August 12, 2009 · 6:00 AM

Single Engine

Next month marks the one-year anniversary of an experiment Mike and I like to call “What would life be like with only one car?”  About nine months into our marriage, we did an assessment of expenses and realized we could save so much cash by just eliminating one car:  gas, insurance, maintenance.  So we put his 2000 Volvo on Craigslist and it sold a day later.

Gulp.  We thought surely it would take several rounds of postings and negotiations to find someone to buy it, so we’d have plenty of time to get used to the idea of being stranded with my darling 2007 Mazda 3 (I call her Ella).  Instead we had two buyers in a bidding war just a day after the ad posted (don’t get me wrong, bidding wars are good when you’re the benefactor).

The buyer drove away after assuring us he would give it a good home, with big fields for it to run around in and lots of children to play with; and with that, we were a single car family.

We had that panicked sellers-remorse almost immediately — what will we DO when we have alternate plans? we shrieked.  How are we supposed to go out to lunch separately at work?  People are going to think we’re NUTS.

And they did.  When we told people (and still to this day) that we only have one car, they looked at us like we didn’t have access to running water or electricity.  But how do you DO it?  they wonder.  It’s simple.

We live in Eastlake, in downtown Seattle.  Mike works in Bellevue, so he drops himself off at work with me beside him, and tra-la-la I hop in the driver’s seat and take myself to work in Redmond.  I have the car all day (this comes with the thrilling bonus of having to run all our errands at lunch since “I have the car”), and then I pick him up on my way home and we speed across 520 in the carpool lane.  Genius!

Or is it?  You can see how this can’t be working perfectly all the time.  Yes, we negotiate on who gets the car and who bums a ride with a friend when we have conflicting plans.  But what about when it’s REALLY not working?

When it’s really not working is when you see Abby standing alone in the Redmond Town Center mall waiting for Mike to finish his golf game.  Yes, people, golf is a five-hour game.  Hmm, what are my life-lines, Regis?  I could phone a friend, see a movie, shop til I drop…yawn.

But that’s half the point.  This one-car situation involves sacrifice.  It’s not always pretty (Mike: “where ARE you, I’ve been standing outside for 15 minutes!”) and we don’t always do it joyfully (cut to the conversation where we sound like brother and sister fighting over the car in high school) — but we do it.  We do it every day.  And little by little as our year has passed we’ve learned a lot about what we can make work.

Being a part of the Millennial generation comes with its own sense of entitlement.   We are babies of an economic boom era; life hasn’t been rough.  So when you’re a DINK riding the urban wave, you think you deserve to have the perfect board.

But that doesn’t mean you should.  At least, not in our case.

Once we had the gaping hole of missing a car, we could see that we had set our quality of life on how convenient we could make the day-to-day.  It’s unthinkable for most people I know to miss an event because of transportation issues.  For us, it’s not frequent, but it is a reality.  We see now how our situation forces us to communicate, to coordinate, and to give where we normally get.

It’s funny; for all of the annoyances and frustrations a single-car life can bring, it’s also pleasantly simple.  It’s one less thing to worry about.  And, as hammy as it sounds, when we eventually buy another car, I’ll miss that extra hour a day with Mike in this one.

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August 5, 2009 · 6:00 AM

A Real Slice

I am about to reveal what is easily one of the most mortifying moments of my adult life (we don’t have time to go into moments of my childhood.  That would take pages, books, endless inches of text).

I was living in my parents home during my sophomore year of college.  Scratch that.  I was living in my parents home precisely because I had just dropped out of my sophomore year of college (right now, in bewilderment, some of you are clicking on the “About Abby” tab to make sure you’re reading about the right Abby…but again, we don’t have the time for that adventure).  One of my best friends was visiting and we were prepping for a night on the town, and we were running late.  Impossibly late.  Get your shoes on your feet and MOVE kind of late.

Of course I hadn’t even showered yet, so I certainly wasn’t ready for shoes.  My friend sternly told me I had exactly two minutes to shower and get dressed or she would walk out the door without me.

“Not a problem,” I said breezily.  “I’m not one of those people who needs twenty minutes in the shower.”

I hopped into the shower while she paced outside the door, applying and reapplying her lip gloss.  I shampooed madly, scrubbed myself clean and was about to exit the shower and do the I-told-you-so dance to my friend when I realized what I would be wearing that night.  A skirt.  And a skirt only means one thing: the shaving of legs.  UGH.

This was going to take FOREVER and we were going to hit traffic and I just didn’t have time and I hate doing it.  But I had to; there is nothing good to say about female legs that haven’t seen a razor in several days.

It’s moments like these when I wonder how much time I would have saved by just doing it, rather than having a Hannity and Colmes-like debate with myself on the time it takes to shave versus the benefit of shaving.

So I grabbed the only razor in the shower, one that looks like the kind hotels provide for free:  orange and white, a single pathetic blade, no sign at all that it will grace my legs smoothly.  At least, being in the wrapper, it had never been used (thanks Mom!).

