Schloka is my dented, filthy 2011 Honda Odyssey Minivan. One would think that the arrival of Vivian, Tim's new Rivian would make Schloka feel bad about herself. Schloka doesn't need to impress anyone. She's used to my not responding when she leaves her TPSM light on to alert me that the batteries on the sensors that detect low tire pressure aren't functioning. She doesn't need me to replace those $400 batteries; she knows I'll con some high school gas station attendant to fill up her tires every now and again. Schloka did cry desperately for help over the Christmas break while I was in Philly. She flashed every warning light she had, knowing I'd succumb and go to Dave. His service station, "incognito" is like the train stop at Charing Cross? Victoria Station? for Hogwarts. If you don't know it's there, you'll miss it, but it's 200 yards from my Philly store/studio. Dave is like a magical chiropractor for old cars. It took 4 visits and over $1000 during the 10 days I was feverishly glazing, but she's right as rain now.
Last night I had to do both legs of Steel's club field hockey practice in Newbury, MA aka the middle of nowhere. There is, however, a ceramics studio there called 2 Rivers with the most generous owner on the planet, Lloyd. I decided to pass the time with Lloyd's advanced Wednesday night throwing class. They call it "whiskey and wine Wednesdays." I had 2 dixie cup fingers of yummy sipping bourbon while I did a couple of demonstrations for the class. We battled over my excessive water use and got into a discussion of what is and what isn't a "true celedon;" It was fun. I left Lloyd's almost in time to be prompt in grabbing Steel and her friend, Caylee. But I realized, as I drove away, that I'd forgotten my thermos of mint tea. I ran in for it, said my good-byes again, and came out to find Schloka backed into Lloyd's tool shed. The shed door was ajar as was Schloka's. Schloka looked at me, headlights on, accusingly. I ran back in and announced to Lloyd that I'd forgotten to put my car in park, and Schloka had gone on a little joy ride. Schloka was obviously expressing to me that Vivian, her terrible new driveway mate, has turned me into an even worse driver. Vivian is a control freak and doesn't even let us turn her off. We just get out and leave. Schloka doesn't approve. Lloyd said he'd take a hammer to the shed door and sort it out and was just happy that I'd not slammed into any of the Wednesday Wine and Whiskey participants parked cars.
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| Vivian and her family at mom's memorial service |
Vivian the Rivian, is not to be confused with Vivian, JP's lovely girlfriend.
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Viv kind of looks like Sophia Lauren.
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| I worry that JP might have peaked too soon like me with Halloween costumes. Imagine if off-gassing from foam adhesive kills my kids...after all of that organic food???? |
Vivian the Rivian is also not to be confused with Vivienne Westwood, the fashion designer who died and inspired my New Year's Eve look. It was a little over-the-top considering we were just hanging out and eating dinner at a friend's house with her mom and her best friend's mom. Perhaps my ouchfit would have been more appropriate for Steel's party at our house.
What kind of parents would go out when their 9th grade daughter is having "a few kids over...maybe some boys, but probably not" on New Year's Eve? We used to be that kind of parent until 2023. I have heard about Manchester-by-the-Sea high school parties in which $10,000 diamond bracelets have gone missing, handrails have been pulled off of walls, and barf has been an issue, but we felt that Steel and her posse, great kids whose main vices are sugar and cheese balls, could be left alone.
After my fun evening at Lloyd's, Steel and Caylee hopped into the van complaining about one of their friend's inability to pay attention to basic plays on the field hockey field. The conversation moved from there to Steel's New Year's Eve party. Apparently the boys who "probably weren't coming" arrived smoking cigars. I don't really care about that. (Tim's father is famous for having given his four children, Pat, Erin, Tim and Michael cigars when their little brother, Johnny was born. They strutted around the neighborhood puffing away at the ages of 9,8,7, and 6.) Although, the idea of a cigar lighting my Christmas tree on fire is a little scary. Apparently, Steel made the boys go outside to smoke. The boys, then, wanted to set off fireworks. Steel suggested the roof. Apparently the girl who cannot learn field hockey plays was drunk on New Year's. This friend has tripped over absolutely nothing right in front of me in my kitchen. The idea of her drunk on my roof with boys setting off fireworks is torture. It's a miracle that the only negative repercussions of that evening were 3 gallons of cheese balls ground into our rugs and furniture. If we have 9 lives in parenting, we used up at least one that night.
