(Mostly) 80's Musical Montage Sets Tone For Car Romance

By: Kelly Sinon

 Recently, when it was time to part with my sweet "Carmela Soprano" a.k.a my old Cadillac Escalade, with the sketchy electrical system, and sporadically stuck gear box, I was at a loss. (Cue U2's "With or Without You") I mean, I knew what it took to get that behemoth of a vehicle to run every morning. It was as easy as brushing my teeth.
 (Cue Neil Diamond's "Love on the Rocks") Carm was beautiful and classy and had all the bling imaginable. I bought her in 2004, when she was a mere four years old, and HBO's The Sopranos was still going strong. But 10 years later, she was an aging actress. A few dings on the outside, and like a good manager, (Cue Journey's "Don't Stop Believin' ") I was in denial of the real issues underneath. It wasn't for lack of trying; no "doctors" could diagnose her ailments. Her illnesses were as mysterious as she.
 Even under the best of circumstances, my work day might start lke this:

Normal Driving Conditions:
Step one: Unlock door using key fob with fading battery and range.
Step two: Use key to (really) unlock and open door.
Step three: Jump up on running board, while making seizure-esque twisting motion to fall into driver's seat.
Step four: Insert key in ignition, apply brake, turn ignition to "Acc".
Step five: Put car in Neutral.
Step six: Start car.
Step seven: Put car in Reverse.
Step eight: Look for cat with death wish in rear view and (Cue Bon Jovi's "Livin' On a Prayer") back out of driveway.

Winter Driving in Rain: See above steps, and add:
Faulty electrical makes for an interesting gambling situation. (Cue Phil Collins' "Against All Odds") Will the windshield wipers stay on just long enough for me to get to work? If they do shut off, will I be close enough to the office to get there without needing to pull over and swipe my windshield with my hand?

Summer Driving in 104 Degrees: See above steps, and add: 
Faulty electrical makes for an interesting gambling situation. (Cue The Boss'  "I'm On Fire") Will the A/C work, or will I have to roll the widows down? Will the widows roll down? Will I be cruising down the highway in a very pretty Silver Sand hot box? I would be also be doing it in total silence, because when all of that happens, the radio also shuts off. So, I have more time to quietly contemplate my impending heatstroke.

I was okay with all of this until I pulled into work, tried to open the door (It was a good day...all systems were a go, and I might have even been singing along to the radio), and the door handle; a very pretty chrome one, I might add, came off in my hand. I stared stupidly at it. Wait... this isn't electrical. It has to work.
 I opened the window, stuck my hand out and opened it from the outside, while visions of channeling Bo and/or Luke Duke in paunchy, middle-aged woman guise in case I had to (Cue Duke's of Hazzard theme) shimmy out the opened widow, danced in my head. With the door now open, I pressed the button to close the widow back up. You know...because it's electric.
 A couple of weeks of this, and even a time or two having to climb over the huge center console to get out on the passenger side, because Carm (really Stephen King's "Christine"?) didn't want to let me out, thrown in for good measure, and (Cue The Greg Kihn Band's "Breakup Song") I was was done. It was time to move on, as much as I loved her.
 So, I began shopping for a new Partner in Cruising Crime. I wanted something smaller now, since there were no more field hockey tournaments, family vacations were not as frequent, with the kids growing up and it might be nice to drive away from the gas station for less than $90.00. Plus, the added bonus of an open roof for coastal drives at sunset might help ease the pain.(Cue Sinead O'Connor's "Nothing Compares 2 U") I still wanted beauty and bling.
  It took some research, but I'm happy with my choice of something safe, sleek and sparkly.  After seeing it in the lot, a work friend asked what I'd named her. I had't yet, and I felt bad, for Carm had her name almost immediately.
 That Sunday, I drove her up to San Jose to meet The Husband for a date, work schedules be damned.
 Her first mini-road trip. I smiled at how fast she moved, I basked in the open roof, shades on, and didn't think of getting lost, since she told me where to go. It was time. The Name.
  I thought for a split-second, she might be a he; Don Draper, in homage to AMC's Mad Men's protagonist. Sharp...sexy. But then it hit me. This is no man's car. This is Betty Draper-Francis. Don's ex-wife; beautiful, full of attitude and not afraid to tell you where to go. And she'll even look behind her for the cat with a death wish.

