Depression Rhymes with Possession. I'm Finally Owning It

I wrote my first will when I was about eight. I wanted to make sure that someone – specifically my parents – would feed my hamsters and canary after I offed myself.  

I did not consider this odd behavior. I didn’t think about it all.

That’s the thing about depression. To the afflicted, it not abnormal. This is what life feels like. A lot of the time it’s simply unbearable.

Most lucky people can’t even begin to understand. Everyone who is not a sociopath has been sad, and most have fleeting encounters with depression. It sucks, but it’s not the same.

Chronic clinical depression is exhausting. It’s painful. It’s frightening. Most of all it’s boring.

It sure as hell isn’t sexy.  Mental illness usually isn’t, unless you’re Angelina Jolie in “Girl Interrupted.” Or Brad Pitt in "Fight Club."

Most people struggling with depression are functional and cover it pretty well; no one wants to be around a miserable person. I surely don’t; I’m unhappy enough.

I could be wrong, but I don’t think most people know that I’m a depressive. I When I’m in a bad place I hide as much as possible. Additionally, I’ve managed my crippling thoughts with the help of medication. Most of the time.

For as long as I can remember I believed that everyone was brighter, more successful and certainly happier than I was.  I was partially right.

Normal children don’t write wills.  They play with friends. They didn’t spend hours in their room, afraid of not to measuring up.

That pressure was totally internal. My parents had no unusual expectations of me.

But there it is. Depression is a lot of things, but rationality it isn’t one of them.

Shrinks tried to convince me to go on early versions of anti-anxiety meds. Even as a child I knew those old meds were bad news. They barely worked  and simply  tranquilized patients, leaving them dull and fat. 

I made the conscious decision to remain thin, (it was a long time ago), creative and miserable.

By the time I was in my 30s there was actual medical hope. Prozac and SSRIs (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors) had been invented, most notably Prozac.

The problem at least for me, was the appearance of celebrity/author Elizabeth Wurtzel. Wurtzel wrote an incredibly self-indulgent, best-selling book, Prozac Nation, about her mental illness and how she was saved by Prozac. 

Or some bullshit like that. I could never make it through anything she’s written.

All I knew was that I knew Elizabeth professionally. I felt badly that she was depressed, but it didn’t make up for the fact that she was a royal, self-entitled pain in the ass. Or at least she was to me.

If she was the result of successful Prozac use, I wanted no part of it. It also became trendy, taking anti-depressives was suddenly some peculiar badge of honor. Blech.

Eventually I confided to a shrink that the only reason I got out of bed in the morning, was for the dogs. She asked me if I had suicidal thoughts. I laughed. Doesn’t everyone?

Apparently not.

She convinced me that in all likelihood I had a chemical imbalance, and to try Prozac just for a short time. It might help. If it didn’t, I could quit.

I couldn’t come up with a reason to argue anymore.

But because I am a competitive bitch, I didn’t want it to work. If it helped Elizabeth Wurtzel, it couldn’t be real. I had a real problem, and she was a poseur. Her dumb medication couldn’t help me. Right?

Wrong.

Prozac didn’t cure my issues completely. Neither did any of the other anti-depressives I tried. After all, they are only drugs, not miracles. But they help.

Now I’m functional.  Most of the time I’m at least on an even keel. If I’m not happy, at least I’m rational. 

Usually not suicidal.

I still hide in my house. I can go weeks without socializing except for the people at the barn. Occasionally I don’t answer the phone or call people I want to talk to the most because I’m too depressed to be interesting, and don’t want to bore them. 

I rewrote my will recently. It wasn’t because I was going to slit my wrists. Nope, this time, it’s because I’m old.

I guess that’s progress, right?

Old is the New...Old

Today is my birthday. I hate my birthday. The only people who really enjoy birthdays are four. Then it’s all candles, presents and “Look you can read!”

It's all downhill after that.

I celebrate birthdays the same way I do New Year’s Eve. With depression. I’m surrounded by smarter, younger and more successful people while I on the other hand, have spent the past year accomplishing nothing of importance or merit.

Okay, Jasper is housebroken. Yay me.

So on the anniversary of my birth anyone who tells me the following will be smacked: “It’s better than the alternate,” “MY AGE HERE is the new 20,” or the worst: “It’s not how old you are, it’s how you feel.”  

People who say shit like that are lying like Trump. I have two words for them: fuck you.

