Warming Up the Car is For Lazy Sissies

In my continuing series of "neighbor rants," we come to people who insist on warming up their cars. Really, folks?! What a waste of fuel! I don't care if you waste your money, but I do care that you're idling your car and ejecting hydrocarbons into the atmosphere for NO GOOD REASON.

I can possibly understand it if you are preparing to transport an elderly or infirm person who might need to step into a warm car. I can't understand it if you are an able-bodied person driving solo who is simply too lazy to put on enough warm clothes which would make the few minutes it takes a modern engine to supply heat easily bearable.

What's that? You say you have to wear a fancy suit or thin dress to the office? So? You don't own an overcoat? You've never heard of scarves, hats, gloves, cheap-but-warm, zip-on overpants and winter boots that can be worn just until you get to the office? Lots of people exchange snow boots or running shoes for four-inch heels or wingtips when they get to their desks.

Or perhaps your argument for warming up the car has to do with ice on the windshield. Sorry, not a valid excuse. A quick search of the Internet turns up all kinds of dirt-cheap windshield covers and all-over car covers that will keep ice and snow off your car. You simply strip it away and hop in. No ice melting needed.

Then there's the old saw about getting the engine warm enough to stay running. Mechanics say "not necessary." Modern fuel injection replaced carburetors and chokes a few years ago, in case you didn't notice. It's being kind to the engine to give the oil 10-15 seconds--30 seconds max--to circulate, but then you're ready to drive. By the way, prolonged idling isn't good for your engine's long-term performance.

Another good reason for not warming up your car is that--well, it's illegal in many states. Not perhaps if you're using a remote car starter (there's another waste of money, maybe a couple hundred bucks' worth), but it is illegal if you leave the key in the ignition and the engine running with the car unattended. Yup--even for a few minutes. Be a real pain to get a ticket just because you were a lazy sissy, wouldn't it?

And that remote car starter? Not all have safety devices that prevent the car from being stolen. It'd be a much bigger pain to lose your car, wouldn't it? Please just man-up or woman-up, put on some winter outerwear, and drive already! The poor polar bears will thank you for it.

Here is my Jude Hayes Mysteries, Book 1, Remover of Obstacles, quote for the day:

Carrying my helmet and gloves, I exited down the back stairs of The Homer. My bike sat just as I’d left it parked under a cottonwood. I carefully removed the ratty, elastic-bound silverized cover to reveal my shiny blue-and-white race replica sportbike. It’s tiny, compared to the behemoth Harley cruisers, and many times faster and more powerful. It also handles like the proverbial dream.

I stopped to admire it for a moment, a huge smile on my face. It really is my baby. Let the soccer moms lavish their attention on the juvenile occupants of their minivans, this work of artistic and mechanical perfection is all the baby I’ll ever need—except for my puppies, of course. Not unlike a child, it receives lots of my attention and discretionary income. To each her own, I figure. I’m clueless and clumsy around kids. Thank goodness the world has a place for both my sister Stacy—who deserves a PhD in childraising for nurturing three awesome kids—and me—Auntie Sportbike Chick.

I rolled up the cover and stuffed it into a small bag behind my seat, stuck the key in the ignition, and zipped up my jacket. The helmet went on next, cinched down under my chin. Fingers wiggled into gauntleted leather gloves and I was finally ready.

Dependable machine that she is, the Suzuki started right up, with an understated thrummm of power, sounding like nothing so much as an airplane’s turbine engine lighting off. I spent a moment admiring the harmonics of the exhaust note echoing against the brick walls. Even so, my bike is not loud. Impressive horsepower can be had without excessive and inconsiderate noise. Time to ride.

Flu Shots are Making Someone Rich

I haven't gotten a flu shot in many years and I don't plan to break the pattern this year. As far as I know, I've never had the flu. Oh, I've had nasty colds, bronchitis, and even pneumonia, but not influenza. I am not a believer in the flu vaccine. There have been too many problems with it over the years. I'm of the opinion that it does far more harm than good. If it works for you--even if it's only the placebo effect in operation--well and good. But I personally would want way more information about the vaccine before I would consider putting it in my bloodstream, and that information is both elusive and contradictory.

There are conspiracy theorists out there who believe that someone is slipping us something untoward in the vaccine. It kind of makes you wonder. Remember when the CIA used average citizens as guinea pigs? Flu shots are practically pushed on you gratis from every available outlet. I find it especially creepy to see flu vaccine dispensed at a supermarket. Killed germ strains in a place where food is stored and sold? That bothers me.

