To be fair...

My brother just mentioned something on Facebook today about fairness.  Along the lines of taxes and fiscal cliff jibber-jabber.  He said “Something about the fairness thing always bugged him” and then linked to an article written by Scott Adams.  I like Scott Adams.  I even read the article.  But this post isn't about that.  This post is about MY take on fairness.

What’s wrong with fair?  Perhaps I am confusing “fair” with “equality”, but I don’t think I really am.  Even as a very young child, it would get stuck in my craw when something that was blatantly UN-fair was forced upon me.  I was looking back at some old report cards from elementary school and there were one or two that mentioned my…ahem…shall we say…passion, for that which was fair.  From basic childhood behavior to how we act as adults, what is fair is often times pretty cut and dry.  If a child has a toy that belongs to them and another child wants to play with it, undoubtedly there will be a scrap-match.  Usually ended by some adult talking about “Johnny, you should SHARE your toy”.  Probably more because they are tired of listening to their precious little snowflakes squawking like banshees than out of a feeling of fairness.  Either way, this leaves little Johnny frustrated and confused.  Why would he be frustrated and confused you ask?  Because it wasn't fair.  It may have been NICE, but it wasn't fair.  A six year old isn't going to be able to articulate the unfairness of the situation, but the beauty of being six is that they don’t have to.  It’s instinctual.  Human nature at its best.  They KNOW it’s not fair.  They even know why.  But someone has taken that control from them and forced them to do something that doesn't pass the stupid-test.

As an adult the same principle applies.  My brother has a nice Porsche.  I sure would like to have that Porsche.  But rather than go through 17-some-odd years of post high school education and countless years of practice to be able to afford to buy one for myself, I have decided that I don’t think it’s fair that HE has the Porsche and I don’t.  I think he should give it to me.  You know…share.  All fair-like and whatnot.  Then he can go buy another one for himself.  What…you don’t think that would be fair?  Ok.  Maybe not.  Sure would be NICE of him, though.  Yes.  Very brotherly of him indeed!  It is Hanukkah after all…

Love In A Bi-Partisan Household

As most of my posts often do, this one was born from my scanning a headline.  This one talking about being married to a person whose political views differ from your own.   While I believe that over the years we’ve discovered that our view on some fundamental social issues are very similar, our take on the other issues differ greatly.  Our opinions on the candidates themselves, the spin that most media outlets put on the candidates that they cover and want/don’t want you to think they support etc., also differ greatly.

Needless to say, this has caused some very sprightly discussions.  Arguments, if you will, in the proper sense of the word.  Now in the realm of the argument structure, Eric has me at a severe disadvantage.  I can usually keep up in the first 10 minutes or so of back-and-forth.  But he was the state champ in debate (or something like that) and did it not only in high school, but in college as well.  Whereas I am of the jump-up-and-down-flailing-my-arms-whilst-yelling-WELL-THAT’S-JUST-STUIPD-STUPID-STUPID-YOU-BIG-BUCKETHEAD school of debate.  If my dad was alive, he’d tell you the same thing.  My dad always said that the lowest form of arguing was name-calling.    He said it was reserved for those who simply didn’t understand the issue, or lacked the proper retort.  Yeah, that pretty much sums me up when it comes to politics.  Even though he made us play “The Devil’s Advocate” beginning when we were about 5, all I really became was passionate.  Arms-a-flailing.   Only winning because people didn't wish to get caught in the hand-swinging-crossfire.   And they would quit.

Granted, my arguments could be much more effective if I really cared to read deeply into the political arguments put forth by our candidates.  Don’t get me wrong, I care deeply about the issues, but I have little to no tolerance for politics.  Politicians, car salesmen, real estate agents.  There is no difference to me. 