I assure you I’m grateful to be looking at grass from above rather than below. However, MY AGE HERE is absolutely NOT the new 20. Nothing is.

I don’t care if you’ve had more plastic surgery than Pricilla Presley, and carry around more silicon than Kim Kardashian’s butt, if you’re female and north of 50, no is mistaking you for 25. Or 30. Or 45. That is, if they notice you at all. Women over 50 are invisible.

Except for Ruth Bader Ginsburg. But she’s not even human, she’s a spectacular  genius cyborg sent here to save us all.

Maybe age really is about how you feel. Well, right now, I don’t feel so young.

A riding accident recently left me with a broken pelvis and a broken sacrum. For three months I needed a walker. If you ever want to feel old and useless, try depending upon a walker. Not only is every single movement awkward, but things takes four times as long as usual. At least.

Chores I’d never given a second thought to, such as feeding the horses, were suddenly complicated and took an eternity. Eventually I learned how to balance hay flakes on my walker without dropping them or falling over. The day I fed the horses in under an hour I felt like Usain Bolt.

At the time my mom was living with me, and she relies on a walker for mobility. It was like looking in a mirror of my future; it wasn’t pretty. Think “Gray Gardens” with mobility devices.

Mom has a much, much better attitude about aging than I do. She has a sense of humor and has accepted it as inevitable. I, on the other hand prefer denial and fury.

But I even admit the dueling walkers had its moments. It was hilarious when we went out to dinner. Traffic backed up forever as we creeped across the road.  The looks on other patron’s faces as we rolled into restaurants was priceless. (Had they unintentionally booked for the Early Bird Special?)

Everyone knows that aging effects the memory. But I’m not talking about the usual “Where did I leave my car keys?” stuff.

I’m thinking about those forms that ask you your age. When I was dealing with smaller numbers, I knew it immediately. 16! 18! 21!

Now I have to ponder the answer. Sometimes there is math involved. This is not good; I’m a proud English major who flunked Algebra 1. Twice.

My sister-in-law once got into an argument with someone who insisted Nancy was a year older than she is. It wasn’t until Nancy yanked out her driver’s license that they realized she was two years younger than either of them thought. Yay?

After my latest accident, a number of people insisted (unasked, mind you) that, since my bones were obviously fragile I needed to give up riding. They never failed to point out that I’ve broken three bones in the last three years.

Even though I never seriously considered quitting riding, I did ask the doctor at my bone density test his opinion. He pointed out that when I broke my foot because my mare stepped on me, my hand broke when I slammed it into a horse’s neck and twisted (I broke my other hand in a similar way when I was in college) and this time, well, I hit the ground with velocity from a pretty good distance.  

It wasn’t like I just tipped over and shattered. He proclaimed me good to go.

But as I headed for the door, he said the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. He looked me directly in the eye and said earnestly, “Don’t fall off the horse anymore.”

I don’t know what kind of people he usually hangs out with, but I have never, ever, gotten on a horse planning to fall off. In fact I spend most of my time doing my best to avoiding hitting the ground.

Shit sometimes just happens.

Then it hit me. That doctor is younger than I am.  He’s got a great career and way more degrees than I will ever have. He probably has a wife and kids.

But I am wiser than him. At least in this regard.  

Shit does happen, That may be my next tattoo.

But today I’ll call it wisdom.

Happy Birthday to me!

Jasper and the Terrible Twos a Year Early

Last summer I made the bold decision to make a stand against good sense and wise advice. I got a puppy.

              

            Even worse, I got him from a breeder I found on Facebook. If a friend had done this, I would have hit them upside the head. Hard.

Instead, I fell in love, sent a deposit and planned a trip to Kentucky to pick it up. I cut a deal with a friend that I’d help her drive a load of racehorses from Los Angeles to Philadelphia, if we made a side trip to Kentucky to get the dog.

The geographically savvy among you have probably realized that Kentucky is not exactly along the way to Pennsylvania from Southern California. But it can be. If you are willing to drive many, many hours in the wrong direction.

Which is how Kristin and I found ourselves waiting at an empty, dark Burger King parking lot with six horses, a huge trailer and a wad of cash. It felt like a drug deal.

                

                  “Do you have the cash?”

                

                  “I have the cash; do you have the dog?

      “I have the dog. How will I recognize you?”

                

                   “Um? We are the six horse trailer in a Burger King parking lot just off the freeway.”