(...and fade with Smokey Robinson's "Cruisin' ")
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Kelly Sinon can be reached at sksinon@aol.com...if she's not out cruising the open road.

Chicken Curry and Flip-Flop Obsticles Yield Pine Cone Rewards at Triathlon

By Kelly Sinon


 It's 98 degrees in the shade.

 I'm on my hands and knees negotiating the end of a trail on a steep incline. Not in the shade. I'm flailing at dead branches and exposed root systems on my way by for balance and I've burned my left hand on a flat, hot rock. I also may be whimpering.

 The Husband is seemingly everywhere; in front of me, behind me, holding out his hand and encouraging me to go on. He is not whimpering. Yet. Because when we get down from here...

 It all started out friendly enough. A nice drive in the hills, after a jaunt into San Jose, where completely uncharacteristically, I'd decided that I simply must have chicken curry for lunch; which is exactly what you want in your stomach, still cooking, as you fight heat exhaustion and open hostility. 

  We had found ourselves at Uvas Reservoir, which is only a few miles from our house, but felt like the middle of the most rugged, off-the-grid kind of wilderness as I was scrambling to maintain footing and debating if I should just take off my clothes and be done with it; I don't care who is 100 yards away, fishing in the puddle below. You know it's hot when you don't even care that these are the the last set of frayed granny panties in the drawer because you were just too lazy to do one load of laundry. Yes, I'm wearing clean underwear, Mom. For now.

 We had started out meandering down the boat launch, marveling at the water line so high above our heads now, as the drought wears on in Silicon Valley summer, and sheer size of the gargantuan pine cones. I'd made a note that I would grab one prickly prize on my way back to the car. We'd only be out here for a bit, because its so hot, and no one in their right mind would be out in this heat for...well, any reason, really. 

 "You're doing so great, Honey!" He exclaims with all the enthusiasm of a camp counselor to the fat kid, making futile attempts at the rock wall. Wait... I am that fat kid.

If he clapped his hands, it would have been so easy. Just one push. 

 "Lets just walk around it," He said. "It won't take too long, " He said.

Sweating in amounts almost enough to fill the reservoir, he is also gingerly trying to make his way down the trail, concentration etched on his face. I know he is hoping I don't see that.

 In the back of my mind, I'm imaging us at the bottom of the parched bowl, broken; Family Guy-style. You know, when Peter falls down in a drunken stupor and his leg is kicked backward at an angle no leg should ever be, his arm hyper-extended at the elbow and x's for eyes.

 I'm amazed at how he can practically pick me up and set me on the new trail above us. I begin to fret about his bad ankles and how easily he can twist and break one or maybe even both. Do I have enough battery charge on my phone if something happens and they have to haul us out of here? An hour before, I was happily snapping pictures of cracked earth and imagining composing the perfect  Facebook post that would caution everyone to save water. Now, I just wanted to save our lives.

 Just as we get acclimated to one trail, it drops off, and there is another above or below that we have to make our way to. It requires problem-solving skills that abandoned me a few trails back.

  I'm also getting that really gross white film on my lips from exertion and no water. Yes, next time, there will be water. I can't believe I'm thinking there could be a next time, as I less than gracefully, slide down one of the last remaining hills on my ass. Did I mention that my flip-flops (Yes...I was wearing flip flops on this misadventure) alternately come off or fill with leaves and rocks. Keith is flinging his legs around, trying to empty his sandals as well.

