http://www.edmunds.com/toyota/tacoma/2016/review/#leaderboard-reviews-2-anchor
Wait! Am I hypnotized???
funny
R.I.P. Alternator…
After 16 years of faithful service, the Dog Chariot’s alternator finally gave up the ghost.
We knew several months ago that it was on its last legs…or bearings, or slip rings, or whatever alternators have. But we decided to let it run, since replacing or fixing it is expensive and I was, as usual, thinking about buying a new car.
Welp. I didn’t buy a new car. In fact, I decided I don’t want a new car — druther do the driving myself, thank you. So the car has been tooling along just fine ever since that initial diagnosis.
Yesterday as I’m was driving home from the FedEx office the radio cut out.
I figured it was time to buy a new cheap radio.
But…uhm…then the ABS light flickered on. And the thermostat said the engine was a whole lot cooler than it oughta be. The air conditioning gasped and wheezed.
Shut off the AC, opened the windows. The ABS light went off. Radio cut in and out. Shut off the radio.
Got stuck behind a moron on a two-lane road that I’d turned onto by way of avoiding traffic and construction. Knew there was enough room for the six-banger to get around the idiot, so FLOORED IT and flew past the bastard like an X-wing with a TIE fighter on its tail.
The poor guy in the oncoming lane apparently did not understand why one has a six-cylinder engine. He was visibly terrified…as in he almost climbed up on the sidewalk. Tsk.
After that blast of power revved up the engine, the radio came back on and the ABS light went off and things seemed to work OK again. But I left the AC off and drove straight back to the Funny Farm.
Problem is, both of Chuck’s master mechanics are out — one with an injury and the other because he and his wife bought and paid for a trip to a destination wedding five months ago. His shop is very busy under ordinary conditions — with three guys working, they have all they can do to keep up with the work. But summertime is when cars love to crap out around here. So their lot is overflowing.
I felt terrible to foist a repair job on him right at this moment. We should have changed out the alternator when we first noticed it was sickly.
Anyhow, because of the craziness down at Chuck’s, the car probably won’t be back on the road before tomorrow. That’s OK, because I’ve got plenty of food in the house and my son is back in town.
Unfortunately I went off and left my purse in the car, which was parked in the alley behind Chuck’s. We called down there to tell Harold to snag the thing. Haven’t heard anything from them to the effect that some bum already found it. So I guess it’ll be OK. Without a car, one doesn’t need a purse…
That was stupid. Don’t even know why I took the damn purse, other than force of habit. There’s a spare driver’s license hidden in the vehicle.
We drove back to my house in a Chevy Suburban. I was reminded of why I don’t want a new vehicle.
Here’s what I want in a car:
• To get from point A to point B with the least amount of hassle, expense, and distraction possible
• To drive the car all by myself
• To be reasonably safe — i.e., inside a car heavy enough to withstand a collision or a rollover
• To run trouble-free at least 100,000 miles
• To have a radio that brings in NPR and a cowboy station
• To possess an air conditioner that actually works. At all times.
There you have it. That’s it That’s all I want.
Admittedly, a functioning air conditioner…that’s asking a lot. My car has one of the old-timey functioning air-conditioners, one that actually cools the car and does not pretend to practice passenger-by-passenger “climate control,” and that is one reason I don’t want to give it up.
Here’s what I DON’T WANT:
• A car that nags me any more than the Dog Chariot already nags
• A car that tells me to turn left an eighth of a mile ahead
• A car whose windshield wipers turn on at the first hint of a raindrop
• A car that can sense a red light ahead and puts on the brakes for me
• A car that’s connected to the Internet in any way, shape, or fashion
• A car that doubles as a cell phone
• A car that arrogates driving functions unto itself
• A four-banger whose makers fool us into imagining is as powerful as a six-banger
• A course in jet airplane navigation to learn to use the dashboard
What I really would like is to keep the Chariot on the road until such time as I can no longer drive. By then, Google and Tesla’s self-driving vehicles will be past the first and second generations and so should be less of a headache to own than the first versions will be. I’d like to be able to trade the Dog Chariot in on a self-driving car that goes faster than 30 or 40 miles an hour, that can run on the open highways, and that will last until I topple over into the grave.
