It was bittersweet cleaning out our Volvo wagon, because I knew I was ultimately cleaning it out to be replaced. The little guy has been everything we could have wanted for carting around drywall and a muddy dog over the past few years, but has now gotten to a place where it needs major repairs – repairs that are significantly more expensive than the car is worth. As of December it won’t pass inspection without those repairs, so we’re planning on replacing it, perhaps with an Outback, perhaps with something else.

We’ve put 85,000 miles on our already well-loved wagon in almost five years, which is crazy considering it was my car and I took public transportation to work for 2 of those years and was at home for another year. Matt’s jobs have always required an outrageous amount of driving, so we’ve had to face the fact that we will inevitably replace cars sooner than the average American family. It’s a bummer on the wallet, but has gotten us pretty adept at car shopping over the past few years.

This Saturday we had an appointment to test drive an Outback and a Forester; the former we decided was the car for us. We’re wagon people. We like having a five-seater with lots of storage capacity and good gas mileage. We like a car that drives well in the snow, not that that matters so much anymore. We like a car that you can put a muddy dog in and not think twice about.

But I didn’t like how the smug salesman was unwilling to negotiate down to the price I wanted. So today I called down to a competing dealership to see what the Polish salesguy could do for me. After I played a Chris Matthews-worthy version of hardball, he made me some good promises that the car we’d be special ordering would come in right at the price we are willing to pay.

I like the Polish people. They make great sausages. And sweet sugary baked goods.

I’ll hear back from my friend later this week, and I hope he has good news for me. Yeah, I want a new Outback, but more than anything I’m just gnawing at the bit with an insatiable desire to install this adorable new carseat!

Until then, I can bide my time re-reading the owner’s manual.

It’s a rainy fall day, and something about how it smelled brought me back to where I was six months ago. Around this time every evening, I would have gone outside to the unofficial dog park to chat with other dog owners as our puppies played together. It was always the highlight of my day. I miss it, in fact. I wonder if the dogs would remember Berlin if they saw her?

And on rainy fall days like this, I would walk down to the bus stop, right across from a mom and pop Italian bakery that made the world’s best stromboli, and I’d commute into the city with all of the familiar 9-5 strangers. I wonder about the girl who used to take the 101 with me… the girl with the great hair. I wonder what she’s up to these days. I wonder if she also picked up and moved halfway across the country to a place where people spend $300 on a pair of cowboy boots.

Six months ago, I might have spent a day like today around the corner at the local coffee shop with one of my dearest friends, laptops open and getting refills on our mochas. To get to the shop, we’d walk past my doctor’s office and my hairdresser. And past the liquor store with a great wine selection that I discovered too late.

That was fun.

But you know what else will be fun? When that driveway is paved it will loop around into the backyard. And Matt wants to put up a basketball hoop. Last time Matt and I played basketball I schooled him. For reals.

And even though we’ll be living in the city proper, we still have nearly an acre of fenced in backyard. My evenings won’t be spent in the unofficial dog park, but they’ll be spent playing fetch in Berlin’s yard. And I think a year from now… next fall, we’ll be sitting outside in the backyard around a bonfire with some friends singing “American Pie” and stuffing our faces with smores.

I miss you, Medford, but I gotta be honest. I’d take smores over stromboli any day.

More than anything, I’ve found that most supervisors are well aware of their many management failings, often attempting to overcompensate in ways that fall very short of the mark. They don’t want to be the bad guy, so they try to get in thick with their employees. Or they start to become insecure fearing that their employees will outshine them, so passive-aggressive behavior and throwing-under-the-bus sets in. Studies show that managers are often more frustrated after having been promoted to a position of management because of these added personnel stresses – the main reason I have never wanted a position as a supervisor.

This is all neither here nor there.

The reason I’m talking about bosses today is because I picked up my favorite mug to pour a cup of coffee, and thought fondly of one of my first bosses. She bought me this mug, a generous container that is perfect for holding in two hands on the back porch or snuggled up in front of a fire. Every time I use the mug, I think back to her and how she molded me into the professional I am today.

At the time I had a hard time appreciating Big G, seeing as the two of us could not have been more different and probably would not have been friends had we met at a local fundraising event. She was highly, highly intelligent, a strong woman who could think quickly on her toes. Grounded in politics, she knew how to be both careful and sharp when necessary. And as a manager, Big G had some enviable skills.

When you got on her good side by showing some loyalty and respect, Big G immediately rewarded you by taking you seriously. She would ask me to solve a complex problem, and after doing my research and hard work I was amazed that she took my suggestions to heart. She brought me into the executive decision-making process even when it wasn’t my business. She respected my opinion and always challenged me to bring a new idea to the table. Sure, there were some uncomfortable moments as there always are, but she knew how to encourage me even when it didn’t click that she was doing so.