 I'm now almost violently refusing his helpful extended hands. Not because I'm angry; because I wasn't anymore, but because it's so hot. I can't stand any more contact. No doubt he is envisioning that he will look like Broken Peter... after we get out of here.

 He's still encouraging me. "Look, Honey... see our car over there?" It looked like it was 5 miles away. A dot. 

 I must have begun walking very quickly. 

 "Sweetie, slow down! It's not a race."

 Like Hell. But I wasn't in a race against him. I was in a race against the reservoir, against myself. I could suddenly see that what I used to think was just weird mentality of marathoners and triathletes. Yes, I actually imagined I was a triathlete. Never mind that my last Jumping Jack may very well have been in my sophomore year in high school. It was hot, I was tired. And probably beginning to hallucinate. Don't judge.

 That last 5 miles (okay, maybe 1/4 mile) was a blur as the shirt I'd been wearing over a tank top and Keith had placed on my head to keep the direct sun off, was flung away. My mind laser sharp; my body, a well-crafted (stop laughing) machine focused on that one goal. The car (okay, maybe two goals) and air conditioning.

 No one was more happy and surprised than I, when we finally made it back to the car, with me in the lead position. I won! Okay, so I might have been competing a little against Keith. In retrospect, I'm sure he was hanging back to make sure I didn't kill myself the last 50 yards. 

 In what looked like one motion, he unlocked, and opened the doors and turned the air conditioner up as high as it would go, and told me he would be right back. I assumed he had to file some paperwork at one of the nearby porta-potties.

  I melted into the passenger seat and finally began to breathe with my mouth closed. I rested and waited, and just as I wondered if he might have passed out in a most undignified place, in a most undignified way, I saw him emerge up the boat launch from which this whole ordeal had begun. With not just one huge pine cone, but three. Gold, Silver and Bronze.

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Kelly Sinon can be reached at sksinon@aol.com. She is in training for her next triathlon; power sitting in the morning, power sitting in the afternoon and power sitting in the evening.

So Many Moms to Choose From. Snorting, Optional

By Kelly Sinon

     Driving the long stretch of I-5 north, toward home from Riverside where we dumped...I mean...dropped off our oldest for college that first year, I realized that at some point, she would probably be bringing someone home for her father and me to meet.
     It's happening now. There is a young man that we will meet in about 24 hours, which doesn't leave me much time to perfect my persona. I can be anyone I want, which is exciting, but it's fraught with danger that if I choose to be No-Nonsense Mom, I will have to adopt... and keep that as my persona. Perhaps, even for the rest of my life, if things go well between them.
     No-Nonsense Mom is a force to be reckoned with. She may be a little gruff (think Colleen Dewhurst in Anne of Green Gables, for my fellow "Anne" nerdists out there), and appear to size you up after each sentence you utter in her presence. She doesn't smile much. She most certainly doesn't snort if she laughs too hard.
     So, that one's off the table.
     Moving on, we have Happy Mom. She is happy no matter how many glasses (sans coaster) are left on the coffee table.
      "No, no... please. Let me pick these up for you. I know you've had a rough day, with your tongue down my daughter's throat when you thought I was busy sliding those freshly baked cookies onto a plate for you. But trust me. I see everything."
     Wait, how did Happy Mom morph into Angry Get Your Hands Off My Kid Mom? That was startling. I didn't even know she was there until I was in the middle of that sentence. That's troubling.
     Anyway, back to Happy Mom. I like her. She is nice, smiles a lot, cooks, cleans and laughs; also without snorting. She is interested in the youngsters without being intrusive.           Okay, fine; that one's off the table, too. Katie wouldn't buy it for a second anyway, and I know for a fact that at some point, there will be snorting. And intrusiveness.
     There has to be a happy medium. I mean, I want to instill a good dose of fear, because....well, I just think it might be fun, while still being able to laugh. Hmmm. That is also a tactic. Crazy, maniacal laughter. So many choices!
      I guess I could wait and see which course of action her dad takes. We could be Good Cop/Bad Cop; but that's not fair because I know he'll pick Bad Cop and then I'm left with boring Good Cop.
      We should mix it up. In "Meet The Parents", could you picture De Niro as Good Cop to Blythe Danner's Bad Cop?
      As you can see, this has turned into a thing.
      Seriously, as long as there is someone who makes my daughter happy, I may not have to take the fear route. But I can't guarantee that there won't be intrusive snorting.

