Well, today I spent three hours at a Toyota dealer.  A man with very bad teeth tried to convince me that Social Security numbers have eight digits, then he asked me how to spell the word "quote."  (Hint to Toyota:  Up your standards.)  The guy who actually sold us the car did a really decent job, though, harried as he was.  *Those who doubt the economy, go to a Toyota dealership -- they are making out like bandits.

And the verdict:  We own a Toyota Corolla.  Yea, verily, we gave up our 17.5 mpg gas guzzling but beautiful Ford Explorer for a cloth-seat, no-moon-roof, fuel-efficient, smaller-carbon-footprint Corolla.  That gets an estimated 35 miles per gallon.

Driving off the lot, I had a moment of angst.  I missed my comfy leather seats. The Corolla is definitely not as posh.  Also, it was weird to be back down on the ground again after a few years of sitting up high and mighty.  I called Pa and told him I was a little weirded out.  "That'll wear off," he said, "the first time you go to the gas station."

And I know he's totally right.

It was maybe a little painful. But the Corolla, which my daughter promptly named "Roxy" after the neighbor's little dog, is now sitting happily in the garage where the albatross SUV used to sit. I think we may actually get my husband's Explorer and the Corolla in the garage this year, AT THE SAME TIME, provided we store our 1974 AMF Puffer, which we bought off my best friend's dad for $10. 

And I'm intensely relieved. I'd say that's my main emotion now. We got almost what we owed on the SUV, which in today's market is unbelievable - we actually got $700 over blue book value for it.  Shocking.  And we got 2.9% financing on the Corolla. Also shocking.  So I think the stars aligned for us. 

Since I've done so much research on this topic, my BlogHer post for Monday will be on this subject. Stay tuned, true believers.

Long live good gas mileage! And Blondie will be so proud, as now her Corolla has a SISTER.

Huzzah.

Beloved and I have two SUVs.  It wasn't on purpose.  I used to drive a 1994 Geo Prizm, blue, stick shift, and I LOVED THAT CAR.  I drove it until 2006, when I got t-boned on Ward Parkway by a much larger car. It bent the axle and totaled the Geo, which turned out to be worth a whopping $800.

I'm still bitter about it, if you can't tell.  Because to me, that car was worth so much more.  It was paid off, it got great gas mileage, and it as the last of the cars I named (Priscilla).  It was Pa's car before it was my car, and I bought it from Pa when I moved to Kansas City in 1998 for $3,000, which I paid for myself.  It's the last car I bought with cash.

So anyway, the "family car" at the time was my husband's 1998 Ford Explorer.  We were certain this Explorer would die a quick death, as we'd already replaced the rear axle to the tune of $1200 and the truck at the time had more than 100k miles on it.  We thought we'd get a new family car, then as soon as Beloved's truck died, we'd get another little Geo-like thing.

Except Beloved's car never died.  It's still kicking at 140k miles a full three years later.

Now trust me, I'm happy about that part.  And shocked that a Ford Explorer could really go that long with no more work since the rear axle, other than the battery my husband changed last weekend. (God, forgive my hubris and do not strike us down with a dead car tomorrow.)  But what to do?  Now we have two functioning Ford Explorers, one car payment, and two years left on a five-year loan that's put us pretty much upside down on the Explorer that I drive.

For a while, we contemplated trading the one I drive for something smaller and more economical.  However, we quickly realized that because of gas prices, nobody wants a used Explorer, and nobody is even going to give us what we owe on it to take it off our hands.

So,drat. I guess we'll have to pay it off, hope the second one lasts, and then make the switch at that point.

Which has me trying to eek out every drop of gasoline.  I used to think only old people griped about gas prices, but when it suddenly costs $120 a week to drive two urban assault vehicles, you start rethinking things.

I work from home as much as I can. I'm fortunate to be an editor, and that's a job that can be done from home.  Usually I work from home two days a week, and I thank my company greatly for it. So that helps a lot, just not having to drive forty miles round trip every day.  But I've also started driving SLOWER, which has Beloved fit to be tied.

Him: "Speed up. People are passing you on the right."

Me: "I'm in the middle lane.  This is the lane for people who need to get over soon but are driving slow."

Him: "Why are you driving so slow?  You're making me crazy."

Me: "I saw on the elevator slide show it saves you 3-5 miles per gallon to drive 65."

Him: "NOT YOU, TOO!  ARRRRGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!"