Sometimes I really miss working for her. I miss how she would thank me for a job well done. I miss our spur-of-the-moment lunches, and meetings in her office that would last all afternoon as the conversation turned from work to pop culture. I miss working for an intelligent woman who held high expectations for herself – something I really respected.

Oh, and thanks for the great mug, Big G!

Ok, now that the Civil War is out of the way, let me tell you that Charlotte is changing my whole opinion of North Carolina and the evil people that live there. They’re alright! And the weather is sweet! And nobody here is breaking my heart like they were in college. So I might just give NC another chance.

But I miss my puppy and Matty tremendously. And last night he sent me a text message where he was holding up the “I love you” hand, and I swooned. But I also would have really liked a photo of Berlin, so let’s get on that, Matteo. Not that my phone is working at all because that replacement phone charger clearly does not work. Add that to the list of things Verizon has screwed me over on.

I’ll be back Friday night. I miss you, Internet. Do you miss me!?

There were a few things that got me excited over the weekend. We purchased our domestic Argentinian flights and started to make some reservations for our vacation. Matt set me up with a Zipcar account and we ogled the Volvo parked down the street – available to drive on my every whim. I went grocery shopping and had so much fun that I came home and cooked for the first time in weeks. Scallops and brussel sprouts over pasta with a vodka cream sauce. We ate in front of the tv. Life was returning to normalcy and I was liking it very much.

Until I got the email. The email telling me that I’ve been rejected from Zipcar because of my highly suspect driving record. Apparently they’re not into my two speeding tickets on average per year thing. Bite me, Zipcar. I hate your Volvos sedans and Honda Elements. My dog and me are way too good for your services. Guess what we’ll do!? WE’LL WALK! AND WE’LL LOVE EVERY MINUTE OF IT!

Despite the disgusting taste of train station consumables, and the disgusting way you feel covered in grease from head to toe after eating them, they always seem to kick off some lovely endorphins in my body. I’m starting to figure out the many feelings that contribute to this happy buzz.

1. I’m usually listening to some really good tunes on my iPod. I’m traveling, so it’s music that rolls in continuous motion.  You know what I’m talking about. Think “Run” by Collective Soul. (Remind me to blog about Collective Soul sometime. Good story there.)
2. Traveling long distances by train has become a therapeutic need for me. I’m quite happy shoved in the corner of an Amtrak train – even happier if I wind up on a club car. There’s romance and relaxation in every tree you whiz by. So just entering a train station puts me in good head-space. Then add food, and I’ve wafted up to heaven.
3. The first thing we ever did as husband and wife was to hop the train from Boston to NYC for our week-long honeymoon in Manhattan. Between the Parker-Meridien, roasted peanuts, cool fall afternoons spent hunting down our favorite musical haunts, and seeing Les Paul live in concert, it was quite possibly the best week of my life. And for some reason I always equate getting on a train with good things to come.

Now if I can only fulfill my lifetime dream of taking the train from Chicago to Frisco Dean Moriarty-style. Although I’m sure I’d eat so much train food that I’d probably wind up killing a good thing.

Thanks for NONE of your concern. No, I don’t ever take the Green Line, but I could have used a few little comments or emails from people who wanted to make sure I was still alive. WHATEVER. NOT BITTER.

I know you come here, not out of concern for my daily well-being, but to read gruesome and revealing posts about me and my marriage. Oh, honey, I check the Google Analytics, and I know that’s what you want. So let me at least pander to the audience momentarily.

This morning Matty drove me to the T station to be a real peach and save me the mile walk. I was in my typical not-a-morning-person mood, and he struck up a conversation about the weird dream that he had last night.

Matt: I dreamed that I almost met Ed Cherubino. I was checking in to a hotel and they told me that to get to my room I should take the elevator to the 17th floor. When I arrived, Ed Cherubino would be there to greet me.

Me: Who’s Ed Cherubino?

Matt: A radio commentator.

Me: I don’t really understand why you’re so excited. Who IS he?

Matt: A radio commentator. Think of just any radio commentator and what it would be like to meet them. Who’s a radio commentator you would recognize?

Me: Howard Stern.

Matt: Ok, so maybe not. How about a TV newscaster? What TV newscaster would you recognize?

Me: Barbara Walters.

Matt: Why are you bursting my bubble?

Me: I just have no frame of reference as to who Ed Cherubino is. I’m sorry.

By then we had arrived, so I quickly kissed him and hopped out of the car. Good thing the Red Line didn’t break down on my commute. Oh the irony of Matt hearing about THAT from Ed Cherubino.

