Hypermilers

My car is by far the most expensive thing I've ever owned, and I drive it with that in the front of my mind. On the rare occasion when I'm unable to avoid a pot-hole, I groan and think, "The most expensive thing I've ever bought just gained unnecessary wear and tear." When I see red lights, I start slowing down waaay in advance so, if I time it right, I never have to come to a full stop at all -- this saves my break pads. I go gently over speedbumps. I don't accelerate when I don't need to.

When I'm driving I think of my car as an instrument, and I'm making music with the road passing underneath. I like the music to be smooth and soft and in tune. I play the car gently, like you would a Stradivarius violin.

I'm also obsessed with gas mileage. I always reset the meter after filling the tank, and that's the only math I've ever enjoyed. But I never thought to put the two obsessions together -- the symphonic driving with the gas saving -- until I read about people who call themselves "hypermilers" -- people who, through strategic driving, get 60 or 75 miles per gallon. Hypermilers'

goal is simple: squeeze every mile they can out of each drop of gas. Some of their tips are a matter of common sense and could help any driver, especially now, with gas climbing past $3 a gallon: avoiding jackrabbit starts, using alternate routes to avoid stop-and-go traffic, anticipating lights and driving a bit more slowly.

Those are all things I do already... but now I feel part of a club. And a little less crazy.

Based in Boston Area

How satisfactory:

I've been freelancing for my old job ever since I left. There's something really sweet about having a bio that reads "Margaret Locher is a freelance writer based in the Boston area."

I'm a 'freelance writer' -- one of the things I always wanted to be!

Still working on that?

Restaurants really need to come up with a decent way of asking if you're ready to have your plate cleared away, because the lack of standardization has left every server flailing for the right question.

Anyone who's ever taken a minute mid-meal to settle has heard the question, "Are you still working on that?" (Or the shortened "Still working?" that you'll likely encounter at Friday's and Uno's.) That makes it sound like eating this food is a job I've been assigned. No, I'm not working -- I'm eating. There are no blueprints involved; no disassembly is required; and I have not clocked in. If the food is cooked right, eating it should be the opposite of work, shouldn't it?

I've also heard the unappetizing "Are you still picking on that?", which makes me think of a barnyard full of chickens.

And then there's the more creative but equally inappropriate, "You look like you're running out of gas" -- a question that practically begs a retort about the nachos providing more than enough.

Instead, how about a simple, direct "Still eating?" Or, if you want to be a little fancy about it, "Are you still enjoying your _____?" But I'm willing to bet that no question is really necessary at all. "Should I take the plate, or...", is likely all the server will have to say, because the diner will by that point either hug the plate defensively or nod and push it to the end of the table.

Unless the diner is a food reviewer from the Phantom Gourmet, at which point he'll say, "No, actually I'm still working."

Color Coordination

My new job has made me a little too concerned about my outfits. Everyone here dresses very well most of the time. I often feel inferior. My clothes are nice enough, but I don't have stylish shoes because my feet are size 12 and most shoes aren't that big. At least, the stylish ones aren't.

Anyway, I was delighted that today my sweater vest matches my pointy, low-heeled green shoes. I adore these shoes because they are a size 12 and I found them in Marshall's for a mere $18. They aren't just green, either. They have pink embroidered flowers and sequins in pinks, gold, white and blue. A little wacky, but enough to make me feel less like a cube drone as I wear my pearls and headband.

But I just caught myself checking my watch and realizing that the hands were the same green as my shoes and sweater. For a second, I was thrilled. Then I caught myself. "Do not get happy about matching watch hands, Maggie," I thought. "That is a sign that you are either losing your intelligence or your priorities."

Romance or Exercise Bike?

My 9-year anniversary with Mike is in two weeks. After 9 years, I now understand how my parents can let anniversaries like 23 years just go by without more than a card and an extra kiss.



By 9 years, it's not that romance is dead, it just doesn't seem necessary. It's frivolous. And we didn't really like it to begin with anyway.


Last year we got each other nothing. This year we've agreed to split the purchase of an exercise bike to put in front of the TV in the loft. Because nothing says "I love you" more than saying, "You've gotten a little fat. Let's avoid getting fatter, shall we?"


But one of the great things about 9 years is that we can say things like that to each other and laugh about it.

First pic of Heath as Joker

First glimpse:



First thought:
Yikes! He actually looks terrifying. I guess this isn't going to be your grandpappy's Joker -- no Cesar Romero or Jack Nicholson here. Can't wait to see him in action!

The USPS's crafty trick

That dimwit who "invested" in $8,000 worth of Forever stamps should've read this article from Slate.com first.

The postal rate climbed 2 cents on Monday, about a month after the United States Postal Service introduced its new "forever" stamp..., which lock in the 41-cent rate for eternity. One man in Pennsylvania walked into a post office and made an $8,000 investment on his own. Should we all be stocking up?

Absolutely not. Since 1971, postal rates have increased more slowly than the actual inflation rate, as measured by the U.S. Consumer Price Index. So, despite the numerous rate hikes over the last 36 years, stamps have actually been getting cheaper. The 20-cent stamp from 1981, for instance, would be equivalent to 45 cents in today's dollars -- which makes today's rate 10 percent cheaper than it was 26 years ago. Should this historical pattern hold, you'd be paying more for today's forever stamps than you would for any stamp in the future, no matter how high the rate goes.

