The Continuing Adventures of My 85 BMW.

Given my record with this blog has been so abysmal,I have decided to start a series to inform my readers of The Continuing Adventures Of my 85 BMW. You will recall that my car is always on the edge of disaster, given that it has 250,000 miles on it and my husband is less than enamored with it. The first adventure may be viewed by going back to my blog in April, 2010.

The last two months has generally been a good one for my BMW. The first thing worth reporting happened around the first of June when I was driving down the main street of our neighborhood in Berkeley, through what is generally called Gourmet Ghetto, which is dotted with some of the best restaurants in Berkeley. One, particularly, can claim this distinction: Alice Water's Chez Panisse. I was driving along in my 85, minding my own business, crossing in front of said restaurant when I felt another car hanging onto the rear of my car, much too close for comfort. Some nefarious driver wanted to cuddle with my 85 and I was not happy. Finally I roared around the car in front of me and pulled in front of it, breathing a sigh of relief, thinking I had left the other car far behind.

Suddenly another vintage 85 BMW pulled up next to mine with a young man at the wheel, obviously the same car. My car is a 535i; his was a 528, which is a less powerful version of my 535i. He rolled down his window; seeing he seemed to want to talk, I rolled down mine. The following conversation took place between our open windows.

"Is that an 85?!!" he asked.

"Yes, it is," I said.

"A 535i?"

"Yes." (This said proudly, maybe even a little sniffily, given mine is an 535i and his a 528).

"Did you have it painted?"

"Yes, I did, contrary to my husband's wishes." I wanted to give him some encouragement to have his painted. His desperately wanted some paint.

"I just bought mine for $700! It runs like a top!"

"They're great cars," I said.

"They are! I guess I should think about having mine painted."

"Good!" I said.

He then roared around in front of my 85, just to show me that an 85 528 has just as much power as a 85 535i.

About three weeks later my husband and I were walking our dog, Plato, through a wonderful park just up from the Gourmet Ghetto. My husband was driving the 85 just to give it some exercise, so it didn't decide to stop on me in traffic. He parked next to the park, we walked the dog, and then came back to the 85, which looked it's smashingly best because it had just been washed.

A woman walked up to us and asked--you guessed it: "Is that an 85?!!"

"It is," I said.

"I had an 83," she said. "They're great cars!"

"Aren't they, though!" I said.

"I drove my 83 all up and down the East Coast for years, it ran like a top. And then I got in an accident and broke the axle. I cried when I had to junk it!"

I just about cried too. Junking a 535i is a horrible thought.

I now realize I have to google an 83 535i. I didn't know there was such a thing!


About three weeks later the time came that I always dreaded with my 85: renewing the license when a smog check was required. If it failed my car was dust, for sure. It has always passed but there's always the first time. The last time the person who did the test simply said it passed; then mentioned that manual transmissions did better than regular, for which I held a little hope for a good result on this test, as our has a manual.

This time did not start out well because I could not find the form and neither could my husband. I looked everywhere but "Bills Folder", which is not a folder my husband set up for someone named Bill, but a folder which holds our monthly bills. A month later I found it in that folder, by then of course it was too late. I have much less esoteric places to put bills but at least I generally know where they are.

We ended up going to AAA on a Saturday, which has a special service for idiots who lose the forms for renewing their car's license. My husband growled the whole way down to AAA. I kept thinking the office was going to be closed, upon which I would really be in trouble. The office was open, at least that problem was nonexistent: we ended up paying another $25.00 or so for the license. We had to have the smog check done before we could get the license, and it was another fifteen minutes to get to a smog check place. We left the car, walked Plato and came back in 45 minutes when the car was supposed to ready. I prayed the whole way.

The car was parked on the street; that looked promising. Jerry walked up to the attendant to pay the bill. When he came back, he had this to say:

"Well, the guy said our BMW was a great car."

"Really!" I said.

"He said it burned so clean it hardly used any oil."

I knew that. The level on the dipstick only moves down when the oil needs to be changed. However, I didn't know what a good thing that was, but now I do!

Of course it passed. Am I going to hold this over my husband the next time my great 535i is threatened with extinction? You bet I am!

Adventures With My 85 BMW

I love my 85 BMW. It's my Baby. Here you see the next to the last thing that almost caused its demise--brand new wheels fitted with Michelin tires, which of course are the best kind of tires. The wheels are gorgeous, as you can see.