Being married to Eric, though, a highly talented debater who can always end by agreeing to disagree, I learned the hard way that I cannot win a proper debate with him.  Even if I’m right (and I can FEEL it in my BONES!).  I’m just not able to put forth a strong enough argument in the subject of politics.  But that’s ok.  In our short number of years together spanning two presidential elections, I have learned an important lesson:  I've learned to stop flailing.  Because ultimately I love him, and it doesn't matter.  I've learned when I've reached the end of my ability-to-articulate rope, I stop.  Because ultimately I love him, and it doesn't matter.  I have learned to appreciate WHY he feels how he does and go on with life.  Because ultimately I love him, and it doesn't matter.  We share a bed, a home, a life and I love him.   And he loves me.  And ultimately, that is ALL that matters.

Target Audience is...me?

At some point in our lives we’ve all either been home sick from work or taken a stay-cation or had something come up that provided us the opportunity to have a gander at daytime TV commercials.  You know the ones I’m talking about.  The ones for trade/technical schools so you can learn refrigerator repair.  Oh, and don’t forget about all those commercials for lawyers who specialize in “Getting your disability claim approved”.  After all, “THEY MEAN BUSINESS”.  Those commercials are targeting a specific audience likely to be watching at that time.  Well, radio is no different, right?  During the course of the day, there will be commercials specifically targeted to the audience who might be listening at that time.  

When I listened to traditional morning radio during my commute to work, I would hear no fewer than 10 commercials for breakfast at McDonald’s.  Wouldn’t I love to try their new McGriddles and a nice hot cup of coco?  “Why yes”, I say as my car steers its way into the McD’s drive through, “Now that you mention it, I think some coco might be nice”.  Corporate commercial mission success: 1. Ilisa’s diet: 0.

I bought a Volvo last year and it came with Sirius XM satellite radio.  I fell in love immediately.  The majority of channels are commercial free.  That said, my two favorite channels, Raw Dawg and Blue Collar Radio (both comedy channels) have commercials.  Limited ones, but commercial’s nonetheless.  Just like any other outlet, they have a target audience.  The audience who listens to that genre. 

Now, I know what genre I’m NOT.  I’m certainly not looking for a disability claim, a payout from a car accident, a new trade school education, or the newest Swiffer mop that will miraculously get my house clean enough to give me enough time to ‘finally read a book’.  I just happened to have a day off and caught the commercial at that time.

However, I listen to the comedy channels religiously on my way to and from work.  They play the classics like George Carlin, Eddie Murphy, and Bill Cosby.  I really like the newer stuff too.  I’m a huge fan of Kathleen Madigan, John Pinette, Ralphie May, Ron White, and Bill Engvall.  The only thing that bothers me about these two stations in particular are the commercials.  They are geared solely towards men and are all about penis function and sex.  Seriously.  Every commercial is either for penis enhancement or enlargement, prostitution (trying ineffectively to disguise itself as another “dating” website), porn websites, and stores that sell sex toys. 

After several months of being bombarded with these commercials I’m beginning to have a complex.  These companies spend big money on research and development to ensure they are advertising to their target audience.  Obviously the predominant audience is the lonely, hard-up, male pervert.  Is there something wrong with me?  Could I really be a lonely, hard-up, male pervert in denial???

Fighting my obesity one step at at time...

A couple of posts ago, I was at a real low point in my efforts to lose weight.  I really felt like I was doing everything right and then some, but seeing zero results.  I increased my activity level by over a 1/3, and have been doing my workouts 9x per week.  40-45 minutes 5x per week and 40-45 minutes twice per day on Saturday and Sunday.   I’ve been doing this for two months and have lost a grand total of 1 pound.  And even that one pound is questionable.  Today the scale informed me that it was actually only ½ a pound.   On the bright side, I haven’t GAINED any more weight.   So there’s that.

Still, I bought the Fitbit which is basically a pedometer on crack, and it has really been key to keeping me honest and motivated.  I enjoy the progress and the little badges you earn for your workouts.   Between that and tracking my entire food intake on myfitnesspal.com, I know eventually this is going to work for me.  It just HAS to.  I never really ate poorly so food has never really been a battle.  Even so, I had been making an effort to eat even better.