_________________________________________________________________________________Kelly Sinon lives in Gilroy with her family, and is enjoying the ride on her next parenting adventure. She can be reached at sksinon@aol.com

The Grass is Always Greener on the Other Side of the Dead Red Machine

  By: Kelly Sinon

  I'm not one to look a Karmic gift horse in the mouth, but I really have to ask; what market did we accidentally tap into that wanted Keith's old red Suburban?
    I ask because this car (read: albatross) has been sitting - actually now listing to its left side, with two very flat tires, in one of our shared parking spaces in our neighborhood. I've been practically running into the house, trying to avoid neighbor contact upon arriving home from the grocery store. I imagine the screaming, finger-pointing stare ala Donald Southerland in Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
    The Husband has an attachment to this car. This...reject from the Island of Misfit Toys, with its dented rear passenger door from a forklift mishap at work (not his doing), in a stunning shade of pink from when he paid a homeless guy to spray paint it red; so filthy you would actually have to use a knife to carve your name into the 6 month old dirt and dust.
    I'd gently...at first...suggest that he donate it. And what spectacular timing, Val-Pac! The veteran's will take it, "Running or not(!) I could barely contain my excitement.
    "Look, you don't even have to whip out the Yellow Pages to find them!"

     The Boy: "What are Yellow Pages?" 

 But I digress.

     At the last HOA meeting, I thought (as President, no less) that I should address the elephant in the driveway, so to speak.
     "I think that whoever owns that big red behemoth, should consider getting rid of it. Or a flame thrower. I'm not picky."
     I basked in the laughter of our neighbors. See? I'm one of you, the people. I see your struggle. I will make this a better place. Until my gaze settled on my beloved. He was somewhat less amused.
 Just that morning, he'd confided to me that he was having a hard time parting with his loyal friend. It didn't matter that there was no A/C anymore. the windows rolled down perfectly. It also didn't matter that the the driver's side door handle came off in his hand. He would just reach in through that conveniently open window to open the door.
     He reminded me of how we bottomed out when we went to the nursery to pick up the sod for our new house and we loaded it all into the Big Red Suburban. And also how we over bought and were finding rolls of sod for 2 weeks, and had to give them to our gardener. How it ...and he...was so strong, that they pulled out all of the ugly builder plantings to make room for our new sod. Good times, good times.
      I was sympathetic. I thought it was touching and sweet. Until I'd gone out later that afternoon to see that the front driver's tire was as flat as the rear. He was convinced someone sliced it. I wasn't sure I could disagree. But I had an alibi.
     So, I'd begun to make progress. He was willing to talk about it, as long as I held his hand. The Val-Pac flier was in plain view next to where he keeps his car keys. Ready. Anytime.            But then something amazing happened; a thing I never thought possible. A thing I never dared dream. One of our neighbors emailed me that she has a friend interested in, to quote her subject line, "The Dead Red Machine."
     I was glad The Husband hadn't come home from work yet, so he couldn't make fun of me for gaping at my tablet with my mouth open in shock and awe.
     Not only interested... but "as-is" interested. The best kind of interested. And for money!
     It might have occurred to me that our neighbors all pooled money from the HOA coffers to rid themselves of the monstrosity in the interest of removing blight from our city neighborhoods. As President, I say, "Capital idea!" As slightly embarrassed co-owner, I just hope we finally got the last of the sod out of there.



_________________________________________________________________________________________Kelly lives in Gilroy with her family, and wants you to know that there are other fine offerings in the Sinon household that you might be interested in.
As-is, of course...
She can be reached at Sksinon@aol.com.