The lady, who I had researched after I sent the deposit and was in fact a reputable breeder, spent a few moments marveling at our being there.

     “You came all the way from Los Angeles? You’re going to Pennsylvania? Tonight Really??”

We nodded and made the exchange. She gave me a wiggling puppy, a bag of dog food, a collar and a bunch of toys. I handed her an envelope stuffed with cash, we climbed in our respective vehicles and drove away. The puppy climbed into my lap and fell asleep.

               

             That was last June. Because the puppy was a Great Dane, he grew like one of those flat sponges that you add water and watch grow. My 12 pound baby was small enough to fly from New England to Los Angeles on my lap. The other passengers kept trying to convince me to go to the toilet so they could hold him.

                

              Now, almost a year later, he might not be quite so welcome.  I haven’t weighed him lately, but he is taller than Dalai the Dane, and at 125 pounds she’s quite a dainty girl.

                

              Jasper Johns, named for one of my favorite New England-based painters, is anything but. The phrase most often used to describe him is goofy. His legs are long and constantly growing. Most of the time he can control them. When he can’t he crashes into things, like doors, Dalai, Poppy and me.

              He is distinctly different from my last male Dane. Where Murray was reserved and careful (some would say mean), Jasper is open and reckless. Much as it pains me to admit it, Jasper, who arrived housebroken and loving people and dogs, is an easier dog to have around.

Dalai might disagree. Jasper is, without a doubt a boisterous puppy.  Or a pest depending upon your point of view. He spends his waking hours playing, preferably with me, Dalai or Poppy the Brittany. Most of the time they are willing, but when he gets the evening zooms, they get the hell out of his way or risk getting flattened.

We’ve all become used to his antics, but everyone was flabbergasted when he decided to climb on top of my 21-year-old BMW Z3 convertible. Picture a huge spotty goat. With his back feet through the window.

After I replaced the roof and had the paw prints rubbed out, I built a fence around the carport to protect the car. Now he stands outside the car cage staring longingly at the vehicle. I admit I gloated a bit.

I’m a competitive person (I know, you're shocked) and I like to compete with my quadrupeds. I spend as many weeks as I can afford at horseshows, doing what an equally competitive friend once said was making livestock leap over junk piles. With the dogs, I run agility.  I’m not sure which is sillier.

The dogs and I run agility, where they leap over jumps, run through tunnels and climb on teeter totters. It’s really fun for all of us. Most of the time.

Murray loved agility and was good at it, as is Poppy. Dalai’s interest ebbs and flows. But Jasper, well Jasper was my big hope.

Not only did I start training him young, he seemed to take to it. He quickly learned how to jump, picked up running through the Tunnels and the Tire. One day after watching my trainer work with Poppy and me, Jasper zipped up and down the Dog Walk all on his own. My trainer and I were amazed and delighted.

There aren’t a lot of Danes that do agility, and almost none on a serious level. We started envisioning Jasper as the Great canine hope.

Jasper had his first birthday last week. It’s the Dane equivalent of the terrible twos.  Like a recalcitrant toddler, now he does exactly the opposite of whatever I want. If I tell him to come in, he stays out. He chases the horses. He used to have a stellar recall. Now he doesn’t know his name. It’s exhausting.              

Naturally the “nos” have spilled over into agility. First Jasper stopped jumping. Completely. Pointed at a jump he runs away or knocks them over. If we insist, he flings himself on the ground and refuses to budge. Sometimes he flops on his back and waves his paws in the air.

If it weren’t so infuriating, it would be cute. Hell, it’s still cute.

Last week he loved the A frame, so we tried that. Nope. Instead he turned tail and ran into the nearest tunnel.  Once inside he plopped down in the middle and refused to leave.

Finally we let Poppy loose and sent her through the tunnel. When she bumped into a heap of resting Dane, she flew back out – with Jasper in hot pursuit. We sent her through a few more times, with him happily following. After a while he did it on his own. It was fun again.

I keep threatening to start over again with a new puppy. The breeder does have another litter.

Never mind, this time I’ll pay attention to my common sense. Maybe. 

Broken, Stupid and Stubborn

I love the Coachella Valley. The problem is that it is an unrequited love; Coachella Valley doesn’t like me back.

Obviously, I’m talking about the winter and spring months. Summer there is a hellish furnace and like a bad witch, I melt in the heat. The temperature is reason 110 I don’t go to the Coachella Music Festival.