All right. You say you want a better picture of the car. I just wanted to show off those brand new wheels before we got to a full fledged picture of my gorgeous automobile.

Some background: we've had this car since 1985. We are the original owners; as such, we have put a lot of miles on it. How many? About 250,000, that's all. That, my friend, is the reason this car has nearly been history more times than I care to admit.

Oh--the wheels--the second to the last thing that almost caused its demise. I took it in to my garage, H and B, for its regular check-up, which happened to be an expensive one. That was the first problem. The second came when George, the Manager of H and B, called and said the car needed new wheels all the way around. I deal with George a lot and also a lot with Allan, who owns H and B. They've great guys. They know the car.

"Well, so we'll get new tires," I said--not quite understanding.

"It does need new tires but we can't buy tires to fit on the existing wheels. We have to get new wheels and that's expensive. We can skirt on the tires a little but not the wheels."

"How much will those new wheels cost?" I asked.

"With an OK set of tires about $1100," he said.

I'm dead in the water, I'm thinking to myself. Jerry will not want to spend all that money, plus there's that expensive service which I was told would cost around $800.

I told George I'd have to talk to Jerry. My husband has had a number of conversations about the car with George.

George called me back the next day (I hadn't had the guts to tell Jerry yet).

"I've talked to Allan and he has a slightly used set of wheels already fitted with four brand new Michelin tires left here by a customer who didn't want them anymore. He told us to just get what we could for them--he'd be satisfied. He has a 75 BMW and he wanted to go with 75 wheels so we can offer these to you. They only have about 100 miles on them. We think we can offer everything to you for $800."

Of course I said yes, without thinking. Didn't ask Jerry. Why should I? Those tires were probably worth $800 all on their own when they were new.

Well, the car came back looking so proud of itself. Total cost was $1600--$800 for the wheels and the tires and $800 for the service.

Jerry was so impressed with how my baby looked he said "Well, we have to fix up the upholstery (in shreds) and re-carpet the floors (holes in said carpeting). It deserves it."

Everything was fine until we were out on the freeway about a month ago with Jerry driving and the clutch sank to the floor and just sat there. I had forgotten we needed to have that little problem checked. It had happened to me right after I took it in for a small something--don't even remember what--and after using my foot to raise it from the floor I drove it right back down to the garage. Allan looked at it and said "No biggie. Just make an appointment and we'll fix it."

Well, I forgot about the problem--totally. Jerry was not happy. Here we were stuck on the freeway with a clutch stuck to the floor. Luckily I knew what to do; I told him just to put his foot under the clutch and push up--it had happened to me years ago and out of desperation that's what I did, and it worked. Voila--up the clutch came and off we went--only to have it happen again right after we exited the freeway. He tried the foot routine--didn't work.

"You'll have to get out of the car and raise it by hand," I said.

Without saying a word but with his mouth churning he got out of the car and raised the clutch with his hand.

It worked; he got back in the car. "We're parking this (explicative deleted) car and taking it down to H and B first thing in the morning to get this problem fixed."

All of this said between clenched teeth.

Next morning back to H and B we went where instead of the problem being a "No biggie" it's more like $1200. Being a conscientious guy Allan had recommended a new clutch as it already had 13,000 miles on it. I said we couldn't do that. What else could we do?

George called back and offered various and sundry scotch-tape-type repairs, one of which George felt would be very important for safety but would cost in the neighborhood of $500. I bring Jerry back to H and B the next day.

George looks at him and says "You want to kill the car."

Jerry just nods.

A week later I drive out with the immediate problem fixed--the clutch will no longer collapse to the floor but the clutch may go--anytime. It already has 13,000 miles on it.

I can't wait. We're sure to be on the freeway.

Oh, one thing I forgot to mention. That brand new (well, almost brand new) set of wheels already fitted with nearly brand new Michelin tires belonged to Allan. He took them off his own car. He was the customer George talked about. He had stood proudly by me when I went to inspect my Baby with the new wheels and tires. I was so excited I hugged him.

Have I got a good garage or not? They are the best.

In front of our house right now sits a 2003 Passat which will soon be donated to some charity. It had $7,000 worth of needed repairs before I found it not starting one afternoon and it's only worth $6000. It has been the proverbial lemon. Luckily it's the company car.

Jerry drove my wonderful 85 BMW to the Oakland airport about two weeks ago and it actually started when Jerry turned on the ignition. It's been known not to--I was praying--it had been sitting there for over a week. It actually purred. It sits in front of our house so proud with those new tires and gorgeous new wheels. I'm going to see about getting the upholstery and carpet replaced next.