Is it bad that this news made me happy?

I know it's probably automatic points-off to dislike a religious figure, but Jerry Falwell spent too much of his time promoting hate, bigotry, stereotyping and close-mindedness that it brightened my day just a little to learn that he won't be doing it anymore.

Commuting Diaries #4

I spend a lot of my train commute writing in my diary. Until this morning, I had never seen anyone else doing the same.

Sitting across the aisle from me was a man who was in his early 30's. Blue shirt with tie, khakis, gray socks and black dress shoes that were very worn and scuffed. He was writing when I got on the train and he was writing when I got off the train: he wrote straight through for an hour. He filled nine pages, back and front, of an 8x8 hardcover red book.

What is he writing? The curiosity was frustrating. At first I figured he was writing things like I usually do: yesterday I did this, in the future I hope to do these things, today I thought about this and it made me feel that, I remember when I went here and it was great because blahblahblah.

But nine pages? Then I thought, maybe he's going through a divorce or someone just died and he's writing it out. I tried to see if he had a wedding band on but couldn't.

The curiosity became so overwhelming that I started hoping he'd put the diary down beside him and forget it so I could take it and read it. I've never read someone else's personal diary. Someone's completely unfiltered thoughts.

Then I started thinking about just snatching it from his hands as I existed the train. I immediately felt guilty. If someone did that to me, I wouldn't so much mind them reading my personal thoughts because they are just like everyone else's anyway, but I'd mind losing my records. My diary pages are stuffed with news print-outs, cards, notes, pictures and receipts because I'm keeping a thorough history of myself for future reference.

Trained Animals

When Chris and I saw the circus last year, certain things occurred to me that never did when I was a kid. Things like an appreciation for the mindboggling precision required for three people to ride three motorcycles inside a small iron sphere. And other things like, how can such a big production be on the road indefinitely?

It's one thing when bands tour. U2 has their own plane to cart all the tons of lights and stage apparatus around the world. But what if you have six elephants? How do you tour them? And what if you have six elephants and twenty horses and lions and tigers and two hundred people?

The answer, it would seem, is as nicely old-school as the circus itself: They do it by train.

All last week, a train, each car bearing the Ringling Bros logo, has been parked on the tracks just outside of Providence, where they're performing at the Civic Center.

I don't know how many train-cars long it is -- I haven't been able to count -- but it's long. And there are different kinds of cars. Some are clearly cargo, and others are passenger cars -- the windows have things hanging in them, doo-dads and stuff. I wonder what it looks like inside? How would a circus performer decorate his or her little rolling apartment? What would cover the walls? Posters of clowns? Letters from home?

It makes me wonder, too, what all the circus people do when they're in Providence. The show was here almost a week -- that must allow at least a little spare time. Do the acrobats have lunch at Uno's? Does the lion tamer stop at Macy's to pick something up?

Have you ever seen the Ringmaster buy socks?

Good.

The Secret Service said Thursday that Sen. Barack Obama was being placed under their protection, the earliest ever for a presidential candidate.

But I'm still nervous.

Medieval Times

What a bizarre way to spend a 25th birthday.

Our knight lost, but my vegetarian meals was tops.

We were reprimanded by employees who said to Bill and Alex, "M'lord, if you are having a cigarette, please leave your beverage inside" and before that, to me, "M'lady, I need to see an ID." It cracked me up.

Here's me with the birthday boy.

A Purse or a Prize?

There's a Neiman Marcus across the street from my new office. The only time I've ever been in one was with my mom, who was returning a $1,200 Chloe bag given to her by one of my dad's Japanese bosses.

She used the money to repair the bumper on her car.

The next year, she got a Prada purse which was converted into a college payment for my brother.

This past Christmas, she got a Louis Vuitton briefcase that was actually a style I would carry. She wouldn't turn it over to me though. "This could be a down payment on building a garage for the Vermont house!" she declared.

I love how upset my mom's yuppie friends and my Manhattanite cousins get when they hear she's returned this upscale gifts.

I also love that I was raised to view marked-up fashion items such as these with disdain, and to view the people who carry them as superficial and wasteful. Thanks, Mom.

I like this picture

Crock Pot Revolution

When I asked for a crock pot for Christmas, my mother said, "My, you're becoming quite domesticated." It annoyed me, of course, but maybe it's true. Because I love my crock pot. I love throwing a bunch of stuff in it and walking away for a whole day only to return to a lovely-smelling kitchen and a hot meal.

Before I started my new job, I'd cook on Saturdays, chopping and prepping in the morning and then lounging all day until our bellies grumbled at 6 pm.

Now I've begun preparing everything at night and putting it in the pot. I take it out of the refrigerator in the morning, set it on low and go to work. Sure, it's supposed to cook for only 8 or 9 hours and it's in the pot for nearly 12 hours by the time we get home, but nothing beats coming home to a meal that's ready to eat. No discussion of what to have or who's turn it is to cook.

Best invention ever.

I need to buy another one though, since it's tricky to either put chicken on one side and tofu on the other, or to find something we can both eat. If I had two, we'd be golden.

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