The Demise of The Ultimate Machine

“There is something wrong my car.” The Turk proclaimed

That’s never a phrase one wants to hear, but when you’ve been milking every ounce of life out of a limping lump of metal nearing the big 2-0 mark, it’s not really that shocking. Though my denial was strong, I’d been expecting this since the moment he took said limping lump off the ramps and by some crazy Turkish voodoo got the car to run.

I brushed off my token- surprised-not-surprised reaction. “Is it something big like ‘my engine fell out in the driveway’ or more like ‘I’ve got a nail in my tire?’”

“Well…engine is still there…”

The lack of details proved we were nowhere near the nail-in-the-tire zone.

“Does it still run?” I prodded.

“Sometimes.” I’m pretty sure there was a tear in his eye as he added, “It might be end of The Ultimate Machine.”

The Ultimate Machine was the name The Turk bestowed upon his creation that began as a beat-up ’98 BMW. About the time I was bringing the Nugget into this world, the Turk was preparing for his own baby, The Ultimate Machine. While I was in a haze of newborn sleep depravation, the Turk decided to hatch his plan to get the car of his dreams by any means necessary -such as taking advantage of my post partum confusion.

Since there was no way his sensible wife would ever sign off on a BMW manufactured in this century, he determined it best to buy one from a desperate college student on Craig’s list. From day one, he was enraptured with the car but his love was blind. As he pulled the Ultimate Machine into the drive at his initial introduction, it clunked and chugged and expelled a thick white cloud of toxic gas with each acceleration.

“What the hell is this?” I begged, shielding my children from the mushroom cloud coming from the exhaust pipe.

“Don’t worry. I fix it.” He beamed.

“How? You don’t know anything about car repair. You barely know how to check the oil.”

“It’s ok. I have Youtube.” (A stubborn immigrant’s direct path to the American dream.)

Thus began a great odyssey that would keep the Turk in the garage (and subsequently my car out in the cold and all of us playing Frogger over mechanic’s tools) for the next 8 months.

Like some women hide online shopping boxes, my husband began to hide car parts coming in at a rapid rate from destinations where I’m pretty sure they don’t make BMWs. He spent late nights watching fix-it videos and laid desire-filled gazes on every BMW he saw like some men do in the presence of a buxom broad. He was in deep, but things only got deeper when I issued an ultimatum.

“Yo, it is almost spring and I want to get these bikes and stroller and everything else normal people put in a garage back in the garage. You have 1 more month to get that damn thing back together and out of my garage.”

“Ok, ok. I almost done.”

“Are you really going to drive this downtown to work every day?”

“Why you say that? Of course. It is The Ultimate Machine. When I die, you bury me in it.”

A few weeks later he pulled the Ultimate Machine out of the drive with nary a puff of smoke behind it. He was elated as he headed off for his morning commute. I immediately signed him up with AAA roadside assistance…just in case.

The Ultimate Machine’s time on the ramps since that grand departure has been extensive. It’s had numerous flat tires, a few tows (That AAA was my best investment in life thus far), lots of leaking fluids, countless junkyard excursions and other things that were only remedied by hours of YouTube videos and boxes of parts from around the globe. The Turk learned more than he’d ever dreamed and until I threatened him with death in his sleep, he even planned to build a paint booth in our garage. Through it all, his love for that stupid car remained.

“I wish you’d talk to me the way you talk to that car.” I muttered in a hostile huff.

“Oh Honey that will never happen. Ultimate Machine never talks back to me.”

That crazed Turk kept it running for 3 years until that fateful day when it seemed the price of repair was bigger than the sum value of The Ultimate Machine. Logically I thought we should buy a new family car and he should take over mine. That idea was a lead balloon. “How I go from Ultimate Machine to a Hyundai? I can not. It hurts too much.”

So he got a budget and knowing the Turk and his inability to adhere to any budget, I low-balled him and off he went to find the next car of his dreams.

I think it’s important to note here that The Turk does not believe in dealerships…or “stealerships” as he calls them. After a week of browsing local sellers and even a police auction, he announced – “I found it. I found my new love.” And like a man in love he showed me photos, relived details and pined. The Turk was smitten and when that was clear he dropped the bomb. “But it is a bit over budget.” (Thus the lowball.) After forcing him to agree that he would take up male cage dancing to make up for the deficit, he sealed the deal.

On a warm spring evening two large African men arrived in my driveway in a white BMW. Even I had to admit, it was pretty, but it was 10 years newer and all in one piece so it wasn’t hard to beat the Ultimate Machine.

