Road Trip!

It was a simple quest.

Andrew and I were going to take a relatively quick 5 1/2 hour road trip to the Capital District so we could get India from college for the summer. 

But someone had decided her van wouldn't make the 30° grade of the Driveway From Hell over the winter and parked it. Not in the barn on the hill, where it would be protected. Nooo.  I parked her in the driveway and let her sit - under 3 feet of snow - untouched.  Now we were facing the consequences. 

India's last class was on May 7th and so we were going to head out on the 8th and spend the night in Amsterdam but the van needed a front brake rebuild. So, off she went for repairs. Then I took her for inspection and she failed!! The back brakes needed a rebuild too. The mechanic who did the inspection offered to fix it for merely the cost of my first-born son. 

I took her back to the mechanic who did the front brakes. They told me it should make the trip but turned my rotors and returned her to me on the new departure date, promising to repair the back brakes when I returned from the trip. Next I went back to a different, non-shady, garage for a new inspection. 

One week and two hours late, we headed out on our great adventure. Braving Buffalo's rush hour traffic, singing happily to the stereo with my beloved Bose speakers and amazing bass - so the van vibrates as she rolls down the road.
.
.
until
.
.
She started making noises. Quiet at first. I had to roll down the window to hear it. But we kept rolling.

.
.
then
.
.
something clunked!

I pulled over and was almost instantly followed by a state trooper. He checked her out but we saw nothing wrong so he told me to drive on the shoulder slowly. He followed me as I did. Once I pulled back into traffic, he did a u-turn on the thruway and headed back to Syracuse. 

And she clunked again!

I called the number given me by the trooper and the state police sent me a flatbed.   They took my van to a shop in Mattydale and dropped us off at a hotel under the over-pass to Route 81. So much for sleep. 

The next day at around noon, they finished the rear brake rebuild (for half what I was quoted by the local mechanic).  Andrew and I headed back out on the road. Once we relaxed, we went back to singing and laughing. 

We finally got to India, where she almost knocked me off my feet when she jumped into my arms. I took India, Andrew and India's friend Samara to the mall in Rotterdam while I popped into an old friend's office in Albany to say "hi!".  I had lost touch with him for 30 years and it was so good to see him again!

Back to the hill they call Amsterdam and we went to meet up with Samara's family and loaded the van with India's futon and other items before heading to the hotel.

The next day we headed back home.  

Our return trip was uneventful. Aside from India driving me crazy with her kicking my seat as she tried to use it for leverage in her attempt to push past the cargo and recline her seat. 

And she kept getting text messages that interrupted the playlist on the cell phone. I could only take having my singing stopped a few times before I beat her at a rest stop. I have to say, the fear in her eyes when I threw the door open was beautiful!

In payment for all we went through to get India, we went grocery shopping a few miles from home and finished packing her in.  She was just over-joyed by the time we got home. 

But at least she was home.

Wordless Wednesday

Vintage Ads that make you go "What???"

I have found so many vintage things around the internet and thought I would start sharing them with you all. For starters. How we begin with a look back and some ads that leave you wondering...

"Babies who start drinking soda during that early formative period have a much higher chance of gaining acceptance and "fitting in" during those awkward pre-teen and teen years."

I guess it would be all that bouncing off the walls together.

"The malt in the beer supplies nourishing qualities that are essential at this time and the hops acts as an appetizing and stimulating tonic"

Notice it says "case" of beer - for the heavy drinking family.

As another ad in this campaign stated "For only your taste and throat can decide which cigarette tastes best to you ... and how it affects your throat."

You mean like throat cancer?

"Easy to Swallow" 

Of course they are easy to swallow - they just slither right down.

Paddy, Not Patty

La Fhéile Pádraig Shona Daoibh!

Being 1/2 Irish, and a Grammar Nazi, I feel it's my responsibility to share this post from paddynotpatty:

Solemn League and Covenant

Each and every year millions of Irish, Irish-ish and amateur alcoholics are needlessly distracted from their Holy Tradition of drinking themselves into a stupor in the name of Saint Patrick, a Roman Briton slave holding the dubious honour of bringing Christianity to an island that would use it as another convenient excuse to blatter the hell out of each other for centuries.

The source of this terrible distraction?

An onslaught of half-hearted, dyed-green references to St. Patrick’s Day as St. Patty’s Day.

It gnaws at them. It riles them up. It makes them want to fight… you know, more than usual.

Paddy is derived from the Irish, Pádraig, hence those mysterious, emerald double-Ds.

Patty is the diminutive of Patricia, or a burger, and just not something you call a fella.

There is not a sinner in Ireland that would refer to a Patrick as “Patty”. It’s as simple as that.

Grand

• Paddy
• Pat
• Packie
• Podge
• Pád
• Pod

Daft

• Patty

While I'm bending your ear…

Shamrock isn’t just any auld piece of clover: it’s three-leafed. Tradition holds that St. Patrick used shamrock to teach the Trinity, so give it a bit o’ thought before ye slap a four-leaf clover on yer plastic leprechaun hat. While I’m at it: Shamrock Shakes are boggin’ and will make you boke unless you like drinking mouthwash.

Irish Car Bomb isn’t a cute name for a drink or a cupcake and, if you are pushing shite like this, cut it out. Those of us that lived their lives punctuated by car bombs aren’t giggling along with you. 25-year-old Ronan Kerr was murdered in April 2011 by an Irish car bomb and he can’t join you for a drink. If nothing else, for Christ’s sake, stop putting money into cans for vague causes.

Paddy, Mick and Taig/Teague/Tadhg have been used as ethnic slurs for centuries—sure—but they’re still just names. However stereotypical it is, it isn’t a slur to call you by your actual name. Nonetheless, some folk are under the impression that “Paddy” is terrible but changing a couple of letters will make it magically OK. They don’t know their arses from their elbows.

                

                  ST. PATTY? NO, YE GOAT!