Tag Archives: classic cars

A Free Spirit I’m Not

You’ve seen those pictures of beautiful blonds with flowing locks streaming behind them as they drive along the ocean in a convertible? They look so glamorous and like they’d be the life of any party. . .



I’ve never been a convertible kind of girl. I don’t have the hair for it. Nor have I ever been the carefree type. These undeniable truths came back to me the other day when we were driving to the doctor’s office.

My husband, who has a cough that frightens small children and dogs, decided we should take the 1965 Mercedes convertible to UCLA. Even though I had just spent a half hour trying to coax some volume into my hair, I got into the car without protest. It had been his dad’s car and he loves it.



How bad could it be?

Within six blocks I knew. First, since the seat belts are older than my kids, I couldn’t get mine to work. (Do you think the blonds with flowing hair care about seat belts? Nah!) There I was, without the protection of a roof, sitting next to a driver who doesn’t think following traffic rules is necessary. I started praying.

Then I felt the sun beating down on me. And I hadn’t put on sunscreen! I put my hand up, trying to block the rays. Which made it difficult to guard my hair.


“Isn’t this fun?” my husband asked between coughs.

“Really fun,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

On the way home, I figured out my seat belt, but the sun was even hotter. And the fumes from cars and motorcycles started me coughing.


“You don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself,” my husband said.

“Oh, no, it’s great!” I tried creating a smile to match my words. I didn’t want to be a killjoy.


Today my husband had a better companion in his convertible. He and our granddaughter took the Mercedes to the mall to buy her school shoes.



They came back all smiles! That’s what grandchildren are for: to make us happy!






Sitting back and Letting the World Go By

I haven’t written anything for a while. I’ve been on a staycation, even in my brain. The Urban Dictionary defines this perfectly: A vacation that is spent at one’s home enjoying all that home and one’s home environs have to offer. With no thoughts attached.

Welcome to our home.

Welcome to our home.

This is exactly what we’ve been doing and it’s been so FUN that I am happy all day long—well, mostly. There are always little glitches like the two smoke detectors going off and the freezer breaking and the car battery dying. But we handled everything with aplomb. We had the time to do it.

We’ve been on the peripatetic merry-go-round of the babyboomers—traveling to distant places before we need walkers to tour, and also visiting our two children and families—one in Chicago and one in Seattle. This has left us little time to be at home.


Thank God for cell phones. At least people can reach us almost anywhere. Usually the person starts the conversation with: “Where are you? I never know where you are.” My usual response is: “Me, either. Let me check.”

My husband likes this kind of rolling stone lifestyle. I’m much more a homebody. I like to putter around the house instead of far-flung golf links. I like to be around to grow vegetables and flowers. I like to do the laundry at 10:00 in the morning instead of at 10:00 at night. I like to go to the grocery store and buy green bananas, knowing I will be around to see them ripen. I’m just funny that way.


I have been somewhat of a Pollyanna these last few weeks. I leap out of bed, excited about my day, everyday. It may be an early morning walk before I hit the grocery store, then unpacking the groceries while watching The View and putting through a load of laundry. Or the day could be getting to The Do-It center to buy 40-watt light bulbs and plant food, then working in the yard. Or it could be cleaning out the garage, Goo Offing some labels  or checking my Facebook Page before midnight.  I even fit in the Nordstrom sale this year. All of it has made me equally happy.

One day last week we drove down to Malibu—we hadn’t done that in years. We took the 66 Mercedes convertible that had been my father-in-law’s. My husband has had restored inside and out—it’s got Sirius radio and a corvette engine. I think my husband was in HEAVEN as he took the S-turns down 23 towards the ocean. (I wished I had taken a Dramamine). Once down on PCH, we went exploring. We ended up at Nobu, early enough to get a table for lunch. The Pacific waves hit the rocks right at the restaurant’s edge, while pelicans coast on the wind currents in front of you until they plunge straight down into the water for their prey.

“This place is really busy,” my husband said, looking around.

“It is probably one of the most chichi restaurants in the…” I paused to think and for effect. “…in the world!” I finished.

He looked around again. “It’s a great location,” he said. Chichi means less to him than a Chi chi.

When we came out to the parking lot after lunch, his old classic was parked near the Bentleys and Ferraris—that impressed him. It made his day…perfect.


This week LIFE is cranking up again. Appointments made must be kept. But I’m ready. I’ve replenished and recharged. What a wonderful invention staycations are.