But I do love the valley: the landscape, the mountains and the endless, dog friendly trails. There’s also a terrific winter horse show series. It’s also a nice change from Los Angeles.

I’m there a lot. Not only is Joshua State Park nearby, but for as long as I can remember I’ve competed at winter horse shows in the area. The show series lasts for nine weeks, I can only afford two or three weeks.

It is just as well. I’ve had the best, and worst experiences in my life there.

Lucy made her last appearance as Blind Faith there after sustaining a career-ending injury. But hey, we won money in the class! So, yay!

The following year Wes walked off the trailer with an abscess and spent a week standing in his stall sulking. In all fairness, I was sulking too.  And drinking. Did I mention they have a decent bar on the show premises? The next week his abscess was better and we were Champion in two divisions. So, all well that ends well! Right?

Last year… well last year I should have fled the Valley and never looked back.

Mom was spending the winter with me to escape New England weather. I had the bright idea of renting a house in La Quinta. Mom’s arthritis would be better, we could visit Joshua Tree a few times and I’d show for a three weeks. It would be a win- win!

Worst. Idea. Ever.

Wes was acting weird and spooked badly in my very first class. I twisted my hand over a jump and somehow managed to break it.  My hand, not the jump.

That was the good news. Wes became more erratic and after two more awful weeks and a village of veterinarians it was determined that he had to be put down.

I left La Quinta with a broken heart and hand.

But never let it be said that I give up easily. Or learn from the past. Not me. I need to be hit over the head. A couple of times.

Apparently because last year was so much fun, mom suggested that we go for two months this year. It seemed like good idea. I’d show my new horse for two weeks and then keep him at a low-key training stable and bum around for the next six weeks. It would be a nice change for everyone.

Once again we headed to La Quinta Cove.  I arranged for a physical therapist to work with mom and an aide to stay with her while I rode. The house didn’t have a big yard for the dogs, but it was about four blocks from the mountain trails. The first week I took each dog out for about 40 minutes a day. We were all going to get so fit!

I even leased a new horse. An older schoolmaster, Frederick had been there, won that. He’d spent the last year chilling as a trail horse, but he was so much fun when I rode him that I wired the money for a six month lease the very next morning.

Precisely two hours later while jumping him I made the same stupid mistake I have made before on Lucy, Wes and Mickey. (I told you I don’t learn quickly.)  Not surprisingly it had the same result: I felt off.

I got back on and fixed my error. I then rode the Frederick back to the farrier to get spanking new shoes.  That was the last time I sat on him.

I may have mentioned to my trainer that I thought I’d pulled a muscle falling off. Two days of agony later I went to an Urgent Care. They sent me to the ER and an orthopedic surgeon.

After X-rays and  a super-fun MRI, it became clear that I’d fractured my pelvis and sacrum.  I was assigned a walker which made me feel about 90, and told to walk as little as possible.

Like that was a choice.

We stayed in the desert about four more weeks. I hired a dog walker (by the way she was the BEST! If you need a dog walker in La Quinta, call me!) and sent both horses home to Los Angeles where they spent a month watching the rain fall down while they ate.

Mom and I remained in the desert where I was unable to drive, so I ate, slept, moaned a lot and occasionally our walkers became tangled. It was just a barrel of laughs.

Four weeks after the accident, the doctor blithely announced that I wouldn’t ride for at least another three to six months. I lost it.

I needed to get out of there pronto. Obviously the guy was used to treated fragile ancient people – not crazy, determined, and very stubborn, old people. Did he not realize I only have Frederick for six months?

Anyway, I have learned something. My new LA doc says I can ride in three weeks. (Take that desert doctor!)

Next year we’re not going to La Quinta. Mom likes Arizona, and there’s a winter horse show series there too.

Holiday Photoshoot, Cursing Included At No Extra Charge

Fall is my favorite season. For one thing, it has an almost perfect holiday: Halloween. There’s no family to visit, you don’t need a date and there’s lots of candy.  Tons actually, because although my neighborhood doesn’t have many kids, I buy enough treats for an invading army.  Mmm, snack-size Snickers!

There is only one downside to this season: Holiday photo shoots. 

It’s my own fault. When I moved to Los Angeles I thought it would be funny to dress up the Keeper the Perfect Dog in goggles and a scarf and position her in my bright red convertible. It was easy to do and the card was a huge hit.

