my oven. I can’t trust the temperature gauge any more and because I can’t see well enough to recalibrate it, I get more exercise getting up and down to check the temperature while I am baking.

When my TV remote broke, did I fix it? Of course not. I kept forgetting to get it repaired so I have to get up off my couch to change stations. See what I mean?

The old cold water tap in one bathroom is so hard to turn I use two bathrooms every day. One for hot water activities like washing my hands the other for drinking water and brushing my teeth. Coupled with the fact that I don't remember where I left my toothbrush, soap or towel, I get a lot of exercise roaming from bathroom to bathroom to locate things.

Then there is searching for pens and pencils. That takes miles of steps.

I am in shape before I ever get to the door to go out.

And all l had to do was grow old and lose my memory.

I think I’ll get a pedometer to scientifically track how many steps I take each day so

I can write a book and go on the “Dr. Oz” show to tout my new exercise routine: “You Can Get All the Exercise You Need Through Age Related Memory Loss.” I would make millions.

There are so many advantages to aging, I don’t why I didn't age sooner.

*Jane Brody, “Keep Moving to Stay Ahead of Arthritis,” New York Times, April 27, 2015.

10,000 Steps

I have been walking almost every day now for over a year. I’ve worked up to three miles.

This seems like plenty to me but the current ideal for fitness is to walk 10,000 steps each day.

I have thought of buying a “Fitbit” or some other pedometer to see if I actually do walk those 10,000 steps  that are so highly recommended. Apparently, the magic number is 10,000. If you take that many steps each day, you are guaranteed good cardiovascular health.

Why not buy a cute little gadget to tell me how many steps I really am racking up?

I have many reasons for not purchasing one:

1.   I have tried pedometers before and they never work.

2.   Hooking one up to my computer is daunting. I have so many other problems with the darn computer, adding a new gadget seems like asking for trouble.

3.   .I know I will tire of it and it will become another expensive plaything staring at me accusingly in a few months.

4.   .Figuring out how far I have walked by various routes gives me something to think about on my walks.

Pushing me further toward such a purchase was a spate of articles declaring that walking in the morning doesn't carry one through the whole day. Sitting for the rest of the day will still wreak havoc with your poor veins.

You have to be up and about all day.

This is really depressing. For these reasons:

1.   .I feel like I deserve to fall down onto the couch the minute I return home from my walk.

2.    I read an awful lot. This is an activity I do not associate with walking.

3.     I mean, I don't even sit up to read. I lie down.

All my virtue gone.

It’s not like I am completely sedentary after my morning walk. I never watch TV until the evening. I perform household tasks, run errands, meet friends in other neighborhoods etc.

But now I feel like I am lying down on the job of keeping those veins open and healthy.

So I will get a pedometer.

Or not.

Maybe I can do this without one.

On my most recent walk, I counted how many steps I took in one block. Approximately 100. So, that means my 60 block walk would account for 6,000 of the 10,000 steps I need to keep my veins open. 

So how to get in the rest?

I counted how many steps it takes to walk from my computer into the kitchen and back. It was 50 steps. So if my math is correct, in order to get my additional 4000 steps, I only need to make 80 round trips into the kitchen and back.

For snacks maybe.

Dialogue With My Dishwasher

My appliances are for the most part an amiable bunch. I get along with most of them just fine.

My stove is an easygoing sort. Not a high-end type, just a good solid stove. The burner tops are a little hard to clean but we’ve never come to blows over that.

As for my refrigerator, it may be taller than I am and lacking in those important self defrost areas but we get along.  I mean I like them both. They do their jobs and keep quiet about it.

But that dishwasher is another hunk of parts altogether.

I adored my dishwasher. You might say I worship at her altar. You might also ask why I anthropomorphize her. It’s easy. She has real presence.  She rules the kitchen.

I welcomed her with open arms. I embraced everything about her. She changed my dreary dishpan saddled life into one of orderliness and simplicity. No longer am I faced with a sink full of yucky dishes. No longer do my hands look pruney and wizened. No longer do I soak pot and pans.

Now that I am totally dependent upon her, I am a slave to her whims.

“Don't whine to me about your dumb Portuguese dishware,” she seems to be saying as I grudgingly wash my pretty ceramic cups by hand.

“Did I say anything?” I retort. “I know you will attack these poor pieces of pottery and scratch them to death so I don't let you wash them anymore. Couldn't you take it easy on a few of my favorites?”

“Too bad you have to make such a big deal about foreign dishware. Look here. I’m ready to accept all the made-in-America-certified-dishwasher-safe cookware you can find and wash them to perfection and you kibitz about earthenware. Who needs the stuff?”

“These ‘foreign’ dishes are beautiful! It's a joy to look at them. They make food taste better. And besides, that serviceable dishware you like isn’t particularly pretty.”

“Pretty! All you talk about it pretty! It’s about function my dear. After all, isn't it really about the food you’re eating not what you are eating off of?”