Slippers in Public and Benefiber Shots. Sign Me Up!

By : Kelly Sinon

After reading a great article in The NewYork Times about what we learn in our 40's, I felt compelled to share my very vast knowledge. Stop laughing.
It struck home because well, I'm 40...ish and it's happening.
In our 40's, we're stuck in the chasm between "40 is the new 30" and magic "age-defying wrinkle cream" elixirs. I imagine I'm like a lot of 40-somethings- alternately whining about getting older and embracing wearing slippers to the store and not caring who notices.
 Also, like a lot of 40-somethings, I am finding myself an almost empty-nester, with one more left to fly the coop in a couple of years.
 Being so young when we started our family, my husband and I are rediscovering our youth. Impromptu trips to The City, sleeping late, breakfast out together, antiquing (I know...that sounds like something I'm supposed to do in the next decade or so, but when your spouse is from Connecticut, you learn to appreciate good history.)
  I imagine us growing old together in separate bathtubs, on a bluff overlooking the ocean and holding hands at sunset (minus any uncomfortable discussion of little blue pills, of course).
  I'm almost certain that it's not okay to wear slippers out in public, and in my 20's, it never would have happened, but looking down at my Ugg-slippered feet as I got out of the car on a chilly winter evening to grab dinner, I didn't care. It wasn't a conscious choice to not care. You know, like, "Oh, no. I have slippers on. Well, I just won't care about what people say." I'm saying that this barely registered on my radar. I looked down, I saw the slippers, shrugged and kept walking. Better still, I had to skip a bit to catch up to my husband. Who was also wearing slippers. This is what happens to us.
  Don't get me wrong. There are still firm boundaries. I won't leave the house without make-up on. It's not even for me. It's for you. Trust me. But I do foresee that my color palette will change as I get older. For some reason, in our youth, red lipstick, blue eye-shadow and even blue hair is a no-no, but I suspect I'll be sporting an amazing shade of periwinkle on my eyelids and tresses. I won't fight it. It's just going to happen. I am prepared for this.
 Not only that, suddenly that topic of laxatives and fiber will become commonplace game material with your friends. And it's a card game now, not a drinking game. Unless you're doing Benefiber shots.
 Obviously, I'm getting ahead of myself, but I am just so excited! Age is a hall pass to do things you wouldn't in your 20's.
  I like that my 40's have become "The Decade of So What?" I'm more comfortable with myself than I was in my 20's. I'm open to learning more and not sweating the small stuff. It seems that's the magic elixir.

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Kelly Sinon can be reached at sksinon.com

Forty Pounds of Footloose, and Not a Video Was Spilled...

By Kelly Sinon

 As kids morph into adults, sometimes, both the kids and the parents miss it, it happens so fast. Just ask my dad. Or me, for that matter.
 Standing in my garage with Dad, as he tells me the proper way to operate our water softener that never came with directions and sat unused for 8 years, I realize that I am completely engrossed in his instruction; listening intently, and committing his words to memory for later "download."
 Twenty-five years ago, I might have been listening, but something else would have been in my head playing at the same time so it would have sounded like, " Fill the water softener with Footloose, set the clock on the panel so it will cycle through one Kevin Bacon. Don't fill it with more than one bag or it will MTV all over the floor and then you'll have a lot of videos to mop up."
 You can see why Dad asked me what the hell I was doing a lot when I tried to follow instructions. Didn't he know that I was either dancing or singing or even writing in my head at any given moment? I got the finer points. You know...Don't stick a fork into the toaster to retrieve the stuck English muffin. Don't bring the radio into the shower with you, no matter how long the extension cord is; important stuff like that, that I was able to pass down to my kids who I know were only half listening, when I told them to collect all the trash from the house, and then bring it from the garage to the curb for garbage day. It made it as far as the garage. Where the water softener lived.
 As I absorbed all of the information Dad was giving me, I thought to myself, "He is still teaching me. I'm 43 years old and he is still teaching me." I was grateful that he was. I was grateful that he has the life experience to teach me something that turned out to to be very simple, but I didn't know. What I was really grateful for was that he still wanted to teach me, even when sometimes, I know I must have seemed almost unteachable 25 years ago. Parents don't give up, thankfully, or my water softener would still be unplugged, unused and mocking me every time I chucked something into the recycling.
 It makes me fast-forward to my kids' future when they are 46 and 40. I hope I can teach them something then. How to change the oil on the hover car...how not to over-cook the steaks on the hover B.B.Q. (Hopefully, all of our possessions won't be of the "hover" variety but you get the idea. It's the future.)
 Anyway, after The Husband dumped a 40 pound bag of salt into the softener and I plugged it in and set the clock, I was rewarded with the gurgling sounds of success. And not a single video to mop up. _________________________________________________________________________________________