After that, every year I upped the ante. One year the Brittanys wore Santa hats and pulled a red wagon full of toys and other Brittanys. After that came the Halloween costumes. Over the years Murray the Dane was a fireman, Quattro the Brittany wore a yarmulke and Morgan Brittany was a Pilgrim.

I became a victim of my own success. People started looking forward to my cards. A few friends actually saved them. The pressure is enormous.

The pictures inevitably turn out great. How can they miss? My dogs are extremely photogeneic. 

But the process isn’t easy. Friends with an artistic bent serve as photographers. They rarely volunteer more than once. Perfect Keeper was a once-in-a-lifetime model.

While it's amusing to a Great Dane wearing a fireman’s costume, you’re missing angst that goes into getting that picture.  And the many blurry outtakes. Oh, and the cursing. There's always lots of cursing.

You’ve all heard about stars that schedule exactly one hour for a photo shoot and not a second more? Those folks are a cinch compared to working with three or four Brittanys and a few Great Danes.

You can - in theory- reason or bribe people, even rock stars. But there aren’t enough chicken snacks in the universe to coerce a Great Dane puppy into keeping on a set of reindeer ears. Nor is there a costume in creation, that will remain on a Brittany who wants it off.

Also, Brittanys are hunting dogs.  Maximum ADD is part of their DNA. The Danes do whatever the Brirttanys do. You get the picture. It gets dizzying.

Last Sunday I mentioned to my friend Maureen that it was time for the annual photo shoot. She is a former creative director for GM’s ad company and is a graphic designer. She has formidable taste and I promised excellent bourbon as an added enticement. She took the bait.

She became a little wary when she walked into the living room and saw a huge cardboard box labeled ‘Halloween.’ The box was filled with costumes. For the dogs.

Maureen opted to put the Jockey on Jasper, while I dressed Poppy in the Super Girl cape. This was not Dalai’s first rodeo; when she saw the box, she tore into her crate to hide. It didn’t work. The crate takes up half my bedroom and she still hangs out of it. She sighed deeply as I called her out.

Naturally, as I attached the Jester ears to Dalai, Jasper removed the Jockey and Poppy shredded her cape. They’d all outgrown the Jailer outfit, and the Pilgrim didn’t work either. Sadly, the Devil ears were too tight. But eventually we forced costumes on them and all of us tumbled out the door into the rapidly disappearing evening light.

The horses were mildly interested in the goings on until the shouting began.  Then they quietly retreated out of camera range before we could put costumes on them.

Poppy began by sweetly sitting in my lap, pawing at her hat. Soon she took out her frustrations by snarling at Jasper who ignored her, instead rolling around at my feet ensuring that he’d be blurry. Dalai turned toward the horses as if begging for help. No one looked at the camera at the same time.

After about a half an hour, and probably 50 pictures, it started to get dark. Maureen and I both needed a drink.

We took off the costumes and Dalai and Poppy ran to the house.  Jasper grabbed his and zoomed around the yard with it. Maureen and I opened a bottle of Larceny and drank up.

There were about four usable photos. You’ll see them around the holidays. In the meantime, you can see this video of the proceedings  that Maureen took before being overcome by the giggles.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5QRei9Phwrs&feature=youtu.be

            You are welcome.

Conjuring Chickens and Cutting Horses

One of my guilty secrets is that I love chickens. Not eating them, but the living creatures in all their feathered glory. There are about a zillion varieties of chickens to love. Chickens with pantaloons, chickens with hats and multi-colored ones. I’m sure they all have fancy breed names, but you get my point.

For a moment chickens were trendy. The New York Times ran architecture pieces about snazzy coops and Gwyneth Paltrow extolled their virtues. That time has passed.

                

           But while hipsters have moved on from poultry to goat herding, I’ve remained loyal.  (Who knows what will be the next chic livestock? I’m predicting miniature cows. They are perfect; cute and so unhealthy that they die just as their owners become bored with them.)

Part of my fascination with chickens is that I can’t have any.  Brittanies are bird dogs, and over the years I’ve had eight of them.  Brittanies that is. 

Not all Brittanies are birdie, a pheasant could have landed on Morgan and she wouldn’t have noticed, but Poppy is a hunter. Among the critters she has proudly presented to me are moles, voles, squirrels, rats, a couple of crows and dozens of mice. A chicken wouldn’t stand a chance.

Even if I cooped the birds instead of letting them roam, Poppy would make their lives miserable. She’d sit by their house in a hunting point, just waiting for her opportunity to give them a quick shake and break their necks. Poppy is a very efficient huntress.