Baby Carrying Appendage

Here we see my grandson, Nicky, being carried around by Ba Ba in his baby carrying appendage. Yes, Ba Ba is my son, Glenn.
Nicky now gets very excited when Glenn comes in the door; I'm thinking it's because in that appendage he is able to see things at adult height. The other day our daughter-in-law, Wendy, mentioned that Nicky was very upset by something just a day or so ago; he was in his carrier on the floor while the rest of the family was seated at the table eating and he was not happy. He has an amazing pair of lungs. Wendy set him up in the highchair which brought forth a big happy smile. Can you imagine having to forever look at people's feet?

Nicky is now just over six months old: he is beginning to sit, only occasionally finding himself tipping backwards. He is prone to tipping forward onto his head which, for obvious reasons, is not a favorable position. He is also into grabbing things. My husband Jerry and I met Glenn and Nicky and Nicky's four year old brother, Theo, at a restaurant recently and the grabbing was in full flight. There wasn't a moment when those little hands weren't reaching for something. You had to be quick. At one point I saw him reach for Glenn' plate then put his hand in his mouth and immediately a very funny set of facial expressions was in evidence. I told Glenn he better check his mouth, which he did. He found nothing. Nicky didn't spit it our so he must have eaten it. Glenn was pretty nonchalant about it all. "We've got him on solid food now anyway." I think what he had in his mouth was the remains of some scrambled eggs which wouldn't be too earthshaking to put in one's mouth when you're six month's old.

Theo is amazingly good with Nicky--Nicky is his baby. He has been known to kiss him on the head.

Blame It On The Ants

You may recall a problem I've been having with ants, part of which involve an invasion by said ants into the freezer of our gorgeous, stainless steel, Bosch side by side refrigerator. We now have what may be an insoluble problem with the freezer section of said refrigerator. I can no longer open the door in the normal way: I have to grip it at the top and pull. Oh I can do this--no big deal--but this is a fancy refrigerator that's supposed to have two handles. One broke off and I am now waiting for a replacement. I started investigating my problem a couple of days ago and kept getting no for an answer: either they don't handle cosmetic items, or they don't come to Berkeley.

A gal called this morning and said they do handle cosmetic items like handles for Bosch refrigerators and they do come to Berkeley so I inwardly cheered and gave her the necessary numbers. She called back a couple of hours later and said she had nothing but bad news: first the part would be tremendously expensive and two it's on back order. What does that mean? It means, she says, that given this is a three year old refrigerator, the handles of which never break, Bosch is not interested in keeping it in stock which means that it's in limbo: she could get it in a day, a month, a year 0r never.

How does a handle that never breaks break? I'm betting it was the chemical I was spraying inside to kill the ants. Ants are malevolent: they killed the handle.

THAT CRAZY, WILD NEW YEAR'S EVE DAY

I know crazy and wild. That, I'm afraid, is how I live. I have so many things going on at any particular moment, and given I'm not a computer but a flawed human being, I tend to get a little disorganized.

I'm trying to think how this crazy New Year Eve Day started. First of all, I guess, is the fact that I had it handed to me rather casually. We hosted this event and I had nothing whatsoever to do with that part of it. My husband did.

We have dear friends who always host it but things have been difficult for them lately so Jerry offered up our home for the event. I wasn't about to say no to that. My husband has the smarts in our family when it comes to doing the Right Thing, the Kind Thing. Thank God for that because I like Kind and Right in a big way and these are very good friends.

I have another dear friend, Max, who, when faced with an important event, prepares for it weeks in advance. We go on adventures together when our husbands are off skiing somewhere. Some of those adventures have been just that--like being thrown out of Slovakia--but no matter what, she's prepared. Sweaters go in plastic bags, ditto for everything else and when she needs to pack she just throws in those sweaters in those plastic bags along with everything else needed in neat, tidy, order.

Me--I don't pack until the day before. Hey, the truth be known, I usually am scrambling around the day before frantically trying first to find what I want to take along and then to wash it or get it to the cleaners and then I pack. Frantic is the name of the game here. I often wear black and maybe it's because spots aren't as easily seen on black.

