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!