One day, while surfing the web instead of writing, I discovered mecca for all poultry lovers: The Murray McMurray Hatchery.  They raise fowl of all types -you want a white Peacock? They got ‘em. Blue Guinea Hen? No problem. An assortment of ducks? One click and it’s on the way.  They ship all over the country.  

Since I’m a good sister, and my brother and sister-in-law have chickens and elaborate set up of electric fencing to keep their dogs at bay, I arranged to have an assortment of chickens sent as a belated birthday present. Unknown to me, McMurray ships by US mail and the chicks went out over a holiday weekend. Needless to say, by the time they reached Andy, it was a gift he’ll never forget.  

Oops.

I did have chickens once. My childhood barn was overrun with Banties. They were cute, and during the winter most birds picked out a horse to sleep on. It was endearing and kept the chickens toasty, but it was it kind of gross to clean when it was time to ride.

For reasons no one seems to remember, we took two chicks homes The second night of having chickens in the city, my father got a phone call from the police. Apparently a  neighbor had complained about our livestock.  Since we had a testy relationship with one of the crustier geezers on the block, this was possible.

The call went on and on, and my dad became more and more furious. They were chicks he kept insisting. The size of hamsters. The cop didn’t budge. Until he did. Tthe “policeman” finally admitted he was punking Dad. Dad had been set up by a former friend. It’s now a part of family lore, but at the time we were concerned for Dad’s health.

Not long after, our experiment with poultry was over and the chickens went back to the barn. Just as no one can remember why we got them, why they left is an equal mystery.

That was my last close encounter with a chicken. Occasionally I’ll moan about it, as was the case recently.  Two friends and I were in the backyard watching the horses and chatting. Jasper the Dane and Kathy’s German Shepard puppy, Damali, were playing while we consumed a fair amount of adult beverages.

                

             “What this place needs is some chickens,” said Maureen.

                

              “I can’t have chickens, I have Poppy,” I said.

                

               “You could try having chickens! They’re so cute. And eggs!” she insisted.

                

                Then, just like Beetlejuice, it appeared in the dusk: a dark red rooster.

                

                I thought I was seeing things. And then a hen showed up.

                

                The horses noticed too and t

hey didn’t like it. While the three humans watched with our mouths hanging open, Dezi, the 26-year old retired jumper started to herd the rooster. Lucy and even 29-year-old Murphy joined in, galloping around the pasture, albeit slowly, after the squawking bird. With the precision of champion cutting horses on a cow, my three retirees moved that rooster around the paddock.

 The hen took a different tack and made a beeline out of the field.

                

             It finally occurred to me that my neighbor had chickens, but not a rooster. Perhaps she’d added to her flock. I went inside to call.

                

               By that time, the hen had caught the attention of the dogs. Kathy leashed Damali at the first sight of the chicken. It never occurred to me to catch Jasper. He’s a Great Dane, not exactly a breed known for their birdiness.

                

                But somewhere in the depths of Jasper’s ancestry was a Dane raised to hunt boar.  Apparently when Jasper spied that hen, his four-month-old brain decided that the hen was a small fluffy pig. By the time Maureen pulled him off the screaming bird he had plucked her chest clean and was going in for the kill.

                

               Much to his dismay, Jasper was quickly dispatched into the house, and I returned with my neighbor. She had bought the birds that very day and was pissed that they were loose. Even buzzed we were slightly smarter than chickens, so we quickly cornered and caught the terrified birds and she took them home.

                

                 I still really want a chicken, but I think if Maureen can conjure things just by saying their names three times, it should be something more interesting than a rooster.

I saw a really cute photo of a wombat the other day...

Me and My Z3: Old and Needing Body Work

It isn’t news that Los Angeles is car crazy. From old school surfer Woodys, to the Porsches that are so ubiquitous that they must be giving them away, people care deeply about their cars out here.

I am not immune. I’ve always liked cars but I have a practical side. I inherited my first car. It was my mom’s blue Chevy Bel-Air. By the time I was done with it, the Saratoga road salt had rotted the floorboards so thoroughly that when I drove through a puddle, things got wet.

My next car was a super sexy, if mechanically questionable Triumph TR7 (“The shape of things to come.”).  It was electric blue with racing stripes. It currently resides in my brother’s garage in Connecticut, and would be a classic if anyone could manage to get it to run.