That, I figure, will keep me out of the nursing home by making it possible to get daily necessities and run to the doctor without having to hire a taxicab for the purpose.
I hope.
Wannabe Customer to USPS: Phbtthhphtbbb!
Today it took the better part of an hour and $12 to send my Arizona tax returns to the Department of Revenue. I would’ve done better to have driven downtown and hand-delivered the thing. It wouldn’t have taken any longer and, since gas is under $2 a gallon just now, the cost would have been about $1.95 plus $60 worth of my time. Not $12 plus $60 worth of my time.
Think of that: the real cost of mailing a tax return was right around $72. Thank you, USPS!
Wonder-Accountant delivered the mountain of personal and corporate returns yesterday — we’d had to take extensions on both, since she spent the tax season enjoying the same surgical adventures I so loved a year or so ago. She of course was able to file the federal returns electronically, but the forward-looking State of Arizona, ever ten years behind the rest of the country, will only accept hard copy. So she prepared and addressed the snail-mail envelope and the return-receipt request and all that.
This being Tuesday, I figured the lines at the Post Office would be within reason, so headed out around 2 p.m. to pony up cash to the USPS at the station closest to my house.
And yea verily! Only three people were in line ahead of me.
So I joined the merry crowd. And stood there. And stood there. And stood there. And stood there. And stood there. Three customers were at the counter. Two postal service agents were waiting on them. One of these wandered off, leaving the other to continue what evidently had already been a lengthy transaction with a woman. The two male customers at the counter had struck up a casual friendship while they were standing around the P.O. — which should tell you how long they’d been hanging out. They chatted back and forth as if they’d known each other since the beginning of time.
They probably had.
Two of the people in front of me were listening to the conversation between the remaining customer service agent and the woman. I didn’t hear what was said, but they did; whatever it was, it elicited a snort of “wouldn’tcha-know-it” laughter and a knowing glance between the two in line. The transaction at the counter visibly entered a more complex phase, with extensive yakking back and forth. Now that agent wandered off into the back.
And, like the other one, she stayed gone.
So now we had three people standing at the counter and zero customer service reps on the other side of the counter.
Time ticked past.
Eventually, after I’d been standing there about ten minutes, I thought…my time is worth something…and this exercise ain’t payin’ the bills! Decided I would count slowly to 120. If one person moved forward in the line, then I would stay. If no one moved forward, I would go to another post office.
Speaking of slow, there are surely only two possible explanations for the customer service efficiency at the Post Office: either they train their employees to move in slow motion, or they put some kind of drug in the water fountains.
One hundred and twenty s-l-o-w-w-w-w counts later, neither agent had returned to the counter. Everyone was still standing in place. A couple more customers had come in the door and joined the back of the line.
I left. Drove over to the post office in the ’hood where I used to live, which at times is a pretty efficient operation.
There a man practically ran to get to the door ahead of me. He slammed his way through the door and then deliberately shut it in my face. Not the fault of the USPS, of course, but a clue to why employees just might be less than enthusiastic about waiting on us Great Unwashed types.
He charges to the line and grabs a place at the back. Didn’t have to charge far, because the line was almost back to the door.
Here, too, only two workers were on hand to deal with a horde of customers, and those two workers also appeared to have imbibed some soporific from the water supply.
Obviously, this was going to waste even more of my time than had already been wasted. I left.
Drove over to the nearest FedEx outlet. Parked right in front. A guy coming out of the store kindly waited until I hobbled from the car to the sidewalk before stepping off the pavement to walk out between the vehicles. Not so irritable, apparently. Wonder why?
Inside, two customer service types were staffing a desk that had no (0.00) line. They had no problem shipping the package down to the Department of Revenue using the registered mail, return-receipt-requested forms Wonder-Accountant had prepared. And their arms and legs moved in real time, which was interesting.
Fee for the privilege of getting a functional organization to send my taxes to my honored government: $12.
If I’d had the common sense to go there first, that’s all it would have cost me, since that FedEx storefront is about a five-minute drive from my house.
To schlep the packet down to the Arizona Department of Revenue, come to think of it, would eat up about an hour, round-trip (plus God only knows how much in parking and in time required to find a human being there). Google provides the address…and 46 customer reviews averaging 1.5 stars, all told.
