PSA: Getting Your Car Appraised is the Kiss of Death

This is a public service announcement about getting your car appraised because THIS is what will happen:


The Husband and I got his big, beautiful F350 appraised on Thursday. We originally bought it because we thought we were moving to CO and needed lots of power to haul things in the mountains. Since we didn't move, and our area of Texas has no mountains, we wanted to explore the possibility of selling or trading the truck for something a little more economical and Texas-friendly. (By the way, because TH always gives me shit about the mountains in Texas, I'm here to tell you there ARE mountains in Texas and I have climbed the highest one -- Guadalupe Peak. So there, TH! Nanny nanny boo boo!) We went to Car Max because they'll give you that "no hassle" appraisal. It was a reasonable (wholesale) estimate and we shopped for cars within that budget. As we left the showroom, the sales woman (who is apparently an evil sorceress) told us the offer would be good for seven days.....as long as we didn't get into a wreck. It was at that precise moment that the curse was cast and we were screwed.


The Husband, The Princess and I planned a quick trip to Waco (about 1.5 hours south) to visit family. Had we known the events that were to transpire, we would have stayed home. We were trailing the motorcycles down with us so we could spend some time riding the back roads near Waco with our cousin. TH left early (the day AFTER the appraisal curse) to get the trailer for the bikes. On his way, some asshole in front of him made a quick, non-signaled U turn (un-signaled? dis-signaled? In other words, the motherfucker never considered using his turn signal.....nor did he stop afterward to see if everyone was alright), forcing TH to slam on his brakes, which caused the screaming man behind him to run into the back of our recently-cursed truck. BLAM! Big F250 hits bigger F350. Even though it looked like the damage to our truck was minimal, ANY damage was unwelcome. But it was drive-able, so we continue with our plans, load up the bikes, and head south. The truck was definitely NOT the satin smooth ride it was prior to the curse. TH thinks the frame may be bent and will take it to the Ford dealership to have their inspectors look it over.


The rest of the trip was great.....hanging with family, zipping around on the backroads.....until the drive home. First, TH left his wallet back at our relatives' home.  Luckily we had stopped on the north side of town to check the bikes and get gas, so the little return trip only added about thirty minutes to our drive. No big deal. Then there was a noticeable shimmy that grew progressively worse.....kinda like watching a drunk woman who thinks she's hot stuff on the dance floor. We pull over again and discover that one of the straps holding my bike has been shimmied in half. At least it was the outer strap, rather than the inner one, because the bike stayed on the trailer. TH uses the strap holding the back wheel and replaces the broken strap on the handlebars.


So we're driving along.....we've made it to the south side of Fort Worth.....almost home. UNTIL.....we see my bike, AGAIN, flop over like it's going to fall into oncoming highway traffic, and right itself. TH pulls over but we are on the two foot wide inside shoulder.....on IH 35.....with cars zipping by at lightening speed. TH, ever the gentleman, suggests that I stay on the inside of the shoulder and/or jump toward the wall in case a car careens into us. Oh, and while I'm at it, would I please alert him if someone tries to run into him as well? Sure....no problem. I'm rather fond of him and would like to keep him around for awhile, so I play the part of lookout. In my duties, I notice that the trailer seems to lean a little, which I mention to TH, but I figure it's because we're on a slight incline. WRONG! Apparently, the little hiccup that almost sent my bike flying into the traffic was a flat tire on the trailer. 


We pull into a little convenience store thinking air might help, but realize the tire is shredded. Trust me, no amount of air was going to get that tire moving again. By this time, we've been on the road about 2 hours (remember, it's only an hour and a half or less to Waco). We call some friends to rescue us (it's about 11 at night....in a not-so-great part of town), which they did. We left the trailer, our friend drove the truck, and we rode our bikes, finally arriving home around 11:30. Our 1.5 hour trip turned into a three hour trip with all kinds of scary shit along the way. But we made it home safe and sound.....and so did the bikes. Whew!


The moral of this story: DON'T get your car or truck appraised. It will be cursed. You have been warned.


They say bad stuff comes in three's. Have you experienced a series of "uh oh's", "oh shit's" and "oh nooooo's!" all in a row?


Have you been there?


P.S. All humor aside, we are incredibly grateful for God's grace and protection. It could have been bad....really bad. Deo gratias!

Bad Ass Motorcycle Mama

My bike and snazzy helmet

I wasn't always a Bad Ass Motorcycle Mama. In fact, it scared the hell outta me! I had to grow into it. Luckily, I did!

My motorcycle experiences began well over a decade ago. I was dating a guy who had a bike and I loved, loved, loved riding on the back. Bike Guy went away and took his bike with him. By the way, he's back in the starring role of The Husband, but that story is another post.

Since I enjoyed riding so much, but had no guy to ride behind, I took matters into my own hands. I was determined to learn to ride on my own -- no guy necessary! I took the motorcycle safety course and spent a HOT weekend in July (required clothing: boots, long pants and long-sleeved shirt. Trust me, it's waaaaay too much for a Texas summer). I dropped that little 250cc bike twice! Once when I was practically at a standstill. Soooo embarrassing (and more than a little painful to my body as well as my ego). But I'm a stubborn cuss and persevered through the class. My plan was to buy a used bike  (someone else was gonna ride it home), and I received lots of well-meaning advice from my biker friends about the size and type of bike I should get. My pea brain simply couldn't process it all and make a decision. If you're my age-ish, picture the robot from Lost in Space flailing his corrugated tube arms screaming "Danger, Claire Lopez! Too much information! Cannot process!"  (This is a super secret peek into the convolutedness-ness of my brain. You have been warned!) So I procrastinated. Shortly, the money I'd put aside went away -- poof! -- like extra money tends to do.

