God Speaks Spanish and I Don't

Since moving to Boston, I quickly learned why Massachusetts drivers are called "massholes," and, as I have already mentioned, I am scared of Boston and the people who live here.

Early yesterday morning Steven left for a business trip to Florida--leaving me all alone in this house. Needless to say, I've been incredibly brave and only checked the dead bolt on the front door 3 times, locked my own bedroom door and left almost every light in the house on all night. This morning I decided to go to this cute little diner for lunch and read my book as I enjoyed their refills of Diet Coke. Of course it took about 20 minutes to find a parking meter that was free, and, when I did, it was on a side street about a block away. I went to the diner, enjoyed my french toast, diet coke and book. Two hours later (yes, I did just drink Diet Coke for a good hour, but, hey, I tip well so it's okay) I wandered back to the car...I should've stayed in my blissful ignorance filled with bubbly Diet Coke.

I don't know how this always happens to me. One time in high school during a raging snow storm, I drove my ancient Park Avenue Buick the 15 miles to Montpelier. I pulled up in the parking lot looking fly in this brown car. Have you ever noticed how not many cars are brown? Anyways, I pulled up and was met with the shocked and pitying look of one of the boys in my grade. I distinctly remember him asking if I noticed any strong pulling to the right as I drove through town. No, in fact, I didn't notice much except the wind almost pushing me off the right side of the road. Well, this was because the right, front tire of my car was completely flat and looked like it had been in such a state for quite some time. He was very nice to the poor girl who drove for miles with a front tire basically gone. He changed it out for me at the auto shop before school ended that day, and I went on my merry way.

So, after my euphoric two hours of Diet Coke, I was brought back to reality. Much like my Buick, this little Honda Civic had a very flat front tire. Really, this isn't my fault. It's on the right side! I have MS! My equilibrium is distorted! So really I can't be blamed for not noticing a little slanting to one side, can I?! For reals, sometimes half my body slants to one side, so really a bit of slanting is normal in my world.

I pop the trunk, lift the false bottom and pull out a spare donut tire aaaaand that's all. No, wait, there's some little brown bag that had melted to the rubber matting that had a metal stick with a hook and the lug nut stick. Hm, well, where's the jack? I search around and finally find it wedged into it's little hole and wiggle it out. I, in a dress mind you, plop the tire down with the metal sticks and this itty bitty jack.

Let me tell you about jacks for a second. I know how to use a jack. My dad taught me when I was just little, and we used it to hold the sled up when it broke one winter. However, that jack is red. And huge. It has a four foot handle. It cranks several feet in the air. It is a man's jack. The jack I had was not a man's jack. In fact, I started to doubt whether or not it was even a real jack. And that's when God spoke to me.

I always imagined God having a strong, deep voice that would leave your ears ringing, but God's voice actually had a very thick Spanish accent and sounded a bit far off.

"Senorita, you know how to? Senorita! No, deja! No! Senorita, up!"

I'm standing there thinking I had just been called as the next prophet when I realize God is still yelling at me in Spanish.

If you know anything about my college experience you will know that I very nearly flunked out of BYU because of Spanish. I took Spanish 101, then I took Spanish 101 again. Then I took Spanish 102, and then I took Spanish 101 again. Onward to Spanish 105 where I disgraced every Spanish word in the language. Spanish 106? How about no. I skipped 106 and lied my way into Spanish 205 which was the last required Spanish class I needed to graduate. I can't tell you how elated I was to pass this class and put Spanish behind me forever. So, you can imagine my utter astonishment at discovering God speaks Spanish.

I whipped around and looked up as I had been told to do. Well, there you have it folks, God was sitting on top of the roof of the Greek Orthodox Church. I looked up, mouth agape, and waved. He yells back at me, "You do it wrong. You know how?" I yell back that I'm going to try, but I'm fairly certain I don't know how to use this jack. I will spare you the blow by blow of the next five minutes as he tried to explain from his rooftop perch where to put the jack. As I am using the metal stick hook thing (that looks more like a crochet hook than a tool) to crank the car up my about a half centimeter each turn (oh how I wished I had that red jack).

After a minute my Spanish God was on the phone; he yells down to me, "Senorita, he help you." He points down the sidewalk at a man walking to me with a real jack. Oh, thank heavens! I meet Jose, him speaking in very slow Spanish for my benefit and me speaking in horrible Spanish.

For the next hour Jose and Raul (who descended the roof top throne and subsequently was not God) helped me switch out the back tire with the donut, and then put the back tire on the front tire. We talked in broken English and broken Spanish. I taught them the rhyme 'righty tighty, lefty loosey' and they laughed, but I'm pretty sure it was a courtesy laugh. Raul taught me how to fix a tire valve. He came down with a tire pump and fixing kit and showed me where the valve was cracked. He also taught me not to be swindled my the mechanics. 15 dollars is all I am supposed to pay for the tire, and if I pay more then I am "bobo," which I'm not sure what that means, but I'm pretty sure I don't want to be one.