So, here we have this New Year's Eve event we're hosting. Do I even think about what's going to go on the table? Yes, I actually do. I figure it's going to be served on our lovely everyday wear, which is clean. This would have been perfectly acceptable. Our everyday wear isn't really used for everyday. I put it out for special dinners. This is a set I finally got after forty years of marriage and we paid a mint for it. Jerry complained but now he loves the set. It's Italian, and based on the dinnerware prevalent in homes in the 1400's. It's gorgeous.

No, Jerry is not planning to use this gorgeous dinnerware; he's planning to use our good china and crystal and sterling silver. He doesn't mention this until he starts hauling it in on the day of the event to wash it. Yes, wash it. That's how seldom it's used.

I should have taken a picture. He hardly knows his way around our kitchen and he actually washed and dried everything he put on the table: that good china and crystal and sterling silver. We have all of this good stuff put away carefully but everything is dirty--not put away carefully in plastic bags. The sweet guy--he washed everything!

What am I doing while he's washing the dishes? Earlier I had put on two pots with yams and they're happily boiling away on the stove; ditto with a pot of cranberries; the ham we bought yesterday is in the refrigerator--but at the point when Jerry's washing dishes I'm looking at our dog, Plato, out in his pen in the back and getting concerned. (Plato is relegated to the pen during events like this because he has a bad habit of peeing on our rugs when we're busy and not paying attention to him). Anyway, there's this huge, unsightly lump right next to his eye. I remember I saw it the day before but then it was much smaller. He didn't seem concerned about it but I didn't like it at all. It looked yukky and maybe even dangerous. And then I'm thinking again, yesterday it was smaller--yuck, it's a tick!--and I'm going into my panic mode, things are boiling on the stove and Jerry's not at all happy with me when I come running in because he's now discovered one of our myriad water thingies is spurting water down by the street and all of this is happening just hours before the guests are to arrive. The only thing to do is turn off our entire water system to the garden and I'm now begging him to go look at Plato and the unsightly lump which he does, after I turn off the water, which I have to remember to turn on again and with my track record--good luck.

The water's off but Jerry's still working with the water thingie down by the street which is still spouting water and I'm talking to our son, Glenn, on the phone about the lump. He thinks it could be dangerous--is obviously a tick--and should come out but I think you have to burn the buggers out and how can I do that when it's right next to his eye? He suggests calling the vet, which I already have but they're closed since it's a holiday. Their automated system gave me the number of the Emergency Vet People so after I say goodbye to Glenn I call them and a gal I talk to says, yes, it should come out and they could do it for me but I've got stuff boiling on the stove and Jerry upset with the water spouting on the street. She says you could do it yourself. You just reach down as close as you can to his skin with your fingers, grip it, and pull and twist it out at the same time. I said that would be disgusting and she laughed and said they could do it but that was patently not going to happen and Jerry is absolutely hopeless with that sort of thing so guess who gets to do it?

I call Glenn again, who is probably responsible for Plato getting the lump to begin with as their property, Wild Horse, is heaven for ticks and we were just there. Maybe I'm thinking he'll volunteer. Heck, he's only forty minutes away. Wendy I trust with questions like--what do I do with this unsightly yukky thing that's undoubtedly a tick other than pull and twist it out, which would be disgusting? Glenn I don't trust so much with questions like that but he's the only one there. He agrees it would be disgusting. Actually, he says, I have a perfect way to get that tick out--you do it with your teeth. That nearly makes me upchuck. Jerry, by this time, has looked at the lump and agrees to hold Plato which I pull and twist it out and voila! it comes out just like that! I should have killed it--I could see something wiggling at the top of the lump--but I just threw it. Dumb, as I'll probably have this happen all over again.

I go back to the stove, happy with Plato sans lump, and inspect the cranberries, which cooked fine until they did that obligatory popping noise and then just sat in the water. I enlist Jerry with the job of transporting them to the refrigerator where they're to get cold. I then look at the yams, which given that I was busy with the Plato lump, I didn't check as often as I should have. They are so soft it's really tricky getting them out of the pan and into a bowl. They mash very easily but given that I boiled them with the skins on they're full of these rather large lumps of skin which, given they're hot as blazes, I can do nothing about. I say to hell with it and mix the whole mess with sugar and a little sherry and pop it in the oven to cook.

Jerry has now finished washing and drying everything, the table is set and we go up and shower and dress while the sweet potatoes cook. Everything settles down, I could have even had a glass of wine it's so relaxed but I decide to wait with that--smartest thing I did that day. Jerry has finally figured out why the water thingie had been incessantly spouting and fixed that. Life is good. Our guests come and it's all worth it. We finally sit down together to that glass of wine and it's all good.

