Tales from the Shark Tank

I’ve gotten a great deal done today. I’ve dealt with two insurance companies and assorted other business type concerns and taken my housemate to the doctor. I took myself to the unemployment office while she was with the doctor, so now that’s straightened out and money should start arriving shortly. Then there were necessary runs to three different stores, after which came the obligatory time spent with our son (good for the soul, but tiring none the less), cooking dinner, etc.

I had wanted to do some sewing, but I’m afraid I’d do something irrevocable with the scissors. Theoretically I should be less busy now that I’m not spending my days in full time employment. This does not seem to be borne out by the pattern of my life. Oh, well. I’ve known for a long time that no theory ever survives contact with reality unscathed. Why should this one have been any different?

I took a recommendation from a friend and her father, and betook myself today to visit a mechanic who handles used cars. It seems, on my first attempt, that I have found a replacement for the Peacock. It’s a mom-mobile, otherwise known as a silver minivan. I never thought I’d want one, but hey, it costs no more than I’m going to get from insurance on the Saturn, it’s in good mechanical and cosmetic condition, and since it came from a customer, the mechanic was able to show me a maintenance history back for the last five years. That doesn’t go back to its birth – it’s a 1995 – but it does show that for as long as the prior owner had it, it got its maintainance with religious regularity.

It wasn’t ready for a test drive, so it’s not absolutely certain, but neither have I gotten things squared with insurance. I’ll do that on Monday. And with any luck, I’ll replace my current beastie before she stops dead at some inconvenient time and place. We shall see. Nothing is set in stone yet, but at least it looks very hopeful indeed. In the meantime? I’m carrying many quarts of oil in the trunk of my car. It seems only prudent

Evidently my erstwhile employer decided not to contest my unemployment. I got notice today that the unemployment board had determined I was “dismissed without just cause”.

For one thing, now I can get money. For another, I now have an outside opinion in writing. Now I can concentrate on other things. I believe I’ll split my time between finding a car and finding a job, as it behooves me to have transportation when I *do* find an new job. Onward to insanity! No wait…I passed my exit….

The Peacock is my car. It’s a peacock blue Saturn with all the bells and whistles its previous owner could order; hence the name. I knew it was ill, and suspected how ill, but took it to the mechanic for a checkup. The verdict? Get another car. This one’s engine is leaking oil in so many places the guy lost count.

I can’t really do the car-free or one car thing. Joseph has to get to school, which isn’t within walking distance. Worse yet, our house is several miles outside the furthest reach of the local public transit system, such as it is. Where we live, two cars aren’t a luxury. They’re an absolute necessity.

I’m trying assorted things to deal with the situation. There’s a reputable used car dealer that needs some legal work done. I’m going to see if he will trade a car for professional services. I’ve a friend who can no longer drive her stick-shift for medical reasons, and needs to sell her car. Trouble with that one is that it’s only a year old, and rather out of our current price range – to understate the matter wildly! Meanwhile, I’m taking the mechanic’s advice. I’m carrying oil, staying reasonably close to civilization, and keeping my cell phone charged. I’m also being annoyed. I had enough to worry about. I really didn’t need this right now.

We just got back from a family dinner in a very nice establishment. In fear and trembling (at least on my part) we took Joseph. Prior adventures in dining in establishments that did not feature pizza have not been a grand success, to say the least.

He was as good as gold. He colored with the crayons the hostess brought him, didn’t climb on anyone but me, and asked me very politely (and very quietly) for whatever he needed. He waited his turn at conversation, and curled up quietly in my lap when he got bored and tired. I was very impressed as well as relieved. He chattered with his 8 year old cousin at length, and colored with Uncle Tim, and introduced himself formally to the waitress and just generally charmed everyone.

Earlier in the day my mom stopped by to show me some things she’d gotten at a shop near our house and to just visit. Joseph and his best friend were playing in the back yard, so out we went. It being an absolutely gorgeous day, our neighbor was also out, working in her garden. Well, it turns out that she and mom have known each other for a year from a writing class they both took, but neither realized the connection. What can I say? Small worldness strikes again.