I say all that to say this…this past Friday I had my annual PHA.   For those of you not in the military this is the annual physical that the military makes you do.  I was quite tickled at the results of my blood work.  My total cholesterol went down over 40 points, my triglycerides went down SIXTY points, and my vitamin D levels were back into the normal range for the first time in 5 years (only by 5 points but normal is normal dammit!)  Obviously I am doing SOMETHING right.  It’s been very difficult to work this hard and see no outwardly result for my effort.  But knowing that it’s doing me some good, even if it’s only on the inside, makes me happy. 

He did scold me about my weight though.  The funny thing about that whole discussion was that when he looked at my chart, he said, well, for your height you are at exactly where you need to be weight-wise.  Uh…what?   I said, um…doc, I’m obese.  He argued with me and said, nope, “…at 5 ‘ 7” you should be right at the 135 mark which is where you are.”  Now I KNOW this man looked at me, cause I was lookin’ at him when he was lookin’ at me.   But he was reading the chart and mistakenly thought that the chart said I was 5 foot 7 inches tall when in fact my height was just written out in inches which, in my case, is 57 inches.  He said, “oh, you’re right.  For your height you should really be less than 100 pounds.”   I’m not sure I completely agree with THAT number.  Unless of course I was 11 years old (the height of the average 11 year old American girl is my height).   I mean, really…my chest alone has to weigh 10 pounds.  To be honest, when I weigh 115 I’m smokin’ hot.    Methinks he didn’t account for the fact that I am an adult.

All that aside, I’m a hefty little fatty, and as hard as it is proving to go from the “obese” category into the “overweight” category, it’s an even LONGER journey from the “overweight” category into the “normal” weight category.   Eventually I’m going to get there though.  Me, my fitbit, and my lower cholesterol.  Yeeha.

Civility

I hired a woman to clean my house a couple of times per month.  I’ve been budgeting for this luxury for about the last 12 years or so.   Having grown up dirt-ass poor, this is something I don’t take lightly and is one of the reasons I work as hard as I do.  

I have been very fortunate that I have found really good, trustworthy, people to do this.  After all, these are people who get unrestricted access to my home.  I prefer to hire individuals as opposed to big cleaning companies (like Merry Maids or the like).  They are still licensed and insured, but you can really get to know the person providing the service since they are the only one who comes in.  After a time, they have all become part of my life.  The woman I hired here in Northern Virginia, Mirna, is no different.   She is wonderful, sweet, efficient, and I trust her completely in my home when I’m not there. 

Today we were talking about her schedule and making a few adjustments, and I pretty much told her that I didn't have a set preference for which days she comes by.  She knows how often I want her to come, and all I asked was that she send me a text the day before so I can leave her a check.   She was, what I thought, to be oddly grateful for the freedom to run her own schedule.  Then she thanked me for my “civility”.  I wish I could tell you that I was shocked.  But sadly, I wasn’t.  I just felt badly for her.

I have always been appalled by people who lack civility.  You know the type…it’s the person who can’t even manage to eek out a smile to the person taking the toll on the Turnpike.   My father’s last girlfriend was like that.  She would never say so much as a “thank you” to the waiter/waitress who refilled her water, or a simple “hello” the cashier at Target, even when one was initiated by them.  It used to make me nuts.  I would end up saying it for her.  A waitress would fill up her water glass and she would just give them an exasperated look.  I would say to the waitress “What she meant to say was, THANK YOU”.  For those who know me, I’m sure they are able to hear my tone.

My mother was a wonderful woman who imparted a very simple rule addressing this very thing.  She would say “Ilisa, a person who is nice to you but not nice to the waitress is not a nice person”.  She was so right.

I wish I could go to my wonderful Mirna’s other clients and tell them that they should be ashamed of themselves.   Tell them that their momma’s obviously didn't raise them right.  But I can’t.  It probably wouldn’t do any good anyway.   Still…shame on them.