Fast forward a decade, more or less.....

Once Bike Guy, a.k.a. The Husband, was back in my life, it was time to re-up. I spent another weekend (in the summer again...what was I thinking?!?) re-learning the intricacies of riding a motorcycle. I was more comfortable on the bike in this session (I didn't drop it! YAY!) and passed with flying colors. We already owned a 750, so my next challenge was to make the leap from the 250 to the 750. BIG leap for me. Huger than huge. My feet barely touched the ground so we lowered the bike. I continued to struggle, but I gave it my best shot (stubborn cuss, remember?). I simply could NOT get comfortable on that bike. However, The Husband shared that it was his fondest wish to be able to ride alongside me....on my own bike. No pressure, right? Riding that huge, heavy 750 scared the shit outta me. I was ready to give it up and stick with riding on the back.

The Husband's solution, brilliant man that he is? Buy a used 250cc and ride it until I was comfy cozy on my own. I wasn't sure if it would take a week, a year or a decade but it was the perfect solution for me. Granted, when I was on the freeway, I was sorta batted around (they are relatively light bikes), but I continued to ride (mostly in residential areas). The Husband devised practice routes, with him in the lead, that became progressively longer. SUCCESS! It wasn't long before I was zipping around town on that little 250.

I ran across an old friend who was selling her bike -- my beloved 750 -- which I bought. It came with bags, my snazzy helmet, Cobra pipes and lots of other cool accessories. It's UT burnt orange -- not my favorite color, but since I'm a TexasEx, it worked. Go 'Horns!

Now I love to ride. I love the smells, the feeling of the air around me, the freedom! The BEST thing about riding my bike has nothing to do with my surroundings, the bike itself, or even my snazzy helmet. It's about conquering my fear and feeling empowered. It's about becoming more authentically me (even at 54, I'm still a work in progress). It makes me feel like Rose's alter-ego, Vicki. Invincible! Unconquerable! Self-confident and fully alive! Trust me, it's awesome!

Hey, you! I need a name for my bike. Any suggestions?

Rose a.k.a. Vicki a.k.a. Bad Ass Motorcycle Mama (me!)

Have you conquered a fear and reaped the rewards? How did you feel? Do you ride? Let's go!!

Have you been there?

Sounds Heard at My House Over the Weekend

• The sexy purr of a Honda VTX 1800. The Husband and I took a ride around town on Saturday. I usually ride my bike, but it's nice to hop on, hold on, and go! I don't have to pay attention to anything. I don't have to focus on the road ahead of me. I can simply BE. It's wonderful! Having my own motorcycle is wonderful too. I love the freedom and the empowerment. But I really love  conquering my fear and learning to ride....all by myself. Riding on the back is a choice. One that I'm more than happy to make...every now and then.

• Lots and lots of cussing (primarily on my part). The Husband is really only about ten years old. He's a BIG ten year old, but, still, that sums him up. One of his Christmas presents was a steering wheel and gas/brake pedals for his PS3. I'm pretty damn sure he would have jumped up and down, clapping, and squealing like a girl if I hadn't been there. The jumping and squealing still happened in his eyes when he started playing with his new toy. We've been racing this weekend (via the PS3) and I've had a tendency to spin out in certain French races. On Sunday evening, he tried to carry on a conversation while I was racing my Peugeot in Paris. It went something like this (N.B.: living room and kitchen are adjacent and within cussing distance):

Me: Hey, I'm going, like, 120 miles per hour and I've got some asshole on my tail.

The Husband: Canola oil, right?

Me (at the TV screen): Sonuvabitch! Uh, yeah (at The Husband, lest you think I call The Husband a sonuvabitch....well, not this time). He slammed me against the wall. Ooooooo, wait, I'm catching up. They can't keep me down!

The Husband: What temperature?

Me: 325. Shit! The motherfucker rammed me into the wall.

The Husband: Hysterical laughter. Hang in there, Hon.

• Whirring and bells of the carpet spot cleaner. We have two dogs: Lady, a Boxer, and Duchess, a pit bull/American bulldog mix. They are around two years old and have been housebroken (in theory). Lady lives up to her name. She detests cold, wet weather and will not, under any circumstances, pee or poop in the grass when the weather is bad. If we're lucky, she'll slip out the dog door, do her business as close to the house as possible (usually on the patio), and run back in. That's if we're lucky. Option two is to pee and/or poop in the game room. That's not so bad since it has a tile floor. Option three is a spot on the carpet in the doorway of the game room. She's peed, I've cleaned....over and over and over again. We invested in one of those plastic grass "depositories," complete with "perfume" to attract the dogs so they'll pee and/or poop there (again, in theory). And yet, I found PEE, ON THE CARPET (when my bare feet stumbled toward the kitchen for coffee....eeewwwwwwww) AGAIN! Fucking dog.....  Oh yeah, and the sound of more cussing.

What sounds emanate from your house over the weekend? Lots of cussing or something a little more....sedate?

Have you been there?