So, you can see how well Beloved takes my conservation measures.  I'm not sure how well it's working, honestly, because we drive my truck on the weekends, which makes calculations difficult. I've also started trying to drive at least to work without the air conditioner on.  I know I'm nuts, but I don't really mind the Midwestern heat as much as a lot of people do. I'm not saying I love it or anything, but I've always found driving with all the windows down to be kind of exciting.  It's like being on a boat or something. This doesn't work out when I have to look good at the end of the trip, but if I'm just going home, whatever.  I'll sweat.  (Check in with me again once we go over 100 degrees more than two days in a row.  I think last summer we had 10 days in a row over 100 degrees, and 100 degrees with 80% humidity = steaming like broccoli.)

Will it work?  Will we survive?  I'm sure we will. But dang, I wish a nice Corolla would just drop out of the sky and free me from 17 mpg and an 18-gallon tank.  Turns out we miscalculated on that purchase.  Live and learn.

A few weeks ago, PunditMom e-mailed me asking me to come up with a topic for her Mothers of Intention series.  I chose childcare.  Read it here.

Here are some other posts I've written on childcare:

Childcare in America: Shame on Us
Damn Oz
Broke and Childful: Middle Class Malaise
Where Will We Ever Find Part-time, Professional Work?
Oz Screws Up Again
The Wicked Flu Witch Is Coming to Oz

There are more, lo, there are more.  But looking for them is wearying and bringing back all the angst and hate of the little angel's first year in daycare.  And reminding me I'm supposed to call her Spanish teacher to figure out why she no longer wants to go there.  (sigh)

*Note: If you like Rush Limbaugh, stop reading before I piss you off. I'll be back with more potty training tomorrow.*

I've been watching some of the coverage of Israel v. Hezbollah.  Here's a sample story - note the Lebanese woman with the crying baby in the sidebar.  But yet, here's some coverage of the U.S. bombing in Iraq...and look at the photo.  Militant people in black holding up a picture of an evil-looking John Travolta impersonator.  Both stories are about bombing, but isn't the photo what we really remember?  Think of the 9/11 coverage...do you remember the stories or the pictures?

I don't know enough about the politics of Israel and Hezbollah to know what's really going on there.  I do think it's unfortunate Israel has bombed some cars containing fleeing families.  I also think it's unfortunate that my country has bombed, well, a lot lot LOT of innocent people over the past few, oh, centuries.  It all makes me want to throw up, because I am totally a dove when it comes to war. I don't like the fighting anywhere, but really, who does?  I mean, besides W., Rumsfeld and and Captain Hook?

What I do expect to see is even media coverage, especially from the photo editors.  I'm willing to bet there are crying Israeli, Iraqi and American mommies out there, too.  Don't demonize the enemy to the point we neglect to show the faces of innocent people, some of who are related to our own Iraqi-American citizens.  I don't necessarily want to see bloody stumps every time I turn on the news, but come on, medialand, don't give me another round of War brought to you by Xbox.  If we believe strongly enough in this war (I don't, but maybe "we" do, or at least our elected officials do) to engage in it, then we should be prepared to see all of its effects.  And if we're not, we should cover other countries' wars with the same detached embarrassment that we cover our own.

Well, okay, maybe it wasn't Rome.  Maybe it was really one Italian priest who grew up in small-town Iowa.

My in-laws are quite Catholic.  They're really good people.  They go to church every Saturday, and even though I'm not now Catholic, nor have I ever been Catholic or wanted to be Catholic (no offense to Catholics - it just ain't for me), I wanted to be a good daughter-in-law.  We were in small-town Iowa this weekend for my father-in-law's 70th birthday party.  All eight kids, their spouses, and the grandkids.  All told, there were 18 adults and 14 children.  On Saturday, most of us brushed our hair and straightened our t-shirts and went to church. 

My beloved was not thrilled in the least to be dragged to church.  He is a reformed Catholic - the guilt of it all sort of ruined him on church for a long time.  After our nondenominational wedding, I convinced him that attending a Lutheran church with me when we wanted to hang out with other (we hoped) open-minded-but-God-fearing folk would not be painful after I found a church that featured a sports-allegory-quoting pastor.  The pastor left two months ago, and it's been difficult at best to get him anywhere near a church since then.  Especially near a Catholic church.  Ahem.

But we went, because I could tell it was really important to his parents.  So did all but three of the other families.  We. Are. Such. Suckers.

This particular priest grew up in Iowa but is currently living in Rome.  It was some sort of children's week - I think bible school had just ended or something.  During the sermon, the priest picked up a sword made by the adorable children and started talking about the sword of the spirit, the belt of truth and other armor-of-God-type stuff.  We smiled and nodded.  Then, out of nowhere, he launched into a diatribe about how contraception has caused the war in Iraq (a modern Babylon, I tell you).  He also said contraception caused homosexuality, which in his book is the same as having sex with animals or robots.  ???