At the kitchen table we signed over titles and then I did my best Cagney and Lacey. (Unfortunately I had to be both so it was probably a bit confusing to the three men, none of whom shared my first language.) Where do you work? Where do you live? Give me your employer’s phone number…and on and on before I hit it with the big one…”Just so you know, if this car isn’t what you claim, I will come to your work and I will kill you. We clear? He may be the Turk but I’m a Philly girl and we don’t play.” The huge man looked down at me, a chubby mom pushing 5’4” if I stretch, so I added my best crazy eyes. It worked.

The three men loaded into my car so the Turk could drive them back to their home. For a moment I questioned the sanity in this move, then rememeerd his life insurance was healthy and let the bad thoughts go. The Turk later reported that once in the car, the larger of the two men looked at my husband and said, “Man, your wife is scary.”

To which he could only reply, “Oh, I know.”

Now if I could only use my crazy eyes to get that Ultimate Machine out of my driveway!

Hold On America, Mom’s Comin’…

Here in Indiana, the land of Hoosiers (And no, even after 3.5 years I still don’t know what the hell a Hoosier is and why these people have hung on to the moniker.) the political scene has been, well, there has actually been a political scene for once. Usually the presidential primary race is determined before the Hoosiers get a chance for input but this year being the gigantic cluster duck that it is, Hoosiers had a say yesterday. While I was elated to have a break in the nonstop bore-ass coverage of the 100^th anniversary of the Indy 500 (Seriously, if you hate car racing as I do, May is rough here.) I must say that if I see one more nasty, spiteful, crap-filled political ad, Mama’s gonna blow.

I’m sure most of my Stateside readers have suffered through most of the same ads, with the exception of incessent references to Hoosier Sensibility.(Something I see in the general populous but has yet to be demonstrated by their elected officials. I’m lookin’ at you Governor.) And while a few of the ads were tolerable, the rest resembled a third grade playground smack down. (Sorry third graders, I know you’re more mature than that but you get my point right?) All of this got me thinking, do you know what kind of president America really needs? America  needs an old, hard-assed mom for prez. Who better to whip this country into shape? Moms multitask 24/7, negotiate with hostile parties hourly, placate stubborn dictators daily, and solve monumental problems maintaining tight budgets on the reg. Many African nations have figured out that electing moms is the answer, so get on it America.

So as of today I am officially launching an inquest into my presidential run as a mom-centric third party candidate. (PS- that 3^rd party will be called the Wine Party. It opens a treasure trove of wine/whine wordplay ad options.) America, I get it. You need me.

Years ago I threw my hat into the ring for VP on the Ronn Paul ticket but was wholly disregarded. (And yes, my bitterness remains.) Prior to the white smoke confirming Pope Fran, I also lobbied to become replacement Pope but was denied. (The Vatican said something about me having lady parts and being a heathen ruled me out. Whatevs.) But third time’s a charm, right? Before you all rush out for yard signs, I need to do a little background cleansing and issue a few payoffs. I’m pretty sure Chris Christie can guide me through the process. (Plus we share the chub card and chubs help chubs.) Once I’ve fully expunged the early 90’s I’ll be ready to roll.

As we are at the inception of my campaign, I’ve only begun to hash out the details of my platform but here are some of my top plans:

On Immigration: I’m not a jackass with absolutely no understanding of the US immigration system who believes mass deportation is a moral and ethical option. However, I am going to implement mass deportation of the Stupid by Choice. Those who are offended by the innocuous (I’m looking at you red Starbucks cups people.) as well as the woman now bringing a $5 million lawsuit against Starbucks for putting ice in her iced coffee, will top my list. It’s time to make America intelligent again (Or at the very least, let’s make America C students again.).

On World Policy: Like my potential opponents, I am also highly concerned with world affairs. (Let me clarify, like a couple of my potential opponents. There is at least one who is “uuuugely” clueless about world affairs.) After sending my secret team of CIA moms to bump off a few leaders who must go, (No one would suspect murder by mom and Lord knows moms can handle it.) I will then eliminate ISIS by assembling the Legion of Badassery. The Legion of Badassery will be led by the Turkish mafia backed-up by members of other Eastern European crime families. ISIS has nothing on these dudes. Thanks to my years in Turkey, I’ve got connections. You’re welcome world.

Pay Inequality: (Excuse me while I play my woman card.)  I will take care of the gender-based pay gap by issuing all women a 27% pay increase to make up for the difference. Any male business owner who does not comply will be sentenced to 9 months of wearing a pregnancy simulator, while driving a filthy mini-van full of tired toddlers and hormonal adolescents after a full work day. That should solve that. On a related note, any male politician who takes it upon himself to write legislation pertaining to any component of women’s health will likewise be sentenced to 40 years of wearing a menstrual cramp simulator for one week each month. During that week there will be no sick days accepted and they will be commuting in the above mentioned mini van. (40 years jackasses, think about it.)