Problems and Challenges

I am not sure when it became politically incorrect to use the word “problem” and instead use the word “challenge”.  I am guessing it was around the same time as they started giving trophies to all the players on a kids team.  Even the ones who lost.   What do you have to reach for if you get a trophy even when you’re a loser??  But I digress.  That’s a topic for a whole other post...

I cannot stand the word “challenge” when it’s used in place of the word “problem”.   Seriously, when did the word “problem” become a bad word?  A four-letter word?  Or a negative word?  I propose that the word “challenge” and the word “problem” aren’t even interchangeable, and every time I hear it in the workplace (oh…EVERY DAMN DAY), it is being used incorrectly.  It makes me cringe.

Problems are a part of life.  Sometimes everyday life.   We don’t chose to have problems, but sometimes we have them anyhow.  My father always told me that a problem was just something in search of a solution.  If no solution exists, then there really isn’t a problem to begin with.

People chose to challenge themselves, though, don’t they?   Absolutely.   Do you want to run a marathon?  There’s a challenge if I ever heard one.  But I don’t think you’d be able to find someone who decides to train for a marathon who would tell you that they have a “problem” they are trying to solve, which is training for a marathon.   Nope.  Don’t think so.  I can say it like that over and over again and it just never rolls nicely off the tongue.

Now, if while you’re CHALLENGING yourself, to run this marathon and you develop shin splints, then THAT would be a problem.  What’s wrong with calling that a “problem”?  That’s what it IS. This isn’t a bad thing.  Well, shin splints suck, but you just have to figure out what’s causing them, and what you can do to make them stop.   Perhaps the answer to this problem is to change your stride.  Perhaps it’s the sneakers you’re wearing and you need to change it up a bit.   Whatever the solution is to the problem of shin splints might make the challenge of running the marathon a little bit easier to accomplish.  Ya trackin’?

If nothing I’ve written here convinces you that the word “problem” isn’t blasphemy and that the word “challenge” isn’t used properly 90% of the time in both corporate America and in menial government work, then I ask you to consider this…

Tom Hanks—Apollo 13:  “Houston, we have a challenge.”

Why bother??

I'm fat.  I say it a lot.  Just last week I was mistaken for pregnant.  That was like taking a bullet.

I hate that I'm fat.  It is all encompassing in my life.  I think about my weight constantly.  All day.  First thought when I get up.  Last thoughts before I go to sleep.

But I am the master of my own destiny.  I don't believe it's going to resolve on it's own.  I don't just bitch and  sit.  I work at it.   I'm in decent shape, I think.  I do well enough on the Air Force's PT test to score an "Excellent".  Can't do that unless you work out regularly.  Well, I can't.

Having just moved to a new city, the place where we live has a great area to run.  By default, it stepped up my workout.  So for a full 4 weeks now, I have been jogging 5-6 days a week.  On the weekends I have been doing it twice a day.  I even added a 40 minute yoga session every night before I go to sleep.  These jogs aren't casual strolls through the streets.  I work out to the point of nausea every time.  My heart rate stays up the entire workout.  I'm still sweating for 20 minutes after I'm done.  I hate every minute of it, but I love how I feel when its over.

To add to my efforts to loose weight I am meticulous about my caloric intake.  I use myfittnesspal.com and track everything I eat.  According to the calculations of the nutritionist at my last base, I need to keep my caloric intake at 1100-1300 calories a day to maintain my weight (high end) or loose (low end).  I never ate poorly, either.  I don't drink any alcohol, don't eat fried foods, fast foods, candy bars, chips, nothing carbonated (soda), etc.  My calorie intake is consistently between 900-1200 calories a day.  You see, I'm a creature of habit.  After 30-plus years of being thin, I didn't just suddenly wake up and become a lazy fucking glutton.  People who know my medical history may say, "Ilisa, your thyroid is completely out of whack, Hashimoto's is the problem."  Fuck the thyroid.  It's bullshit.  A huge percentage of the people out there have thyroid issues.  So what?  I blame the thyroid for 5-8 pounds of it.  The other 10 can't be the thyroid. It's got to be my fault somehow.

