Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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My New Car is Haunted

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Remember the olden days when you jumped into your car, turned a key, and drove away? Those were good times. Now I drive a haunted car controlled by mischievous gremlins, strange voices, and nefarious computerized systems designed to destroy my delicate balance of sanity.

The car caper began when I cheated on my long-time dealer. During the past twenty years, I’ve purchased a dozen vehicles from the same dealership in Boise. I drove a Lexus SUV because it was dependable and I needed extra room to haul books, my mother’s wheelchair, car seats for the grandbabes, and numerous loads of household goods while moving eight times and also moving my mother eight times. I usually traded to a newer model every few years; however, the design of recent Lexus SUV models began to resemble an 18-wheel truck, were too wide to park, and had bad gas mileage.

I felt guilty looking around at other vehicles, but then I saw a splendid, emerald-green Audi Q5. The SUV was small, so it would be easier to park and could get better gas mileage. It looked sporty and featured a fancy interior with a huge skylight. I researched details and the vehicles rated high for safety, performance, and value. I had sold some property, so with my trade-in I could pay cash. Because I paid the balance with a check, the process took less than 30 minutes. Financing a car at the dealership can take hours, involve a stack of documents, and take years off your life. Being a woman without a male escort adds an entire new level of scrutiny.

I drove away, enjoying the toxic chemical smell of a new car. The problems started when I stopped at the grocery store. I couldn’t figure out how to lock the car.

Here are a few of the frustrating issues I’ve encountered with the new car:
I couldn’t lock the door so I had to search the 388-page owner’s manual for instructions. I learned how to touch the outside of the door handle but not put my fingers inside the handle. This design feature should be changed.

The automatic car wash is a nightmare. I tried to put the gear into Neutral but the “S-tronic dual-clutch transmission” went into Park instead of Neutral and the car wash track tossed the tires out of alignment. This happened several times, and the patient attendant finally learned to shut down the line whenever he saw me coming.

I purchased a car wash membership but the sticker on the windshield wouldn’t work because a speed limit display projected on the windshield interfered with the electronic eye at the car wash. I needed to watch an online tutorial to learn how to turn off the display. The electronic eye still doesn’t work.

During the car wash, the seat belt suddenly tightens when gremlins in the engine sense the washing equipment getting closer. The first time this happened, I thought someone in the back seat was trying to grab me. I may have screamed, fearing my dead body would be discovered when the car was propelled out of the dryer.

Mysterious voices and warning bells occur at random times. The “Audi pre-sense front” is a safety feature that soon became an annoying nag. The car’s lecturing voice tells me if my cell phone is still plugged in when I make a quick exit to get the mail. Bells ring if the car thinks I’m too close to a car in front of me. If I slow down, another car will cut in front of me, and bells go off again. Warning lights flash if I go over the speed limit when I pass a car on the freeway. Bright red danger signs appear for no reason and go away before I can react. They are mocking me.

The navigation system requires a college course to understand. I’ve watched several online tutorials, but I still use my cell phone for directions to a new address.

The owner’s manual was edited by 100 bored lawyers and contains multiple warnings. The serious text states to “NEVER drive when impaired by medications, alcohol, drugs, etc.” Who knew? The manual also says “Do NOT drive when you are tired, under pressure or when you are stressed.” The only thing that stresses me is this car.

Finally, I miss a V6 engine. Yes, the lighter 4-cyclinder Q5 gets better gas mileage, but the vehicle wobbles in a strong wind on the freeway. I have a bit of buyer’s remorse, and I’m not impressed by the Audi dealership but I can’t return to my old dealer. I suspect they’ve moved on, too, and I’m no longer welcomed in my favorite service department. I’ll continue trying to learn the complicated mechanics of the new car, but I have fond memories of my first car: a 1973 Pontiac Firebird. I simply turned the key, popped in an 8-track cartridge, and traveled – stress-free – down the road.

My first car – 1973 Pontiac Firebird

In Defense of Grocery Store Cashiers

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grocery cashier

I chat with cashiers, visit with bank tellers, and linger at the Farmer’s Market to talk with the friendly folks who barter their goods for my cash. For me, the exchange of serious business is better with real human interaction.

Growing up in a small town, I knew every checker and cashier at the local businesses. We would greet each other as long-time friends, discuss the pending potato crops, shake our heads and mutter about the civic elections, wonder about Widow Gibb’s bursitis, and compliment babies, hair-dos, and outfits. We knew each other’s families, the good and the bad, and liked each other anyway.

Then I moved to the city. The stores were bigger, the lines were longer, and no one cared that my baby was the cutest one ever to sit in a grocery cart. I still attempted to visit, but with mixed results. In big business, time is money, so there was limited conversation as customers moved through the lines. The bananas were fresher, the selection of meats was more abundant, but the experience was sterile.

Several years ago, my neighborhood grocery store installed two rows of self-service check-out registers. This technology eliminated the need to wait in line and was convenient for customers buying a few items. I fumbled several times to find the bar code, scan the item, and place it in the appropriate bag before somehow causing the machine to break and stop working. A dutiful employee would saunter over, insert her magic code, and the machine would work again. There was no verbal communication.