Naturally there wasn’t any shaving cream, just a bar of Dove and my hands to create the lather.  I started shaving as fast as possible, working that soap and blade like they were born for each other.  In order to keep my legs out of the stream of water from the shower head, I faced away from the faucet and put my leg on the side of the tub.  I slid the razor up my lathered leg, then held the razor behind my back to rinse it before the next swipe.  Things were going brilliantly — I was making good time.

All of a sudden, as I whipped my razor from my leg to behind my back, I felt a stab of stinging pain run up my backside.  “What in the world?” I thought.  Did something just BITE me?

I quickly stood up and strained to twist myself so I could see my back, and just as I turned my head I saw gushes of blood running down my leg.

I sliced my butt with the razor.

A huge, unbelievable four-inch gash was stamped across my butt cheek.  I was in shock, staring at the most grotesque example of poor skill ever exhibited in the shower.

I grabbed my cheek with one hand and tried to reach for a towel but I couldn’t go anywhere without blood dripping down my leg.  I couldn’t turn off the faucet, dry myself, and continually hold my butt cheek all at the same time.  They don’t teach this in Home Ec.

I had no choice.  What else could I do?  I had to call for backup.

In a state of sheer humiliation that I knew could only worsen, I yelled for my friend to get herself in the bathroom.  She opened the door and said, “What are you doing?  We need to GO.  Get dressed!”

And then she realized I was standing in front of her completely nude, one hand reaching for a towel and one hand holding my rear.

“I cut myself shaving my legs!” I cried.  “But I didn’t cut my leg…I cut my tuchis!”  Using Yiddish vocabulary always makes painful situations funnier, I apparently decided.  I could barely finish my sentence before shaking with laughter.

“What were you doing shaving your ass!?” she yelled.  Then I moved my hand and she saw the gash and screamed, and called for my mom.  This was going from bad to worse.

Now I had both of them standing next to stark naked me, laughing uncontrollably and trying to find a bandage big enough for this laceration.

“Oh my gosh,” my clever friend said.  “Aren’t you so em-BARE-ASSED?”   Cute, my friend, very cute.

Few times in your life do you ever imagine that you will have your friend holding your butt cheek while your mother applies a bandage.  Maybe when you’re four.  Maybe when you’re in a coma.  But most definitely not when you’re 20 years old.

At least it only left a scar in my mind, which I much prefer to a scar on my behind.

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July 29, 2009 · 6:00 AM

Etiquette for Awkward Situations — Vol 2

At a BBQ

Awkward Situation: You attend a summer BBQ in which the host declined your offer to contribute food or drink.  You normally would bring something anyway, but didn’t want to presume that she would be lacking something.  When you arrive, everyone else has brought a dish or bottle of wine.

Solution: You are now the official helper.  Be at your host’s side when she’s serving food, offering to help with anything in the kitchen.  Be the first to initiate cleanup and offer to pick up any refills at the store.  It might be a little much, but you should even offer to start on dishes.  If she refuses your help, send a bottle of wine with your thank you note, and be sure to invite her for dinner to return the hospitality.

At the Bar

Awkward Situation: You, or a friend of yours, is treating your group to a couple rounds of beer.  You notice that no one in the group is offering to get the next round, and frankly this is getting expensive.

Solution: The simple solution is to cease the offer.  The absence of drinks will always prompt someone to get the next one.  If you’re truly on a budget but would like the evening to continue, simply say in a congenial manner, “Alright, who’s eager to impress by getting the next round?”

At a Wedding

Awkward Situation: You are attending an outdoor wedding and everything is going swimmingly…especially the sweat in your underarms/back/enter-awkward-place-here.

Solution: Against all odds, get up and move.  While it would seem that sitting at your dinner table would be coolest, standing upright and allowing a breeze to do it’s work is much more effective (especially for the ladies…hello skirt!).  Gentlemen, you are completely free to remove that jacket, but the tie stays.  If you need instant cool, grab a beer.

At the Spa

Awkward Situation: You are getting a pedicure and the woman working on your nails just asked you a polite question, but you cannot understand her accent so you have no idea what she just said. You feel horrible and racist and completely useless.

Solution: See if you can catch the eye of a person sitting near you, or another pedicurist.  Emphasize that you are completely mortified that you aren’t sure what was said, and simply repeat back a question that sounds reasonable for the situation.  Most times someone will chime in with what was actually said, and you’ll be saved.  Huge smiles and a tip go a long way, too.

At Dinner

Awkward Situation: You are having dinner with a new friend who recalls exactly what you do at work with great clarity, but you cannot even remember where he works, much less what he does.

Solution: Generalities are best.  Ask open ended questions like, “How busy has work been for you?” or “What are your hours like these days?” that will lead them to talk about their job, wherein you can piece it together.

If you have an awkward situation that needs addressing, please email me at wordsbecomeone@gmail.com.  No guarantees on solutions, but two heads are better than one.

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