I have been so proud of myself since moving here.  This new run with its serious uphills (serious for me), and the addition of yoga, and an even BETTER selection of foods to eat had to have been the key, right?  THIS was what I needed!  Well so much for that.  I've been at this for weeks and haven't lost a single ounce.  NOT ONE OUNCE.  They say that when you first start working out, you loose more weight in the first couple weeks than you do the rest of the time.  Well, since I lost zero pounds the first couple of weeks, where do I go from here?  Don't concentrate on the scale you say?  I never did.  But my clothes scream that I haven't gained any muscle or toned down.  Nothing fits.  I donated my "skinny" clothes over a year ago.   Well, just last month I had to give away my "fat" clothes and now I have to go buy fatter clothes.

Why do I even bother?  Why am I killing myself?  Sure, my cardio is pretty good.  My resting heart rate is about 60-62.  Doesn't make my jeans fit any better.  I have awesome blood pressure.  Doesn't keep anyone from thinking I'm preggo.  I don't recognize myself when I walk past a mirror and when I do and realize that the fat chick is actually me, I want to cry.

I have a good job, a great home, and a husband who I adore and who adores me.  But this isn't about that.  This is about me.  I despise everything about my fat, disgusting, body.  And when you know how you once looked compared to how you look now, and then work so hard and get zero results, you just walk around in a constant state of WTF.

*************************************************************************

This post has been brought to you by Ilisa.  A woman who just needed to vent.

Reflections...have I said this already?

I think I may have wrapped up my time here in Goldsboro in a previous post.  But it is probably worth repeating.  Mostly because it’s in my head right now and I find that’s always the best time to write it down.

As my four years here come to a close, there is nothing sad, depressing, or even bittersweet about my departure.  Over the past year or so the people that I have come to know and love have already left.  The people who helped establish the foundation of what Goldsboro means to me now, and in my future thoughts of this place, are mostly gone as well.   Even Julie, who has been here as long as I have (almost to the day) is leaving tomorrow.

Some memorable things took place during the past 4 years.  Some of them, and in no particular order of importance here:  getting to buy my favorite house of all the homes I’ve bought in my life, my deployment to Pakistan, my dog Macy being diagnosed with and then beating cancer, and of course getting my Volvo C70, which I wanted since they came out with the hardtop model back in 2007.

Of course, the most amazing thing that came from my time here in North Carolina was meeting, dating, falling in love with, and ultimately marrying my husband Eric.  It’s pretty amazing what a difference four years can make in someone’s life isn’t it?  The development of the Eric Factor has certainly caused me to eat much crow among my family and friends.  On a couple different levels.  But it’s all good.  Eric is the best thing that I got from Goldsboro and I get to take him with me to DC.

I don’t know anything about what my work-life will entail when I get to DC.  It may be the best job I’ve ever had or it may be the worst.  I’d probably be ok with something in between.  But I know what kind of life Eric and I are getting outside of work and we couldn’t be more excited about it.   The more we “Google” the happier we get.  I seriously think that if we could leave tomorrow we would.

To that end, as I say deuces to Goldsboro, I won’t even look in my rearview mirror as I drive away.  The view out the front windshield promises to be way better.

Graduation...

This post could be a sensitive one for parent-types, so I’ll warn you now…if you are a parent you don’t have to continue reading.  If you chose to continue, you do so at your own risk.  You’ve been warned.

As a woman whose perception of life and the achievements therein have not been influenced by parenthood, this is a topic near and dear to my heart.  Especially on a day like today.

Today my beautiful and accomplished cousin Sara is graduating. I’m a huge Sara fan.  My heart swells when I think of her smiling face as she darts across the stage, diploma in hand.  Her parents teary-eyed and full of pride as they watch their little girl make this momentous journey that is symbolized in 20 or so steps across the stage.

Today she GRADUATES from high school.  12 long and no doubt difficult years to get to this moment in time. 

Prior to reading the first sentence of that last part, you may have been asking yourself from WHAT is Sara graduating?  That would be a shame.  Because at this time of year people just love to talk about their precious little ones who have “graduated” from Kindergarten, elementary school or worse yet, pre-K.   