Yesterday I returned to the store and discovered all the self-service registers had been removed. I talked with the cashier as she rang up my groceries and explained the situation. She said there were several reasons for the return to cashiers.

“We added three jobs for cashiers,” she said. “And the store reduced theft. The cameras revealed that too many people were taking items they didn’t pay for and slipping them into the bags. Also, our customers missed talking with cashiers.”

We chatted as she rang up my groceries and a delightful young woman with special needs placed the bags into my cart. The checker noted my selection of chicken, fresh mozzarella, green peppers, onions, and garlic.

“Looks like you’re making a special meal,” she said.

I explained I was creating my favorite chicken parmesan dinner for some guests. She nodded with approval, handed me the receipt, and said to have a nice day. The automated machines never cared about the groceries I bought or the meals I would prepare. I exchanged smiles with the cashier and bag girl, and in less than a minute we all felt better.

I’ll return to that store to purchase most of my groceries. I have friends there.

 

 

 

Midlife Cabernet: Vintage Typewriters are Just My Type

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I started to write a blog about my typewriter collection but ironically my computer froze and then the wireless capability wouldn’t work. I tried another computer but somehow the text got lost in transition. When an error message – complete with ominous exclamation points – flashed onto my screen, I shut off the laptop and picked up paper and pen. At least the pen wouldn’t talk back and the paper wouldn’t delete my paragraphs.

Sometimes I miss the simplicity of a manual typewriter. I appreciate hearing the click, clack of the keys, the zip of the return, and the ding of the bell. The round keys feel comfortable beneath my fingers, unlike the square blocks I press on my modern computers. And, best of all, my typewriters worked as long as I had a fresh ribbon. No batteries, electricity, modems, or reboot required.

I own five antique machines, starting with a 1905 Underwood #5. It was the IPhone 5 of its day because the advanced features included 84 characters instead of the typical 76. Next is a Remington Portable from 1930. It could be compared to a modern laptop because it was lightweight and came with a handy carrying case. The third typewriter is a Remington Rand from 1933. Early advertisements for this machine touted its noiseless features and claimed to allow secretaries to type faster because the advanced mechanisms reduced paper jams.

My last two old typewriters are Royals that my mother owned in 1940 and 1950. When I was a little girl, my father was a long-haul truck driver and would be gone for weeks at a time. For income, my mother babysat other children during the day while taking care of her own kids, and then at night she typed bulletins for the local church and business reports for Bradshaw Honey Plant in Wendell. I vaguely remember falling to sleep while listening to the syncopated sounds as she typed. Her work back then paid for food and rent until my father returned.

I took a manual typewriter to college and used it for all my term papers. Those were the days of messy carbon paper, round erasers, and little brushes to clean away the erased mistakes. There weren’t any spellcheck, copy, save, or cut and paste features. I still have some of those papers with the faint words typed on watermarked parchment paper. No museum has yet asked for them.

My vintage typewriters sit silently in my office, keeping me company as I maneuver on various computers that are equipped with the latest technology but often crash on a whim. I can edit as I type, check the spelling and grammar, move paragraphs around, insert photographs, research online for facts, link to the World Wide Web, and instantly publish my blog to various websites. But, my computers last only a few years and then become obsolete. My1905 Underwood is worth more than $500 and I can still use it to type a letter. Sometimes being a reliable vintage isn’t so bad.

Today’s blog was fueled by a 2012 Vivacious Viognier from 3 Horse Ranch Vineyards in Caldwell. The Idaho-grown Viognier and Roussanne grapes produce a balanced blend that is tasty, dry, and lightly oaked. If you can’t have a Cabernet, try this instead.

Midlife Cabernet: Will my Power Cord Work in a Cave?

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I’m being pressured to throw away all electronic devices and go live in a cave in the forest. The one instigating the rebellion is the tiny voice that sporadically echoes through the cob webs in my middle-aged brain and whispers, “They’re all out to destroy you. Run away now.”

The current wave of frustration was caused by a few exasperating problems: my credit card number was fraudulently taken and used to purchase sports equipment in Delaware and a tourist trip to Australia. Then my cell phone died. Then my computer got a virus and went black while I was working on an important project. If I lived in a cave, I’d never experience these annoyances.

It took several days to deal with the issues. My computer returned from the repair shop with a perfect screen and a hefty repair bill. The credit card company canceled the card and the debts, and my cell phone just needed to be recycled. A 10-year-old child could have handled all these problems while simultaneously creating a video and texting 100 of her/his closest friends.

It’s a challenge to keep up with technology, especially because I grew up thinking a keyboard was on a piano, a ram was in the pasture, a cookie was something to eat, and the one telephone in the house was attached to the wall. I wrote papers and short stories on a manual typewriter and was positively giddy to get an IBM Selectric typewriter. Now I take my Ipad on vacation and input, format, copy, and insert my blog with attached pictures onto the World Wide Web. Amazing.

All this marvelous technology that allows me to instantly research facts, pay bills online, book an airline flight, and watch a video on my cell phone also attracts evil scoundrels who steal credit card numbers and send malicious viruses through the Internet. The answer is to spend more time with my small grandchildren. They know how to download an app for that.