The medical powers-that-be warn that flu vaccine may cause "a mild flu-like reaction." Oh, but it might prevent you from contracting the flu. Maybe. Possibly. Where are their definitive clinical trials and copious evidence of the vaccine stopping the flu in its tracks? Those have been noticeably lacking. Besides, I don't get the flu and I don't want "a mild, flu-like reaction." That makes about as much sense as having a double mastectomy because you might get breast cancer. I'd rather take care of my body and its wonderful immune system and hope for the best. I'm quite sure that's the best way to avoid the flu. There are tons of pathogens swirling around us all the time. The only thing between us and them is our immune system in robust operation. Medicines may help, but ultimately, the body protects and heals itself.

I am a fan of natural remedies and holistic healing. As a kid, I was raised on homeopathy and went to an M.D. specializing in homeopathy. I'm also a believer in antibiotics--especially after one helped snap me out of pneumonia when my doctor told me I was about three days away from dying. I've had MRIs and CT scans which have yielded useful results. So I am not opposed to "modern medicine." I am opposed to blindly taking any drug or submitting to any test or procedure without researching it and making as informed a decision as possible.

I don't stand in awe of doctors and hospitals anymore, either. I've seen them make too many horrible mistakes and dispense some really bad advice. But I've seen some dedicated, wonderful doctors, too. My current family practice doctor is one of these. Also on the good list is a nurse practitioner who probably saved my life. All I'm suggesting is to apply an old feminist slogan to medical care, including the wisdom of getting a flu shot: "Question Authority."

So the next time some advertiser--even a "public service" advertiser, or a drugstore chain, or a vaccine manufacturer/distributor, tries to cajole, badger, shame, or intimidate you into getting a flu shot you don't really want, ask yourself why. What do they stand to gain? Or, as my private investigator main character Jude Hayes might say, "Follow the money." Somebody makes a lot of it from those killed germs being pumped into your body.

Jude Hayes Mysteries quote of the day coming right up:

She paused at an open door, checking the number, and I caught up to her. No name was visible. We stepped gingerly inside, where only the first of two beds was in use. A woman a little older than me dressed in plain blue scrubs sat in a chair next to the bed. Her red hair almost matched that of the patient. The skin on his bare arms was a purple mess and an IV dripped into his arm. The woman turned at our approach. “Jasmine! Jude! Thanks for coming over. The patient’s doing pretty well. If we can keep him off that damn dirt bike, it’s all good.”

The word “hippy” came to mind when I looked at Clicker’s mother, but I knew her to be one of the most senior nurses at the hospital. She was also a regular fixture at the local Farmer’s Market selling organic vegetables and trying to organize the farmers around various initiatives in her spare time.

“Hey, Sylvie,” I sketched a little wave.

“Dudettes! Clicker grinned sloppily at us, undoubtedly under the influence of some serious pain meds. “Glad you came by. I had a gnarly crash.”

In addition to the visible bruises, Clicker’s right leg was elevated in a plaster cast and his right hand was bandaged. There was a small cut over his right eye. “So, I see,” I murmured. “Trying to get a little bit too much big air, Clicker?”

“Oh, no, Dudette, not that much. Fer sure. Some lame dude crashed into me. Not my fault, this time.”

Jasmine was obviously trying not to tear up. She swallowed hard, then smiled determinedly. “You don’t look so bad, Clicker. When Sylvie called, I thought you were really hurt.” We all chuckled a little. Clicker looked like he’d been playing Mad Max demolition derby in the desert—and losing big. He also looked like he was getting sleepier by the minute. The happy syrup was doing its work.

                                              --Remover of Obstacles

You're Not Crazy Because You Saw a UFO

Why is it surprising to anyone that there are objects in the sky that cannot be readily identified? And why do we always assume that they are extraterrestrial visitors? The acronym UFO obviously means just that:  an unidentified flying object. Could be anything. A large bird we've never seen before. Something a prankster launched from his backyard. One of the military's new toys they'd really prefer we hadn't seen. A new type of kitplane that someone built in her garage. The ever-popular weather balloon. A meteor. A radio-controlled model that flies. The International Space Station or another satellite in orbit. And yes, possibly "some friends from out of town," as Tommy Lee Jones' character "K" referred to extraterrestrial visitors in the comedy Men in Black.

But if they are genuine ETs, so what? That's right, so what?! Eventually, someone out there will stumble over our corner of the universe. You only have to watch one cable science program to realize how vast our own modest galaxy is, let alone the known universe. Remember the dear departed Carl Sagan intoning "billions and billions of stars"? Yep. And there are way more than that. How can anyone think it's surprising that  some of those many stars have captured planets that house life smart enough to make the trip to our little mudball here in the Milky Way? Philosophical and religious implications aside, it's simple statistics.