The table looked amazing. Oh--the sweet potatoes with all the lumps of skin--I still had to pull all that skin off with my fingers to serve them but at least they weren't boiling hot coming out of the oven.

They Come With The Rain.

What, you ask, comes with the rain? Blossoms, thunderclouds, slick roads and pavements? Yes to all those things, but all of them have some redeeming feature: blossoms are wonderful to look at and smell while thunderclouds are marvelous to look at and they bring rain. OK so I can't think of a redeeming feature of slick roads and pavements.

What I'm talking about walks on six legs and is unbelievably persistent. You guessed it--Ants.

When my youngest son, Glenn, was six or so he used to get rid of ants in a very creative way. His line of ants used to come up the drain in the bathroom he shared with his brother. He would run for a plain ordinary kitchen knife you use to round out a place setting at the table; then he would tap it near the drain hole and voila back down the drain they'd go never to be seen again. I think somehow they associated that tapping with a Giant right out of a storybook. I'd try that approach but the drain in the kitchen leads to the garbage disposal and as much as I'd like to turn them into mulch they'd find a way to get around the blades or they'd die and come back to haunt me.

These pesky invaders are unbelievably persistent, to the point that I now find them everywhere: I'm sitting in an overstuffed chair in a room down from the kitchen where ants traditionally make their inroads and suddenly one of the pesky creatures will appear crawling on me. I feel like I'm in the middle of the movie The Birds only with insects the terrifying spector.

One of the major problems has been I can't locate a trail (just found one crawling on my laptop). If you can't locate a trail you can't get rid of them. They used to come in through a window in our kitchen, down the wall below it ; then parade across the floor toward the refrigerator with a stop at the kitchen counter. My husband said he thought they came in a window over the kitchen sink and I dutifully sprayed around it but they came in anyway--but not from around the window, of course.

Speaking of the refrigerator. Never did we have these things inside the refrigerator. Now we have a fancy new model, a side by side with the freezer on one side and the refrigerator on the other with a little place where you can load up a glass with water and ice on the freezer door. I mean this is an expensive machine--gorgeous--the latest in technology but can it keep out ants? No. I spray the doors with ant spray and the next morning find a pile of dead ants at the bottom of the freezer door. They are pretty dumb creatures after all. They go for the freezing temperatures and ignore a much more nifty source of goodies next door.The old refrigerator, while a lot less nifty never let in an ant.

I have now taken to religiously cleaning up the area around the sink before we head up the stairs for the night, as well as spray areas where I've found them (with a spray safe for food, children and pets no less) and they still come in.

OK Reader--wherever you are--Help!

"Have I got a story to tell you!"

You may think I'm overally fond of Halloween or these kids but I have such a wonderful story about this particular picture I just had to post it again.

After snapping the picture and seeing it on my camera I said to my husband, Jerry, how wonderful it would be to be able to give the picture to these kids as it came out so well. Not by any God given talent, you understand. I just literally did the old point and click routine.

The next weekend Jerry came back from getting us our coffee and muffin fix and said "Have I got a story to tell you!"

He had gone into our favorite cafe, Belforno, which we've been going to for years. They have marvelous coffee and the muffins--well they are beyond compare. A very nice gentleman has been waiting on us there all these years. I thought he owned it he was there so much but it turns out he simply works there.

I suspect he is from Mexico; I often hear him talking Spanish with the other customers. I've tried my lame Spanish on him occasionally and he always smiles and talks to me back in Spanish. Since he is careful to use only the simplest of words, I can sometimes answer back in Spanish which of course makes my day!

Jerry walked in and got into line at the counter. The gentleman started waiting on him and then he started talking to him about Halloween. At first Jerry didn't understand but then the man asked whether he could have a copy of the picture and the light began to dawn.

The man had come to our door with those kids. Whose they are I don't know, but I'm assuming at least some of them are his and the rest are most certainly relatives or neighbors. I saw him with a mask covering his face, leaning on a cane, pretending to be infirm. Of course I ignored him totally and went for those adorable kids! He told Jerry he was so shocked seeing a customer of the cafe at the door he almost fell down the steps.

Well, I'm going to get a copy for every one of those kids and one for him and he will distribute them. In the meantime, I gave him the address of this blog so he could at least see the picture before he actually had one in hand.

Vive La Story!