Kelly Sinon lives in gilroy with her family...and 8 year-old, newly functioning water softener. She can be reached at kellysinon@gmail.com

Parental Advice that Lives On...And On

By Kelly Sinon

Parental Wisdom and Advice; we've all been the recipient of it at one time or several. My parents were full of Parental Wisdom and Advice. Now, as a parent, myself, I can look back and say, "What??"

Mom-isms from back in the day, were plentiful. A sampling would be something like this:

"No, go fix your hair. Girls who wear side ponytails are sluts." Okay, this was the late 70’s and early '80's and side ponytails were as big as...leg warmers, Dove shorts and Pac-Man. And I was the only girl who still had to wear braids or sport a Dorothy Hamil 'do. Yet, we were allowed the occasional tube top. Go figure.

"Don't play with Terry down the street, he'll pull your pants down." (What??) Keep in mind that Terry was a seven year-old boy who did in fact run around naked in his front yard, but that's another story. Mom must've gotten some sort vibe from him, because six months later, I was sitting in my bathroom with a washcloth over my right eye, because Terry had scratched me, and Mom chastising me that she told me so. I was also seven. I still have the reminder of it to this day. Never mind that he could've pulled my tube top down.

Dad-isms were also constructive and firm.

"If you two don't knock it off, I'm going to make you put your seat belts on," While glaring at us in the rearview mirror and traveling 85 miles an hour up I-5, as my sister and I played the "Stop Touching Me" game, on the six hour drive to Hayfork. Again, in all fairness, this might have been in the mid to late 70's and the crash test dummies had yet to drive (or crash) their point home.

Frustrated dads say things like, “I told you not to be stupid, you moron,” but then ten minutes later, tell you how smart he thinks you are. Just don’t let him catch you rolling your eyes. Or worse.

It caused me to wonder what my kids will giggle about when they are my age. What pearls of Wisdom (and Advice)  is  so ludicrous that they simply demand to be put down in print. I'd like to think that everything I impart is good and needlepoint pillow-worthy. Like this gem when my oldest was seven and making me crazy with...Oh, who even listens, I don't know.

"Katie, if you don't knock it off, I'm taking away all of your books." Okay, I'll say it for them... "What??"

Or to my youngest:

"Kirk, I really don’t like that kid you insist on playing with. He reminds me a used a used car salesman." Again, this is me, talking to a seven year-old. What's up with seven year-olds?

I love relating my parents' funny bits to my friends, especially friends who knew my parents, and I am vindicated in my "What??”

Those Parent-isms sure have stuck with me. Never once, did I wear a side ponytail (out in public, anyway. I still had to see what the fuss was about), and I knew that my sister and I would always play the “Stop Touching Me” game, so my seatbelt always goes on (Thanks, Dad).

This might explain why Katie has tons of books. Or why Kirk did in fact stop playing with that kid. Kids really do listen.

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Kelly Sinon lives in Gilroy with her family and can be reached at sksinon@aol.com.