                                     --Composite image from the Hubble Space Telescope


I personally think we've had ET visitors here since before Homo sapiens showed up--and pretty much continuously since. To my knowledge, I've never seen anything weird and spooky in the sky or landed in my backyard or a neighboring field, but I believe--too many ordinary and rational people have reported everything from orange orbs hovering near the back deck to giant black triangles overhead to full-blown alien abductions--who am I to say they are wrong?--I was not, after all, there.

I've spent a far amount of time in airplanes at night with a big window in front of my seat. Very disappointing that I've never seen anything unusual. I actively watched, but nothing novel appeared. I scan the skies every night when I walk the dog. Nothing. Something like one hundred million people have seen UFOs over the last sixty years or so, but I am not one of them. Seriously annoying. Maybe the ETs know they're preaching to the choir and don't bother to visit me.

It's probably just as well that I never saw a UFO in the course of my professional flying career. Historically, pilots have been severely ostracized for making UFO reports. Many have lost their jobs and been virtually driven out of the profession--as in, "You'll never work in this business again," to quote a Jimmy Buffett song. I never did understand why reporting something weird in the sky would make you seem crazy to the powers that be--unless perhaps our dear government might have some reason for discrediting those pilot reports as the hallucinations of an unstable intellect. Better get that loony out of the cockpit quick! He's had a mental breakdown. Pull his medical certificate and call a shrink!

Well, friends, sure as death and taxes, one of these days--assuming we don't blow ourselves off the planet or initiate another type of extinction event--or a near-earth asteroid does it for us--we're going to get a very public visit from the little green men that NO ONE can ignore. I just hope we don't make complete, slobbering fools of ourselves when it does happen. To quote K from Men in Black again:

J:  Why the big secret? People are smart. They can handle it.

K:  A person is smart. People are dumb, panicky, dangerous animals and you know it.

                                            --Men in Black 

Here's another quote, this one from Jude Hayes Mysteries, Book One, Remover of Obstacles:

It was near closing time and I knew the dogs would be getting fidgety. Besides, I figured I’d learned about all I could from Clicker for the moment. I had no intention of breaking my word to Tommy about steering clear of the DBC mess, and should there indeed prove to be a link with this incident, I’d back off. But I was worried about Clicker, and I thought I should nose around enough to find out if he was still in danger. Problem was, how to do that discreetly. 

I paid for my statue and said my good-byes, leaving Clicker to regale Jasmine with a spirited description of some elaborate sci-fi realm he’d visited in gamer land. She pretended interest. Loony or not, he was our loony, and the world would be a much bleaker place without that daffy grin and someone to call you “Dudette.”

Awards Season: Fame and the Common Man (and Woman)

I'm getting a little tired of all the awards shows, not that I spend much time watching them anyway. They are starting to remind me of some sort of competition for six-year-olds where every single kid gets  a ribbon--even for last place--so no one will feel bad. If you don't win an Academy Award, maybe you'll snag something at the Golden Globes. If you're not even nominated to take home dear old Oscar, well, there's always the People's Choice Awards. Perhaps you'll have better luck there.

Emmys, Tonys, Grammys. Geez. Enough already. Exactly how much aggrandizement do spoiled actors, singers, directors, etc. need? Lots and lots, apparently. I'm all for the arts. I am, after all, a writer.  I would certainly be delighted with a little fame and fortune of my own. Until it gets to the dangerous level. The level where it becomes all about the attention and not the craft. When narcissism murders creativity and hard work.

When the recognition level mutates from simple appreciation of a finely acted role to veritable idol worship, it's time to stop and realize how silly we're becoming. Remember when the Beatles came ashore to throngs of screaming teenage girls? Okay, if you don't remember, you've doubtless seen the pictures, so no excuse you young'uns. We were supposed to grow out of that extreme adulation stage. It doesn't look cute after age eighteen. It's downright moronic at forty.

It's all one big commercial for designer dresses and borrowed jewelry. I'm just not sure who it's aimed at. I'm pretty sure I won't be running out to the local dress salon to slap down some plastic on a larger size of the dress I saw Amy Adams wearing. I guess it all trickles down far enough in knockoffs for the average consumer to buy some piece of clothing tenuously linked to an actual designer whose work was displayed on the red carpet.

I guess I'm turning into a crabby old woman and awards season is all in good fun. Like a fashion show. A beauty pageant. A bridal showcase. People Magazine. I guess what bothers me is that so much money, fame, and attention is paid to those who, well, really don't need any more. How about spreading the love around a little? What about "ordinary" people who are doing extraordinary things every single day?