Some of the citizens’ appraisals of ADOR’s customer service are less than adoring (heh). This one has got to win some prize somewhere:
This place sounds like a scam. I’m not sure if this is a real Department. When I called the number on the letter it went straight to the person who’s name was on the letter. It never went to a switchboard or an operator. Then when I asked to whom I was speaking to, I could barely understand him and it was his own name he could not pronounce. I felt I woke him up, or he was watching TV. Did not want to converse with him or give them any personal information like SS number, phone number, date of birth, none of that stuff. Going to have to research to make sure this is a real place.
This is kind of weird.
Follows. No matter how colorful some other government agency gets, Arizona’s always takes the cake. 😀
Next tax season: Just go straight to the FedEx store and pony up the cash to ship off the state returns. Don’t even think about trying to use the U.S. Postal Service.
Shots and thangs…
Spent most of the day banging around in 112-degree heat. Dawn cracked straight into the windshield as the Dog Chariot cruised east (halfway to freaking Payson!) toward the Mayo.
The Mayo Clinic, which runs the only hospital in the Phoenix area that consistently scores high in patient safety and overall quality, would prefer not to have to deal with Medicare patients, who don’t return as much cash as folks with private insurance. So if you’re not already a patient there when you turn 65, you’re not about to become a patient. You can stay if you were enrolled in their records as one of their doctors’ patients before you go on Medicare, but once you are a Medicare patient, you have to show up at least once a year, whether you need care or not. If you don’t, out you go!
To complicate that matter, my long-time doc, who had done his residency at the Mayo (way back in the day!) and later rejoined the clinic the instant the Mayo built its Scottsdale facility, has retired. So I was assigned to a young thing who looks like she graduated from high school about six weeks ago. 😀 In fact, she has an M.D. and a fancy set of internship and residency credentials and she’s been around for awhile. But she sure doesn’t look it from this vantage point.
So anyway, nothing would do but what I had to run out there for a fishing expedition annual checkup, a profitable custom that has been widely debunked as rarely helpful and often harmful to patients. Ordinarily I wouldn’t do that, but I felt boxed into it, not wanting to be thrown onto the mercy of the local health providers, who like to give themselves annoyingly specious, self-congratulatory corporate names like “Honor” and “Dignity.” {snarkity!}
Other than the waste of about two hours of my time (a five-minute blood draw at 8 a.m. and then sitting around until 9:40 to see the doc), little was accomplished there.
Except her parting shot was “I’d like to suggest you get the newer pneumonia vaccine and a tetanus-diphtheria-pertussis shot.”
Well, I’ve been thinking the same thing for quite awhile, and every now and again figure I ought to raid a Walgreen’s or Safeway pharmacy and demand the same. But by the time I’ve picked up the eye shadow or the potatoes, I forget. Yeah. It’s a function of old age: no focus.
So this was good. The last community-acquired pneumonia shot I had was a freebie we got as a benefit for Great Desert University employees. That type protects against about a dozen strains of pneumonia. The newer version fends off another 23 varieties. The older you get, the more vulnerable you are to this class of diseases. Pneumococcal pneumonia kills about 1 in 20 of people over 65 who get it. Pneumococcal bacteremia and pneumococcal meningitis each kill about 1 in 6 gray-haired victims.
As for the DPT shot (now called TDaP): the last time I had one of those, I think, I was in junior high school. We got them all the time in Arabia, of course…along with cholera, typhus, typhoid, smallpox, and a variety of other horrible shots. In fact, I have quite a phobia of shots, as a result. But with age also comes wisdom…and a certain amount of don’t-give-a-damn-anymore nerve. Whooping cough — that is, pertussis — has made a comeback, thanks to the ninnies who don’t vaccinate their kids. And that disease can make anyone good and sick and can kill older adults. Diphtheria, a nasty disease, can also spirit you away.
At any rate, these two shots gave me a pair of sore arms and an overall stunned feeling. That notwithstanding, I had to trudge back across the city in the heat. Stopped at a gigantic Fry’s to look for some popsicle molds (found them, but they’re DINKY), to buy some popsicles (thereby to plagiarize their recipes by studying the contents lists), and a few other pieces of junk.
Interestingly, this gigantic supermarket did not carry frozen berries and fruits.