Raul and Jose were fixing the roof of the church, but they were kind enough to come down and help what obviously looked like a bobo in a skirt trying to decide which side is up on a city jack. People out here are busy and impatient. Not many people look up and smile on the subway, and no one waits longer than .5 seconds before laying on their horn at a green light. However, I realized today that there are good people everywhere, and that even though it took time out of their day, Jose and Raul came to my aide, and they didn't just swap out the tire, no, they made sure the car was okay and then made sure I wouldn't lose money on the tire. People are kind, and despite how leery I am of this city and its people, I need to remember that there are some unexpected, Greek Orthodox saints out there that speak Spanish.

Tasers and 2nd Amendment

With all the controversy over banning guns in the United States, I've never really had to put much thought into my stance. Of course not! No, I'm very much opposed to this infringement on the 2nd amendment. I do not personally own a gun, but people in my family do, my friends do; in fact, probably my whole town does! Protecting yourself is a right, and I do not believe government should ever take control of our right to protect ourselves.

Like I said, I've always been against gun control, but recently I've become much more impassioned about it. Boston is a wonderful place; there are so many great things to do and see, but Massachusettes has a fault, and I'm not talking about their absurd roads or their terrible sidewalks. It is illegal to own or to sell a Taser or any other type of stun gun in Massachusetts under the Massachusetts General Laws Chapter 140, Section 131J.  A civilian in possession of a taser may punished by "a fine of not less than $500 nor more than $1,000 or by imprisonment in the house of correction for not less than 6 months nor more than 21/2 years, or by both such fine and imprisonment."

What?!?

Seriously. As I explained in my last post, I am scared of this place, so Steve and I have been thinking about getting a small taser for me to carry. I'm sure it will never need to be used, but it would make me feel better as I travel the subways, buses and streets by myself. However, I guess that won't be happening.

Like I said, I've always known I am against laws that constrict the 2nd amendment, but now that I slightly understand how it feels to have my right to feel safe taken away, I definitely am against all and any laws that leave civilians unprotected.

On a less serious note, read my favorite story about tasers and I dare you to not laugh:

Taser Story

Last weekend I saw something at Larry's Pistol & Pawn Shop that

sparked my interest. The occasion was our 15th anniversary and I

was looking for a little something extra for my wife Julie. What I came

across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse-sized taser. The effects of

the taser were supposed to be short lived, with no long-term adverse

affect on your assailant, allowing her adequate time to retreat to

safety.

WAY TOO COOL! Long story short, I bought the device and brought it

home.

I loaded two AAA batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button.

Nothing! I was disappointed.I learned, however, that if I pushed the

I learned, however, that if I pushed the

button and pressed it against a metal surface at the same time; I'd get

the blue arc of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs.

AWESOME!!! Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Julie what that

burn spot is on the face of her microwave.

Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that it

couldn't be all that bad with only two triple-A batteries, right?

There I sat in my recliner, my cat Gracie looking on intently (trusting

little soul) while I was reading the directions and thinking that I

really needed to try this thing out on a flesh & blood moving

target.

I must admit I thought about zapping Gracie (for a fraction of a second)

and thought better of it. She is such a sweet cat. But, if I was going

to give this thing to my wife to protect herself against a mugger, I did

want some assurance that it would work as advertised. Am I wrong?

So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading

glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions

in one hand, and taser in another.

The directions said that a one-second burst would shock and disorient

your assailant; a two-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms

and a major loss of bodily control; a three-second burst would

purportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of

water. Any burst longer than three seconds would be wasting the

batteries. All the while I'm looking at this little device measuring

about 5' long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference; pretty cute really

and (loaded with two itsy, bitsy triple-A batteries) thinking to

myself, 'no possible way!'

What happened next is almost beyond description, but I'll do my

best...

I'm sitting there alone, Gracie looking on with her head cocked to

one side as if to say, 'don't do it dipshit,' reasoning that a one

second burst from such a tiny little ole thing couldn't hurt all that bad. I

decided to give myself a one second burst just for the heck of it. I

touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and . . .

HOLY MOTHER OF GOD . . .  WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION . . .

WHAT THE HELL!!!

I'm pretty sure Jessie Ventura ran in through the side door, picked me

up in the recliner, then body slammed us both on the carpet, over and

over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal

position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples on

fire ,testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my body in

the oddest position, and tingling in my legs.

The cat was making meowing sounds I had never heard before, clinging to

a picture frame hanging above the fireplace, obviously in an attempt

to avoid getting slammed by my body flopping all over the living room.

Note: If you ever feel compelled to 'mug' yourself with a taser, one

note of caution: there is no such thing as a one second burst when you

zap yourself! You will not let go of that thing until it is dislodged

from your hand by a violent thrashing about on the floor. A three

second burst would be considered conservative.

THAT HURT LIKE HELL!!!

A minute or so later (I can't be sure, as time was a relative thing at

that point), I collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and

surveyed the landscape. My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of

the fireplace. The recliner was upside down and about 8 feet or so

from where it originally was. My triceps, right thigh and both

nipples were still twitching. My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain,

and my bottom lip weighed 88 lbs. I had no control over the drooling.

Apparently I shit myself, but was too numb to know for sure and my

sense of smell was gone. I saw a faint smoke cloud above my head which

believe came from my hair. I'm still looking for my nuts and I'm

offering a significant reward for their safe return!!


P. S. My wife loved the gift, and now regularly threatens me with it!