I believe going from one grade-level to the next is a good thing.  One that is marked by end-of-year parties, summer vacation, maybe even dinner out to their favorite restaurant for a job well done.  But make no mistake.  Kids FINISH kindergarten and pre-K.  They COMPLETE elementary school.  They MOVE ON or UP from Jr. high.   But they GRADUATE from high school. 

I chose not to cheapen Sara’s accomplishment by having it categorized in the same fashion as a 4 year old who has just finished a year of pre-k curriculum with concentration in coloring and naps and snack time.

Sara, I love you.  I know how significant today is in the course of your life.  This world is a better place because you are a part of it.

Reflections? Kinda, but not really.

So yesterday was my birthday. 41. It's funny when you start having birthdays where you actually remember when your parents are the age you are now. That actually started when I turned 39. Either way, that's neither here nor there.

So, on my 41st birthday I am here at Squadron Officer School(SOS)at Maxwell AFB in Montgomery, Alabama with a bunch of 20-early-30- somethings making an attempt to feel younger than I am. Not that I chose to come here, mind you. It was one of those unwritten 'requirements' of being at my particular junction of my career. Suffice it to say it has taken me a lot longer to get back up to being able to run 3 miles than it did 10 years ago.

A couple of weeks ago an acquaintance from years back saw an update from me on Facebook that I was here in Alabama and she made the suggestion to come up and have lunch. So the Sunday before last, she did. She was one of my first supervisors when I was enlisted and stationed back in Geilenkirchen, Germany 20 or so years ago. We hadn't seen each other at all since Germany. It was truly a highlight of my time here in Alabama. Thinking about it now, I should have had someone take a picture of us.

This course is two months long and we are down to our last three weeks. So far, I think we got lucky with our flight. We haven't started hating each other yet and although we don't agree on everything, I think that all of us like and respect each other. We hear horror stories from random other flights about fighting, bickering, backstabbing, and general disdain for one another. We are quite fortunate.

Last week, I hurt my hand playing one of our field games. I'd like to think it wouldn't have hurt as badly if I had been younger, but the truth is that it was a one in a million hit and it would have hurt anyone. I probably have some tendon issue going on with it now, but there isn't a whole lot I can do about it here. They said I should have an MRI if it didn't get any better, but even though it is still pretty bad, I simply don't have time in this schedule to get it taken care of. I'll live.

Eric and I will be moving to DC soon after I graduate from SOS which is somewhat stressful, but exciting too. I will probably be more excited once we figure out where we are going to live. Having Macy makes things a little more complicated, but she is a non-negotiable. Hopefully if we have to sacrifice having a home with a yard, the fact that DC is a good size city, we are hoping there are dog-walkers for hire who can take her out mid-day while we are at work. As I have had time to wrap my head around living in the DC area, I get more and more excited about the idea of living in a big city again. Bring it on, DC. *Queue the "Rocky" music*

While tonight's post isn't nearly as clever or witty as I intended it to be going in, sometimes it's good just to get these thoughts out. For now, I'm heading to bed. Got a long week ahead and I need my beauty sleep.

The Banana Mobile lives!

So just as he predicted, by the time dad and I walked back into the house, my mother was there with a message in hand saying that someone named David from Roger Dean Chevrolet had called and asked that we call him back. Dad gives me a quick wink and calls David back.

The very next day we go to pick up my car. Dad and I got out there, and I drove my car off the lot. The feeling of freedom and independence was immediate and life-changing. Suddenly there were no walls, borders, restrictions or rules. I moved out of my house about 3 weeks later and only lived in South Florida for about another month before deciding that I missed NY too much to stay.