In addition I will bring diversity to the White House with my Muslim-born First Man, my foreign born First Midget and my hard of hearing First Nugget. These past weeks of political overload have moved me. America, I’m here for you. I mean… as long as I can get some big money behind me to fund my run. Super Pacs, you know where to find me- on the playground, at the bottom of the swirly slide.

El Nino You’re Drunk, Go Home

This weather is ridiculous. Sunshine, 60 degrees and no snow. WTF? It’s mid-December and this is the Midwest; this kind of weather is unacceptable. Normally by this time of year we’ve got a blanket of snow and ass-numbing cold. Instead we’re riding bikes and wearing flip-flops (And it’s quite evident that most people do the mani and skip the pedi in December. Ewww.) Mama is not down with this.

According to the perky blonde weather girl with the Zumba-butt on last night’s news, this weather isn’t going anywhere either. It seems the majority of the U.S. is caught in an extreme El Nino weather pattern bringing unseasonable warmth and it’s likely to remain until late January. Now, I’m not banking on Zumba-butt being correct as Indiana weather people are notorious for being wrong, (I’ve never seen weather people that are so reliably incorrect. A few weeks ago they predicted possible rain showers. We got 3 inches of snow.) but the thought of a few more weeks of this blows.

All of this begs the question, just who is this El Nino anyway? I’d never heard of him until a few years ago when he blew in throwing hot air everywhere and now he seems to coming back on the reg. Who issued El Nino a visa? Has he been checked out with Homeland Security because I find his motives questionable? (I’m married to a foreigner and spent 7 years in immigration hell so I get to make immigrant jokes.)

This whole weather thing is troubling to me for many reasons. For one, next week is Christmas and this weather is killing my Christmas groove. I haven’t been moved to consume a single schnapps-filled, hot cocoa by the fire yet because it’s too damn hot for a fire. And what do I wear? Don we now our… ugly Christmas …t-shirt? All my gay apparel is cold-weather wear. How is Santa supposed to arrive? On a bike? And what do we leave out for him, a tall glass of ice-cold margarita (Ok, now that I think about it that might be a great improvement. Perhaps I’ll suggest the kids leave a little umbrella in it too.)

But the real issues is the damage already caused to me by El Nino. I love winter for three very specific reasons. These little cold weather perks are what get me though those months of sweat pouring down my butt-crack while my pastey skin turns crimson but now, El Nino has taken them from me like a damn thief.

1. Cold weather provides a much needed hiatus from the playground. 

I love my children but I’ve done a lot of years at the playground and I’m over it. That, “Push me Mom!” crap gets old and I’m looking at eight more years, at least, on my playground sentence. When winter sets in, it is the only time I don’t have to spend copious hours of my day outside throwing a football, pushing a swing or pulling my child away from kissing every freakin’ dog within a two mile radius. I live to say, “Too cold to go outside, go upstairs and play.” Thanks to El Nino, I’ve been at the playground every damn day for a week and I see no end in sight. You bastard, El Nino.

2. Cold Weather is a little gift, allowing one to take legit exercise vacations.

Another perk of winter is that I get to slack off the exercising. I hate gyms. They’re stinky and humid and the last thing I need are walls of mirrors displaying the exact bulges and dimples I’m there to execute. Give me a trail or an outdoor track and I’m good to go. The advantage of this outside only exercise regime is that with cold temps my excuse to lay off is legit. “Can’t run today, too cold. Can’t bike, too cold for the kid in the trailer.” It’s perfect. Thanks to El Nino, I haven’t had a single break in my normal exercise schedule. You bastard, El Nino.

3. Cold weather calls for all the joys of hibernation preparation.

In order to successfully make it though a Midwestern winter, one must adapt the practices of the animal kingdom, packing on the pounds and laying on the ass. Moderation in food consumption and limited television won’t get you though -15 degrees. No, winter is the time to choose the full-fat mayo and binge-watch for survival. One needs those extra bits of cellulite on one’s thighs to make it to April and the best way to keep that is through chowing-down and not burning a single calorie. It’s a scientific fact. (I mean, I have no clue if it is but I’m sure somewhere in one of those Dunkin Donut funded university studies they’ve proven this. P.S. what do I need to do to be a test subject in a study like that?)

Thanks to El Nino, with all the exercising and playgrounding I’ve not managed to gain a damn pound. I’ve only my normal, year-round level of thigh dimples. What if El Nino up and rolls in a few weeks and the frigid weather arrives? What will become of me? I shudder at the thought. You bastard, El Nino.

I think my case has been made El Nino. You’re more than welcome to hit me up around March, after I’ve spent a few months huddled under multiple layers and trapped indoors with surly children, but now I need a little winter. I’ve worked hard and I need my “Too cold to go out,” response. As is my usual norm in social situations, I will be the one to say what everyone else is thinking: “El Nino, go home. You’re drunk. No one wants you here.”

Perhaps this is El Nino?