And the neighbors down the block may still be giggling. They were out walking, and their 3 year old had run way ahead of them, far enough to scare the adults. They were calling her, and she was paying no attention whatsoever. But I was having trouble hearing them, and I was a lot closer than she was. So I asked her name, put all the force of voice training behind it, and shouted down the block, telling her to come back now. She turned right around and did. My observation to my neighbors? That sometimes it’s useful to be a trained loudmouth. Right at that moment, they agreed heartily.

And now my son is coming to comb my hair. It’s the latest trick for avoiding bedtime. Goodnight, gentle readers.

You know, one of these years I’m not going to get laryngitis in the Spring, but this evidently isn’t the one. The voice started to go during Seder Monday evening, and was quite gone by yesterday morning. All my energy went with it, so I’ve also been practicing assiduously for the olympic sleeping team, should the olympic committee ever see fit to designate it as a sport. I even excused myself from the family dinner to welcome my sister-in-law, home for her annual visit from England.

Of course, this sort of sleeping is only possible because of our housemate, who has met the bus and kept our son busy playing outside. I’m glad for everyone’s sake – she needs to get outside these walls, he gets to play outside after going stir-crazy all winter, and I get to sleep when I need to and work on the things to hand when I’m awake without having to explain to Joseph that no, he can’t play games on the computer until Mommy’s work is done.

The Seder itself went well in the sense of everyone being there, but there were some disquieting notes that went beyond the forgotten salad. My dad leaned over and asked me, every so often, if he was “doing it right”. He’s 75; he’s been to heaven only knows how many such dinners. But clearly, he’d forgotten a lot of little things. The other problem is with the Seder itself. The point of the Seder, as I have always understood it, is to tell the story of how a bunch of tribesmen went to another country as refugees, were made slaves, were permitted to leave (barely) after 400 years, and became an identifiable nation in only 40 years. It is wound about with language attributing it to direct Divine intervention. Fine. But it says, in the very beginning, “tell it to your children”. And it doesn’t. It doesn’t tell the story; it presumes the listener already knows it. It doesn’t, at least in this version and translation, explain the symbolism of the various things on the table, and it certainly fails to do so in terms a child – or many adults! – can understand. Daddy and Joseph did the four questions together, but even though he understood what he was asking, the response was couched in such obscurity that the adult for whom this was a first time experience didn’t get it either. Joseph asked very politely to be allowed to go play with his cars, and we let him.

So I’m doing another Seder this weekend. This one will have a Hagadah printed off my computer, in type large enough for him to read easily and language he can understand. It will not talk about the analysis of the rabbis as to whether there were 10 plagues or fifty, but it will actually (gasp) tell the story of the Exodus. I’m considering putting it in classic “Once upon a time” mode, telling Joseph that this happened to his too-many-greats-to-count grandparents. I’ll tell him why that is still important. I’ll tell him what “bitter” means, and why slavery is bad. I’ll tell him what a miracle is, and why we say thank you for it. And I’ll start in the middle of the day, so he isn’t too tired to sit still or absorb it. We may even start it in the morning, making our own Matzoh so he understands how it’s different from the bread he usually helps me make. I want him to understand the story, and it will be a long time before he’s ready for “Rabbi Gamliel saith….”

This year, due to a variety of circumstances, I had decided quite firmly that my Seder would be very small. Mind, it’s been the incredible growing Seder for years now, getting up to the point of putting up card tables and looking into folding tables that seat eight. My house doesn’t have an expansion package, either, so I really was getting pretty darned close to capacity. Yeast is not permitted during Passover, but I swear some got into my guest list, the way it kept growing.

I also usually start cooking well in advance. That didn’t happen this year, courtesy of the Evil Migraine Monster. It’s just as well. This year the guest list was down to seven: the four who live in the house, my folks, and our housemate’s boyfriend, who was one of the first added to the regular group. That changed today. One of my younger fledglings asked this afternoon if she could come for dinner tomorrow night. The first thing I said was “but it’s Pesach. It’s a Seder.” She asked how long it ran. “Hours” I told her. And then I said “and you’re very welcome if you want to come. The table will seat eight comfortably, so it will be perfect.” She beamed. I thanked my stars I hadn’t started cooking, as she’s allergic to cinnamon and sweet potatoes, and I had planned to use both. And I must admit I’m much happier this way. It just isn’t a proper Seder if I don’t have at least a few of “my kids”.