“I consider what I eat off of very important aesthetically.”

“Oh my god and a snob to boot!”

 “Come on. Just because you can’t handle the good stuff, don't judge me because I have good taste, you xenophobic dish mangler you.”

“Well, I just might stop working. That will show you

As I recall, my predecessor passed on the day before Christmas?”

“You’re blackmailing me? Go ahead. A lot of good you do me on Christmas anyway. You won’t accept 90% of my good dinnerware.”

“There you go again. Picky picky.”

“Or my mother’s silverware! You've made me give up wooden spoons. Buy very expensive stainless steel pots and pans. You've taken over my kitchen!! You are a tyrant.”

“Like I said, I can just go on strike. You can go back to washing stacks and stacks of dirty disgusting pots and pans. See if I care.”

“Oh go suck a lemon.”

“I’m a machine. I don't eat.”

See? She’s incorrigible. She has me cornered. I either do things her way or do the dishes myself.

I already wash my cast iron skillets by hand. She so thoroughly cleaned and dried them they had to be re-seasoned after every wash. Since cast iron is truly the best cookware I absolutely refuse to give them up.

Or take knives. If I want my knives to stay sharp I have to forget the dishwasher.  She will emasculate them in a trice.

And then there is all the stuff I wash by hand so she won’t be over stuffed. I look out for her why can’t she do me a favor or two?"

It seems that now I have to do everything her way. I finally replaced my aluminum cookie sheets. I had to buy new stronger cutlery.  My wooden chopping boards stay in the closet afraid to come out.  And she really did do a number on my Portuguese pottery. She chewed most of them up and spit them out at me.

So I surrendered. She won. I got rid of them just to shut her up.

Actually that's not the truth. I couldn’t really get rid of them. But after a look at my pruney hands I did put those adorable dishes at the top of the cupboard where she can’t see them and I can look at them longingly.

The Free Three

Over the summer I have taken a morning walk almost every day. I try to take different routes but the one I like best is the one with the three free blocks.

I start at 108^th St. and measure the distance. 20 blocks equals one mile. But the really great thing is that if I head north I get three free blocks to my mile.    Between 120^th and 125^th there are three extra blocks. La Salle, Tieman and St. Clair. That means when I reach 125^th  I have walked a whole mile. I get three free blocks.

But when I walk to 135^th I have walked only 27 blocks. I lose my three free blocks and I feel annoyed and cheated. But that’s what it says on Google maps and that's what my son, Tony, has explained to me.

“Mom”, he says patiently, “I really can’t believe you refuse to see this. Look at a map. 125^th street veers north and has skipped three blocks by the time it ends at Riverside Dr. Those three blocks aren’t free at all, they just have names. Look the next block after 125 is 128.”

“Yeah but those were free blocks just the same and they took them away.”

“Oh Mom. They were never free to begin with.”

“Its like Clare and Vinnie in Life with Father,” I say.

“Okay, tell me,” Tony sighs.

“You have to understand that Clare was played by William Powell and Irene Dunne played Vinnie.”

“You mean the man had a girl’s name and the wife was named after a mobster?”

“Not exactly. It’s more Victorian era. Anyway, there’s a great scene in which they are doing the monthly accounts and Vinnie’s household account is $3 overdrawn. “

Vinnie says something like “I’m overdrawn this month? I just don't understand how that could be.”

“Well, you are by exactly $3.  Let’s go over the purchases in detail,” insists Clare.

“Sounds like you and Daddy”.

“Not at all. We are smart enough to keep separate accounts.”

“Really?”

To go on with my story

Vinnie looks over her bills and declares,” There it is: three shirts at $ 1.00 each. It was your new shirts that caused the trouble.”

“My shirts? How could they cause a problem?”

“I bought them for you and you didn't like the cut of the collar. I paid three dollars for them  and when I returned them the sweet young salesman very nicely gave me three dollars in cash.”

Clare stops for a brief moment before he asserts, “He shouldn't have done that. You charged those shirts.”

“Well he did. And there I was with three extra dollars.”

“Those dollars were not extra.”

“Well what were they then? I didn't have them before the nice young salesman handed them to me. And then there they were, right there in my hand.”

Clare’s voice begins to rise, “But don't you see they should have gone back into the household money. A return to cover a debit?”

“A what dear?”

“A return to cover a debit.”

“Well with that extra money, I had enough to buy that lovely pink hat I saw as I entered the store.”

“But you didn’t have extra money. You were using money you didn't really have. You were overdrawn.”

“You remember I wore it to church last Sunday and you said how lovely I looked?”

“Oh, Vinnie.”

“That story is intentionally confusing, Mom,” Tony tells me.

“The only thing confusing about this story was the names. Those were free dollars just like my streets and I am not going to let any old map change my mind.

Don't I look and feel healthier walking those extra blocks?”

 “Oh, Mom.”