A few months ago, my wife decided she wanted to try to sell her car online. While I love the Internet as a communications tool, and even for legitimate online transactions, I personally tend to shy away from the kind of Internet-based interactions that can lead to actually meeting someone for the purposes of completing a sale. My reasoning is simple: there are a lot of crazy people online. Like, seriously crazy people.
Nevertheless, my wife got it in her head that advertising her VW Jetta was the way to realize the most money, so she posted her vehicle's pictures and stats on various online car selling venues. And then she waited. And she waited some more.
I will say this: selling the car wasn't a terrible experience. Granted, it took three months, and she had several interested people come sniffing around, and none of them seemed all that crazy. Even the family that eventually bought it this week seemed like good folk.
It's the flip side of the online vehicle selling/buying process where the crazy people started popping up. Once my wife sold her car, after all, she had to start the unpleasant task of finding a suitable replacement vehicle.
As she began making calls, she encountered people who insisted a three foot hole in the car's floor was a unique and desirable feature, or that a rebuilt engine is better than a factory original. Whereas used car salesmen have developed a universal reputation tending toward the sleazy side of the personality spectrum, it turns out online car salesmen are actually far worse. Imagine an anonymous Internet comment troll trying to sell a car, and you get some idea of what you can end up dealing with.
Finally, my wife came across a Volvo station wagon that immediately caught her eye.
Me? I hate Volvos. Aesthetically, they look like garbage cans on wheels. But, my wife has always, ALWAYS wanted a Volvo. I mean, she has dreamed of owning a Volvo the way Ralphie dreamed of getting a Red Ryder B.B. gun. So, today, she called the number and set up a time to see the vehicle.
"He was hard to understand," she told me afterward. "He had a thick accent. Like Russian or Arabic or something.
This immediately set off warning bells in my mind, because Russians and Arabs made up the brunt of villains in most of the action movies I watched in the 80s and 90s. Right then and there, I knew I had to go with my wife, if for no other reason because I had to be present for a Russian-Arab Volvo deal; that's the kind of thing I just can't imagine happens every day.
So, we were off to the Twin Cities, a metropolitan area I've been to countless times but still can't navigate to save my soul. Usually, my wife acts as a trusted direction provider (she lived there five years), but she was distracted by having to pump breast milk along the way, and we had an 18-month-old in tow who, it turns out, was harboring a fever all day, so the stage was set for a good old travel tale.
For the most part, the trip was uneventful, right up until we had to snake our way into the underbelly of the Cities' seedier side. As we followed our MapQuest directions further towards our destination--which winded us past dilapidated buildings with hand-scrawled signs that (paraphrased) read "Bail Bonds. . . Sort Of" and "Checks Cashed While You're Beaten"--I started to realize things were about to get sort of interesting.
We finally arrived at our destination, which we recognized because the Volvo we sought was parked alongside two other Volvos outside a ramshackle auto-body shop. We pulled up tentatively, but were waved in by a very tall man who introduced himself as "Alex," although from the accent I imagine that was short for "Alexei." He had to be Russian all the way--or at least a former satellite state guy. No chance he was Arabic. I confess, I was disappointed.
The Volvo looked good from the outside--as good as a garbage can on wheels can look, I mean--but then, those things just don't rust that quickly, if at all.
Then, I opened the driver's side door and I immediately knew I was looking at the vehicle the singer Jewel probably lived in. I mean, it looked worse than Jewel's teeth. Alex hadn't taken the time to even attempt to clean it up. Online, it was claimed to be in "Excellent Condition," which I'm sure would be true in Russia. The dashboard was peeling, which is the only way to describe it. You wouldn't think leather could peel, but it was in this case. And, the whole car smelled like dog farts mixed with cigarette smoke, which is in no way an indictment on dog farts, which can be heavenly depending on what you feed the dog.
Even our 18-month-old started crying uncontrollably when we looked inside, so I had to take him for a walk around "Little Russia" to calm him down while my wife took Oscar the Grouch's Volvo for a test drive.