Presently I am lucky enough to have two cars. One is useful, a 12 year-old Chevy Tahoe that can transport all the dogs and pull the horse trailer. The other is less so: it’s a 1996 two seat black BMW Z3 convertible.  

There were practical reasons for buying the car.  Or so I told myself. I had a job I despised, and I knew if I had a car payment, I would never quit the job in a huff. It worked. I kept the job until I found another job I hated, but at least it paid better.

I love my Z3.  I Like me, it’s old, needs some bodywork,  and it's not fast, but with regular maintenance it keeps on ticking.

The real reason I keep it around is that it makes me feel fantastic.  Zipping along with the top down always puts a smile on my face. It may be a geezer, but it still looks sharp which makes me look good.

At least most of the time.

Recently I was driving home from a shrink appointment (I know it’s positively shocking that I’m in therapy, but it’s true.) It was just before rush hour and I was flying down the 5 in a hurry to get back to work. If all went well, I’d be in front of my computer in a half an hour.

Then the car started to shimmy. Badly. Followed by a regular thunkity, thunkity, thunkity.   That is never a good noise. For the first time in Z3’s life, it had a flat tire.

With with the aid of some cursing and gesturing I maneuvered to the shoulder of the road. It wasn’t easy. LA drivers refuse to yield. Even to drivers with obvious flat tires.

My tire didn’t just have a flat; it exploded. I stared at the layers of tread for a moment and vaguely remembered my mechanic mentioning that I should think about new tires.  Naturally that meant I immediately forgot about them as soon as I left his shop. Oops.

I was stuck on the shoulder of the road, next to the LA River. At that location, it actually looks sort of like a river. It has vegetation and a fair amount of fauna. And trash. Lots, and lots of trash, I spotted several egrets and a Great Blue Heron picking their way through the couches, shopping cars and other crap people  tossed in their habitat.

Really people, stop using the river as a garbage dump! It’s disgusting!

Thanks to the previously mentioned super unreliable Triumph, I have belonged to AAA since I was in college. So while traffic flew dangerously close to me on the shoulder of the road, I fished out my membership card and called emergency roadside service.

The dispatcher assured me that someone was on the way to change my tire. He’d be there within 30 minutes. There was even a nifty little app that tracked his progress. 

Out of boredom, I clicked on the app, and was outraged that it claimed he’d already arrived. I was working my knickers into a righteous knot, when I looked up from my phone and saw the tow truck.

He made short work of digging out my never-been-used spare tire and swapped it for the damaged 

one. Naturally, the ruined tire didn’t fit in my trunk so he gently tucked it into the passenger seat.

He also warned me that my spare was not a real tire – it would get me home, but cautioned me not go faster than 50 mph.  I took a deep breath and pulled into rush hour traffic.

The drivers behind me in the slow lane did not care that I had my flashers on to warn them of my predicament. They wanted to get home, and my 50 mph wasn’t cutting it. I was honked at, cursed at and on the receiving end of crude hand gestures.

It was the first time in nearly 20 years that I drove Z3 with the top down and felt like a schlump. No one feels good about themselves as they wobble home in an ancient convertible with a filthy flat tire in the passenger seat.  I gritted my teeth and drove on.

It seemed like forever, but was probably only 45 minutes before I pulled into the tire shop near my house. The owner informed me that I should replace all the tires and my brakes were shot, and Z3 would be ready in a few hours.

The day was just getting better and better.

I walked home feeling like a major loser. Because I was. Did I mention that I was still in riding clothes? Cause I was. And it was really, really hot.

Two hours later Dalai the Dane and I walked back to the tire shop to pick up the car.  (I walk nowhere without a dog; if I’m getting exercise, so are they.)

“She's getting in there?” The owner asked, looking at Dalai.

Suddenly we weren’t alone. Everyone in the shop had gathered to watch the huge dog get in the teeny car.

I nodded,  as she hopped in. It did take her a moment to arrange her big butt onto the dainty seat, but Dalai managed.  Z3 is not her favorite mode of transportation, but she’s not an idiot. It’s better than walking when it's hot out.

We got a few laughs we drove home. People did point and several drivers honked and gave us the thumbs up. I look at it this way: we brought joy into people’s lives.

It was only a short drive home, but my bad mood vanished. My ancient Z3 may not be a bright red Lamborghini, but driving with the top down, and a giant dog riding shotgun, is still pretty darn cool.