At this point, I found myself gagging a bit and trying to cover the little angel's ears without appearing obvious.   The priest went on to quote a sermon made by Pope John Paul in 1968 in which he denounced the sexual revolution.  That all makes sense - I understand why the pope wouldn't be part of the Summer of Love.  Where he went from there was bizarre and hateful.  He said all people who use contraception consider abortion to be the next step in birth control.  He said "plugs and drugs" have brought about the downfall of society.

During communion, which I couldn't take anyway, I took the little angel outside.  I pretended she was fussy, but really, I needed some air.  I encountered my Catholic sister-in-law with her one-year-old cavorting about the church lawn.  She looked mad enough to spit nails.  "Please tell me it ended better than it started," she said.

"Uh, no." 

We looked at each other, and I felt a surge of love for her, dear Catholic K., who is able to love her three kids and still realize that homosexuality and bestiality are so totally not the same. 

When we got home, we sat around and discussed the sermon. Every person in the family is religious in their own way, and most of them are still Catholic.  Not one person that I talked to agreed with what was preached that day.  Not one person could fathom being so quick to judge in the name of a God who said first "love your neighbor as yourself."

I'm sure there are many Catholic churches out there that wouldn't have let this priest get three words past "robot," but there were many people who thanked the priest after the sermon and told him how much they had enjoyed it.  As much as that made me sad, I also respect the fact that this is a free country, and part of what makes that pretty great is that everyone has a right to believe what they want and say it out loud in a church or on a street corner if they want to. 

Sometimes freedom of speech is a hard cross to bear, you might say.

I haven't listened to or read the news in a few weeks.  I admit, I am so pissed about the war in Iraq and the behavior of W., I can barely stand to listen to the latest.   I have always been so proud of my country, but lately, I'd claim to be Canadian if I traveled abroad. I'm that upset about our behavior.

Even feeling that way, I was blown away - BLOWN AWAY - when I heard on NPR this morning that we seized the seven- and nine-year-old children of the 9/11 mastermind and flew them to this country for "interrogation."  The link I included above is definitely left-leaning and political, but NPR isn't.  My hands were shaking on the wheel and I almost had to pull over just thinking about two young boys being interrogated over something they had no idea about when they were already dealing with the loss of their father.

Now, don't get me wrong - screw Khalid Shaikh Mohammed, if he did it. He can rot in the fiery abyss for all I care.  But seriously, seriously, how can we as a country hold his two young boys responsible for telling us about Daddy's latest escapades at work?  Especially when he's like super-secret cover terrorist operative?  WTF?  ARE WE SERIOUS???

I am livid.  I am angry. What happened to my America, where we had morals and observed human rights issues and accused other countries of behaving improperly instead of running rampant across the rest of the world, secure in our stupid economic stronghold and military might?  How can this president, who publically attends church and has beautiful twin daughters and is, according to the interviewee on NPR, avidly engaged in the granular activities of day-to-day terrorist interrogations, authorize, no, encourage this behavior?  This kidnapping of a first-grader and a third-grader?  Have you seen any kids this age lately?  Do they seem particularly well-versed in world politics?  Who the hell do we think we are? 

As a mother, I can't help but see the world through the eyes of children as well as my own.  I can't ignore crimes against children the way I used to be able to do.  I don't care who the hell's kids those are, they didn't do anything wrong, and you don't get to pick your parents the way we pick our presidents.  Is transporting these children to America and scaring the shit out of them going to really make them think, "Hmm.  You're right, Daddy was wrong. I shouldn't grow up to be a terrorist just to get back at you for torturing me when I was seven?"

I really never thought my country would sink to these depths.  If there are any international readers out there, please accept our apologies.  I'm sorry, world.  Please forgive us - he knows not what he does.

This morning we took the little angel to the walk-in hours at the pediatrician's office because she had a weird rash on her wee tushie.  The early-morning doc ordered a platelet count because he detected petechia which can mean something as mind-blowingly horrible as spinal meningitis or as bland as, well, trauma caused by too-tight diapers. Put that choice in your pipe and smoke it.

While I was waiting four hours for the results of said lab tests and desperately trying to concentrate on editing a training manual, I happened to walk past the television my mother was watching (guardian angel that she is, she who makes my daughter sleep through the night for the first time in four days with her very presence) and see George Bush.  The sight of George Bush never does anything positive for my blood pressure. Today he was talking about how sometimes people give up on kids learning to read and write, and isn't that sad.  Can you imagine how sad it is to let someone ignorant slip through the sytem?  Can you fucking imagine? WHEN MIGHT THAT EVER HAPPEN?

Ahem.  George?  This from someone who said, "Wow, Brazil is big?"  I'll save my diatribes about all the children and presidents who've been left behind for another day when I'm not trying to make up for lost time.

Happy weekend.