How about remembering all our military servicemembers so far away? Or all the volunteers who run the Special Olympics? People who teach adults to read? Folks who dispense love and kindness to the abandoned and ill animals in our community shelters? The millions of Americans who through both paid and volunteer labor essentially take care of our world. Don't they deserve more recognition than they get? Yet these people would be the first to politely refuse the notice. "Oh, no, not me. I'm not doing anything special."  But they are. They most certainly are.

I want to see the woman who runs the local soup kitchen walk down the red carpet in an Oscar de la Renta gown accessorized with a Tiffany necklace and earrings. That's an awards show I'd watch!

Here is today's quote from Jude Hayes Mysteries, Book One, Remover of Obstacles:

Sophisticated in an ivory sheath, Bethie entered through a door on the opposite side of the ballroom, stilettos tapping determinedly on the marble, towing a protesting Gisela in her wake. It was the first time I’d had an up-close look at Bethie’s lifemate and I was stunned. She was model-thin with lustrous black hair, alabaster skin, and lovely violet eyes. Her sparkly jersey dress in an understated lavender flowed over her like quicksilver, managing to perfectly match her eyes. For once, Ming became speechless—probably a good thing. Clicker, somewhat less affected as he saw Gisela every day at work, was nonetheless bug-eyed. It really was a great dress, but I suspected that it was not the sole inspiration for their reactions.

Some Things are Best Left to Professionals

I am a big believer in the theory that if you want professional results, go to a professional who routinely provides the type of service desired. My loose definition of a professional is someone who is eminently qualified to perform some type of skilled task, e.g., a carpenter, a hair stylist, a commercial pilot, a dentist, etc.  One of my favorite websites, dictionary.com, gives as one definition of a professional "a person who is an expert at his or her work." That covers it nicely.

I've always gone to a professional hair stylist at a real hair salon to get my hair cut and colored. I know enough not to let my sister or an aspiring stylist friend cut it. I generally get predictably satisfactory results. Being a little short on hair care funds recently, I tried cutting my bangs myself with office scissors. Yes, it looked just about as bad as you are now imagining.

I really botched up my hair and had to wait a couple weeks to let my bangs grow out enough that my stylist could even begin to fix the mess I'd made. I don't know what I was thinking. I mean, I wouldn't expect her to be able to land the Challenger jet that I'm qualified to fly without making a big commotion on the runway and I'm sure she doesn't expect me to be able to cut hair competently without, well . . . without the results I produced when I tried it.

My husband has always said that some people will buy a measuring tape, take a couple of turns around Lowe's or Home Depot looking at stuff, and promptly decide to hang out a shingle as a contractor/builder. We've all seen home improvement projects and even whole houses that were the sad result of these delusions of grandeur.

Clearly, some instances of amateurs imitating professionals are worse than others. My cut-with-a-bowl-over-my-head bangs were just silly to look at. Front steps that collapse because Mr. Bigtime Builder really wasn't one is a little more serious situation. And someone's almost always going to get hurt when a non-pilot attempts to land a jet airplane. But some consequences of wannabe professionalism are harder to predict. One might venture a guess that they will not be desirable ones, however.

For example, let's consider diplomats. When I think of a professional diplomat, I think of someone who has considerable credentials in political science, history, geography, communication, foreign languages and culture, and a working knowledge of human psychology. He or she is serious, responsible, tactful, cautious, dependable, extremely knowledgeable regarding the country in which he or she is posted, and generally comports himself or herself as a gentleman or a lady, never embarrassing either his or her own country or the host country.

What a professional diplomat is not, is a loose canon. This is the unfortunate result you might get, when, for example, a colorful professional athlete repeatedly rushes in where real diplomats fear to tread--to a country with a very different history, culture, system of government, and head of state from our own. In this case, the ignorance of the non-professional could be not only consummately embarrassing and damaging to both individual reputations and foreign relations, but extremely dangerous. To liberally paraphrase what moms have said for generations, "It's all fun and games until someone launches a nuke." Some things really are best left to professionals.

Here's a quote from Jude Hayes Mysteries, Book 1, Remover of Obstacles:

Mazie swung the chair around so she could look at me directly. “Okay, let me explain. What I am using today is permanent color—the best stuff I can buy. It penetrates the hair shaft, actually changing the color. Once the process is complete, it’s almost like you were born with that color—it’s permanent, hence the name. It will not run when it gets wet like those semi-permanent box colors you’ve been screwing around with that you thought I didn’t know about. In my salon, your hair is covered, no pun intended. There will not be any running on any mats. I am a professional.”

I nodded, albeit doubtfully, causing Mazie to whip a finger toward the wall. “See that diploma and license—and those awards for being a top colorist? I have done my time, paid my dues, graduated, and beat out the competition at hair shows. I am definitely not a rookie!” I could tell that she wasn’t really offended and her common tirades like this one always got us all laughing.