Obviously, I wasn't there to see it, but my wife told me the dashboard warning lights came to life like a Christmas tree, to the point she had to pull over a few blocks away to consult the owner's manual, which informed her the engine light, the ABS light, the battery light and the "don't buy this car if you value your life" light were all screaming "get the hell out of here!" As if we needed further encouragement.
When my wife returned from her test drive (I was with our son across the street from the auto-body), I could discern from her scrunched up nose and the way she mouthed "LET'S GO!" we wouldn't be going home with a Volvo. So when "Alex" approached and greeted us with a "You buy Volvo, yes?" I found myself wrestling with an answer that wouldn't end up with my family in some dark back room where an illegal game of "Texas Hold 'Em" was taking place with Matt Damon and John Malkovich.
My wife actually came up with the escape phrase "We have two other cars we want to look at before we make a decision," which I only heard sort of muffled as I hurried to put our son back in his car seat.
As we pulled away, I saw "Alex" screaming at another person far shorter than he was. I can only assume he was dressing him down for not yanking out the fuses that controlled the dashboard warning lights.
I simply haven't had time to post about the ongoing NICU experience lately. On the one obvious hand, there really is no NICU schedule cut in stone day-to-day; we throw it all together at the last minute, much like a "Family Guy" episode is created. So, finding time to blog is like asking Paris Hilton to expound on nuclear physics.
On the less obvious hand, I'm working on another freelance article when I do find free time, which is when Aiden is taking his nap, usually, and it's hard to work on a freelance article when I know the boy is upstairs sleeping peacefully without a worry in the world--that enviously oblivious little turd. *shakes fist*
On the third hand--which grows between my shoulder blades--there hasn't been a ton of NICU news to report over the last few days. Zoey is doing very well, with the exception of not being able to quite figure out the whole breast feeding thing, which we're told is very common for preemies.
I'm so tired of being told things are "common for preemies." I mean, I realize in the NICU such things are as common as changing diapers, but it's all uncommon as hell for us. Shit, it's all new. I try to read up on what to expect next, but it's different for every preemie, so I may as well be trying to read up on how much Justin Bieber blood would be required to keep Charlie Sheen alive. I only wrote that last sentence to see how many visits I get from people searching on Justin Bieber blood and Charlie Sheen. That sentence too. I'm all about pop culture search engine optimization (SEO) on this blog.
Anyway, tomorrow marks the beginning of April, the month we're supposed to bring Zoey home. There was a time, back in early January, when I harbored doubts we'd even see the happy day. Or any happy day, for that matter. I read back through those early posts, and I honestly don't know how we've made it from there to here. Yet, here we are, including a remarkably resilient Zoey.
Three months ago. . .
Wow.
Zoey hadn't had any deep apnea spells for the last four days, although occasional "dips" still occurred, which makes it sound like she quickly jumps into a swimming pool once in awhile.
Of course, today she started having apnea spells again, which were attributed to her being off caffeine, so she's now back on caffeine to compensate.
It's funny what you can get used to. I remember when Zoey had her first big apnea spell while I was also in the room. Her breathing, O2 saturation and heart rate numbers just dropped in an incredibly short span of time. It was all I could do from having a heart attack right there in her NICU room. I expected a team of doctors to come pouring into the room with resuscitation equipment and screaming instructions. Instead, a sole nurse casually entered the room and tickled Zoey's feet and likewise stimulated her to remind her to breathe. Within 20 seconds or so, Zoey's numbers came back up and I managed to fight back the urge to vomit in successive relieved waves.
After awhile, however, the apnea spells--including spells much more severe than the first one I witnessed--became oddly routine. In fact, I became attuned to the point where I could see an apnea spell coming on and I could take the initiative to tickle her feet preemptively so her numbers wouldn't fall so drastically.
Those apnea spells seemed like they were so far in the rearview mirror, even though it had only been shy of a week since she had her last big spells. And then suddenly today they're back again. We're never far from the next roller coaster drop, it seems.
She "dipped" a couple times as I held her in my arms tonight, but thankfully I'm to a point where I just encourage her with soft language and gentle rocking, rather than freaking, screaming for a nurse and losing control of my bowels.
Mostly.