But for as long as we’ve been talking about it, I’ve been coming up with excuses why we shouldn’t go down to one car. I generally say that I wonder if it’s even financially prudent to sell a car now if we might need to buy another in 3-4 years or so. Wouldn’t it just be smarter to hang on to our rapidly depreciating vehicle and let it sit in the driveway instead of having to shell out MORE money to buy another car at a later date?

And then there’s the argument that we’d have to put more money into Matt’s car before selling it to get a good price, why not just hang onto it in it’s current state?

But I’m coming to terms with what’s at the root of my problem with car-sharing. The very smallest issue is the stupidest of all… as we would sell Matt’s hatchback that means he’d be driving MY WAGON. MINE. He basically does this anyway, but there’s still that differentiation that he’s driving MY car while HIS car sits in the driveway. And if he’s the one driving it at least 3 hours a day wouldn’t it then become HIS car by default? That would mean HIS sunglasses would be in the side door pocket and HIS cds would be in the glove compartment. And the spare napkins would inevitably run out and not be replaced. And what would be the fate of my emergency stash of feminine products and nylons!?

Then there’s the issue of feeling trapped. Because I might not be able to make that girls-night-out in the suburbs as Matt’s running late from a Friday afternoon meeting at the office. This is not a legitimate fear because #1 – I have no female friends and #2 – I probably don’t have female friends because of my natural disdain for people who live in the suburbs. Plus Matt’s the kind of guy who would do everything within his power to get me to the girls-night-out despite his late meeting, the darling.

But the deepest fear is that this would lead me down the slippery slope of stay-at-home mom-ness, trapped inside the house, speaking Toddler all day long and relishing the bi-annual opportunity to head to Chipotle and eat a burrito by myself. I often feel like I’ve sold off so many parts of my independence just to be married. Does the car really need to be that big last piece?

It’s a control thing. I want the freedom to be able to drive to New York for the interview I’ll have with Chris Matthews after winning a Grammy for audio engineering. Not sure why he’d be interviewing for that, but these are the stories I tell myself.

Matt made a great deal with me… if we sell the car I can be assured that at any time if I need a ride somewhere or if I need to call dibs on the vehicle, I’m more than welcome to, and he’ll be super-accommodating. I guess I’d just feel better about it if he threw in some promise about on-demand chocolate cake any time I want.

Waiting twenty minutes for the bus is one thing, but waiting in the rain first thing in the morning with a very chatty companion is an entirely different beast. I’m no morning person, and I do not want to talk to you about the FOOT OF SNOW you heard fell on New Hampshire last night. I’m sure. A FOOT during the last week of March. Sure, buddy.

When the bus finally arrived, I quickly closed up my umbrella only to wait in the rain another five minutes as a mother disembarked with her toddler riding in a stroller. Thanks for taking your kid and your SUV STROLLER on public transportation in the middle of rush-hour. Really great idea. I was, at this point, officially the world’s worst person.

Between every stop, my chatty companion kept walking to the front to discuss with the bus driver why his CharlieCard appeared to be charged twice. The overly-friendly driver kept calmly reassuring him that he could fix the problem at the next T station and repeating over and over “there’s really no reason to swear, sir.” He muttered to himself and walked back to his seat stepping on the tail of the adorable golden retriever seeing eye dog of the young lady who had just boarded. He realized his error and squatted down to pet the dog, which we all know you are not supposed to do while it’s on duty. The dog calmly ignored Chattster and curled up on the floor of the bus directly across from me for the sole purpose of testing my ability to refrain from snookering him and speaking to him in my small-adorable-soft-animal voice. He was the cutest thing I had ever seen and I was quickly running out of self-control.

Next to board was a whole hoard of people dripping rain and pushing to get on to the wet and smelly bus. An Asian lady stood in front of me holding on for dear life as we careened towards the T station, now 25 minutes late. Perhaps it was accidental, but I think I saw a glimmer of evil in her eye as she dropped her arm and stabbed the aforementioned pup with the sharp tip of her umbrella. This was almost more than I could bear as my mind reeled with visions of drop-kicking her to the sidewalk and stabbing her in her left pinky with that same vicious implement of death that she had used on the sweet service dog.

I also wondered if the blind lady would notice if I accidentally slipped off with her golden? Surely she could get another, right? This dog NEEDED me. I was the only one who could single-handedly protect him from bus-riding ruffians!

I contemplated my life’s worth as I arrived at the station and boarded the next orange line train. Is this what I’ve become? The type of person who is so desperate to have a dog of my own that I contemplate stealing service dogs? A man with a T uniform and a very thick Russian accent eyed me as though I was a terrorist. I might as well be. I try to steal service dogs. Take me away to a maximum security prison where I cannot endanger people who take their puppy to the curb for a momentary bathroom break.

Next time the bus is late I’m just going to catch a cab. It’s really better for all of us.