I didn't tell a soul. I packed up my few belongings into the car and at 17, I started the drive up I-95 to NY. About 8 hours into the drive, I hear what sounded to my ears like an explosion. I had no idea what happened, but I suddenly had little control over my car. I guide it slowly over to the side of I-95 and come to a stop. My right front tire had blown. Here I was, 17 years old, in South Georgia, on I-95, at dusk. With a blown tire. I don't even know if I have a spare. Ok, I thought to myself, this is NOT a big deal. I know what a tire looks like and I know what a jack looks like and I can do this. I am praying that nobody stops to help. My fear was being murdered by ax. At 4'9" and about 85 pounds, I could hardly rely on my ass-kicking abilities.

I open my trunk and was so happy to see a spare tire in there that I almost started to cry. What I didn't see was a jack. I do, however, see this other weird looking metal accordion looking thing. Perhaps this was the tool? I didn't know. I get the tire out of the trunk and was probably more proud of that little accomplishment than I should have been and I bring it over to the front of the car. How hard could it be? Take one tire off, put the new tire on, and be back on the road to NY, right? RIGHT! I know that beneath a hubcap are the bolts that hold the tire on. But apparently I was lacking the tool specific to taking this particular hubcap off the tire. So I proceed to start beating and prying the hubcap off the tire with the tire iron. I am beating and bending and prying for about 45 minutes before I finally got the thing off. I then slowly began to figure out this weird jack-like tool and began the daunting process of cranking the car up off the road. Every time I cranked, my knuckles scrapped the ground and I simply lacked the power to do this right. After an hour or so, bleeding and defeated, I sat on the ground next to my car and cried in the dark.

As a 17 year old, you can only imagine the terrifying thoughts that were going through my head. After about 15 minutes or so, my pity-party came to an end and I managed to not only get the car the rest of the way off the ground, but I managed to get the new tire on the car.

I drove the rest of the way to NY without stopping. I was scared to death that my tire was going to fall off. The next morning, exhausted and hungry, I drove directly into Bob Maher's autobody shop. He was one of my dad's best friends and I wanted him to check my tire. Turns out I had done everything right. It was my first test as an adult and it was a good one. And I passed.

That car became a home for both me and my best friend, Cindi. We spent more time in that car than we did in either of our houses. I kept that car until I went into the military in September of 1990. I probably had that car for less time than I did any other car I owned, but I will always remember it and it will always have a special place in my heart. Probably Cindi's heart too. She actually LIVED in that car during her moments of homelessness. HA!

My First Car

My first car was a pale yellow 1984 Ford Fairmont. Affectionately known as “The Banana Mobile.” I bought it in 1989 about a month after I moved from NY to Palm Beach, Florida.

My father came with me to the dealership, Roger Dean Chevrolet, and we went on the hunt. Our salesman, a HOT HOT guy named David DiMessino (yes, he was so hot, that I remember his name 20+ years later) showed us a few cars and we finally came upon my Fairmont. This car was DA BOMB. It was the high end of the Fairmont line with all the bells and whistles. Power windows and locks, cruise control, and the icing on the cake…A kickin’ AM/FM stereo with 8-track player. Oh yeah.

Being 17 with no car-buying experience, I get a look inside this car and I am literally bouncing up and down with excitement saying something along the lines of “I want this one! I want this one!” David the salesman was smiling from ear to ear and my father looked like he wanted to kill me.

Off we go into the office with David to get the deal done. It was here that I learned about haggling. Prices were offered, words were spoken, and ultimately my father got up and said “Let’s go, Liss, we’re leaving.” I continued to sit there, looking back and forth between my father and my David and trying to figure out what the hell just happened. I was mortified. I was a very bright 17 year old yet it never occurred to me to just say to my father, “Hey, I’ve worked since I was 11 years old for this money and we’re staying!” Instead, in his best lower octave serious voice dad gives me one more “Let’s. Go.” Slowly I stand up, tears in my eyes, and we walk out of the dealership. I have a pocket full of money, no car, no David DiMessino, nothing.

We get into dad’s car and go home. On the way, my father assures me that David will call and agree to the price we wanted. In fact, he promised, he probably already called and there will be a message waiting for us by the time we get home…

Tomorrow: The adventures of Ilisa and her Banana Mobile…