From there, race home, put away the food, turn around, and race back out: this time to Tempe, to meet with the business partner over a late lunch. That was fun! We always enjoy Tempe’s ineffable House of Tricks — if you’re ever in that burg, you should have lunch or dinner there.
Ate myself stupid; then proceeded back across the city on the surface streets, it being past the start of the rush hour by the time we parted. The freeway west-bound was dead stopped for several miles whilst I was heading eastward: one wreckie-poo and the damn thing turns into a vast ribbon-shaped parking lot.
The freeway-avoidance route took me past a Costco, where I dodged in to grab some frozen fruit: mango plus a medley of berries. This should make an incredible fruit pop!
Post-script: Ah-hah! New computer weirdness discovered! Have hit “publish” twice on this thing, and it won’t go online. Lovely.
Who Tells Pollsters the Truth?
So again, as during every election from dog-catcher to President, we’re presented with cascades of statistics about what kind of people voted for whom, how much they earn, where they shop and how much they spend there, and what barn they were born in.
I look at those reports and think…huh?
The first question that always comes to my mind is who tells some snoop anything, much less the truth?
If I were still voting in person — which I don’t, and can’t imagine why anyone in their right mind would drive to a polling place and stand in line when the government will mail a ballot to you — the last thing on this earth I would do is say how I voted to someone who barged up and started asking nosy questions. Certainly I wouldn’t tell such a person how much I earn.
I respond to nosiness like this in two ways: either by declining to answer or by lying. And I’ll bet a fair number of other folks do the same.
If I have to come up with something for the privilege of getting a fair price on groceries, I’ll emit disinformation — Safeway, for example, thinks I’m a deceased German shepherd whose phone number happens to belong to the Phoenix Safeway corporate offices. Usually, though, I’ll shop somewhere else or decline the “price cuts” on offer — which amount to another way to raise prices and then claim they’re giving you something “on sale” when they charge the ordinary retail price.
Other times, I simply say, “I’m sorry, I don’t share my [telephone number, e-mail address, name of my first-born child] with retailers.”
If a pollster walked up to me outside a voting place, I would tell him to take a flying eff at the moon. There is no way I would answer questions like who did I vote for, what is my party affiliation, and how much do I earn.
Surely, the nature of the folks who would answer questions like this must skew poll results.
Would you answer any such questions? Truthfully?
Connie on the Road: Travels with an Escape Artist
By the end of April, Connie the Queen of the Big Rigs is headed back home (Phoenix) for a five-day turnaround. Silver the Ingenious Weimaraner refines her plan to take to the road — not on 18 wheels, but on four feet.
Oklahoma on My Mind…
Fine Dining
Going home in a couple of hours. Done here at Sysco Foods.
This is the kind of “food” I’ve been eating for a couple of days. I have run out of my stash of “healthy provisions.” Does this give me “junk food foodie” status?
Connie’s Best-Laid Plans…
←My attempt at keeping the doggie from escaping.
Covered the door handle by hanging a towel over the window.
This is how it looked when I came back from dinner. She sure tried! →
April Turns to May…
Was home for 5 days. Too many projects! (still have not done my taxes – yikes)
In Nogales again picking up watermelon. Woohoo!
↓ Found this in the paid parking lot on the ground under someone else’s trailer at Danny’s Truck Resort when I went to pick up the truck Monday. That enough prepositional phrases for ya?
No, I did not show it to the cashier. I had actually overpaid for the spot but didn’t feel like trying to explain it to anyone at the “resort.”
Mother’s Day
Happy Freakin’ Mothers Day to all you mothers out there!
This day has turned out to be a mother.
I used to make Puke/Emote lists in high school so I could remember what was going well and what I felt I should be worrying about.
You know, like, did I have anything to wear? Were we going to float down the river that weekend and was I too fat to wear a bathing suit? Did I get a good grade in (yuck) German class? Did the cute guy who sat near me in Algebra say hi?
In honor of Mothers Day, I am going to share my Puke/Emote list for the week. Will make it up as I go along…
Please note that this is in no way all-inclusive and is subject to revision at any time.
Will start with Puke, so I don’t have to end this post on a sour note(!)
Puke
1) My iPhone will not hold a charge. The ATT store manager in Phoenix said it could not possibly be the battery because they are “integrated” with the phones now. I am not believing this but go along. I just want my phone to work, dammit. He sells me two chargers and is sure both of mine have to be bad. Because, again, it CAN’T possibly be a bad battery.
2) I swapped trailers with a guy in Phoenix and did not notice the bent bumper until just now. Hope they don’t try and blame it on me.
3) After being gone a day I notice my phone will still not hold a charge.
4) Saw a Facebook post with a horrible picture of Donald Trump’s son holding up a body part from an animal he killed. I fear it is not Photoshopped. I am now traumatized! There are no words that would describe how much I loathe people who kill for fun.
5) I was asked to do the broker of this load a “favor” and deliver it one day early. WTF? Of course I said yes as I am new to this company and, well, if they are really in dire need of my watermelons who am I to judge?
I was already tired from my time “off” at the house, and in order to drive the required miles in the shortened time span I did what has always worked in the past. I ATE my way across Kansas, Missouri, Iowa and 100 miles of Minnesota. Three large cups of coffee, one cheeseburger, three chocolate protein bars (choc caramel, choc coconut and choc pnut butter), 1/3 of a container of peanut butter pretzel nuggets, cheese popcorn, and an entire bag of XXX Red Hot Cheetos got me as far as the IA/MN border. Now I have heartburn and my pants are too tight.
6) I arrived at Russ Davis Warehouse in Eagan, Minnesota at 5 PM on Saturday, May 7 AS REQUESTED only to be told by the Receiving Clerk guy that they did not need the watermelons early. Could I just come back tomorrow?
7) Drove 60 miles out-of-route (unpaid miles) back to the Flying J truck stop to chill out. I tried calling friends to vent but all you mothers were busy!! I did get to vent to new roommate who has major issues with his insane boss at work. This helped.
8) Got up early the next morning to get in a much-needed shower. Was hurrying to make sure I did not miss my original delivery appointment. Dropped a glass bottle of face make up (brand new, of course) onto the tile floor and it EXPLODED when it landed. It was everywhere. In the grout cracks, on the walls and all over the side of my boot and crispy clean jeans.
9) I scurried back out to the truck after cleaning up the mess and did not see Silver’s happy face in the window to greet me. The drivers side door was open. She had decided to escape out of the drivers side door since I cardboarded up the one on her side. NOOOOO!!!
Ran around the parking lot and woods calling frantically. Lots of people in the car and truck parking lots said they had seen a “hound dog” running around. Ten minutes into it a woman pointed into the woods to tell me someone spotted the dog back there and I called out Silver’s name again. She came zipping out of the woods with wet/muddy paws – barking as she ran toward me in a total panic.
10) Now the door panels of both doors are scarred up with scratches from the dog trying to claw her way out of the truck. I got an estimate to repair the damage: $350 per door.
11) I got unloaded at the organic produce place around noon. The forklift driver came out with my signed bills and informed me that nine of the 54 bins of watermelons were rejected and put back in the trailer. I am now parked near an off ramp waiting for the broker to tell me what to do with them. I know what I’d like to tell him to do with them.
Emote
1) I have two great new roommates and they each have a little doggie of the small terrier sort’
2) I still have a job!
3) The weather is 65 degrees here in Minnesota today and all the trees have greened up.
4) My Peterbilt still looks cool and it still has a chrome visor and bumper.
5) I don’t live in a trailer down by the river.
6) Have not had a zit in quite some time.
7) It’s Sunday and I have time to finish all my paperwork before I go to the office tomorrow.
8) My dog is awesome.
9) The world is my oyster.
My wild child enjoying the Minnesota flowers – next to the highway ramp!
What is one of the most disgusting things on this planet?
Yes. A tick.
Silver must have picked one up on her romp through the woods this morning. Found it on her stomach while I was giving her loves just now. Total freak out…because I am so mature.
Silver made another friend at the evil watermelon rejection company today.
Arrived at Destination: Need GPS to Find Door
This might not seem that annoying to the average person, but when such a large part of the day is spent following signs at places and on roads you have never been to/on before, an accurate sign really means a lot.
Can you tell by looking at this sign where the Receiving office is?
The Saga of Connie and Silver…
Westward from Albuquerque
Flying Low across the Country
El Paso
Along the Border
Eastward Bound