PT Cruisers

Let me preface this by saying that I, Sydney John Pellegrino, am the proud/ashamed owner of a 1992 Hyundai Stellar. When I put the keys in the ignition, the engine keels over like a Portugese soccer player after just having been breathed on by an opponent (that's right, I'm talking to you Ronaldo, Queen of the Pussies). And while the Hyundai lineage seems to have been bolstered, upgraded, ENHANCED, in recent years, I am well aware of the fact that 1992 was not a good year for the Stellar vintage.

My car is a shit box. That's what I'm trying to say here.

Still, regardless of my vehicle's shortcomings, that doesn't give anyone, hummer or hybrid alike, to cut me off, ridicule me, and ride me from behind like Roseanne Barr on Tom Arnold. This includes you, PT Cruisers, who as of late, have been the most egregious offenders in terms of road ridiculousness. I can't count on any of my fingers or toes, how many times I've been violated by the over-aggressive behavior of the drivers of these cars. It's a disturbing trend, one I think I've only begun to comprehend.

I think the idea of what the PT Cruiser represents (or fails to represent) is at the root of the problem.

When a potential PT Cruiser driver - from my experience, typically a middle-aged, single woman - shows up at the dealership to pick out the little bundle of joy, they see a car that reminds them of their childhood. A car their father drove. A car from old sepia-toned photographs with plenty of flannel-clad folks. A car whose backseat saw more action than Rambo and Liberace combined. They see a time when things were easy - including themselves - and life hadn't quite beaten and mashed them into a puree comprised of post-divorce melancholia and unfulfilled promises. The PT Cruiser, for them, is the good times that have all since dissipated after losing custody of the kids.

It's only after a few weeks of driving that these poor, poor souls come to the realization that these cars don't immediately drive onto the set of Bugsy when you turn over the ignition. The gas mileage is shit. And that their parents are still dead. As is the hope of jump starting their lives with the promise of a new version of something old. The retro wet dream that so many baby boomers still fill their huggies with. The big disappointment.

And this says nothing of the men who drive these cars. But I'll save that for another time.

R.I.P. Hyundai Stellar. You were too good for this world.

And that's how it is,

Syd

Here is the beginning of my post.

And here is the rest of it.

My Wife's Period

Now, before you get all riled up and sweaty in places that only dictators and hula girls get wet, let me say something.

First off, Teesha and Eddie, if you're reading this (God help me if you are), your mother is a saint, and in no way is this article a slight against her. Your mother, from her bushy brows down to her hammer toes, to me, is a perfect, shrink wrapped gift from God. Don't let anyone tell you different, myself included.

Also, for those of you reading this, please do not think that this is some kind of exploration into the more graphic and lurid (and beautiful?) world of female menstruation. Rather, it's more a matter of timing than it is of some of the realities that come with a woman's natural egg expulsion. What I'm trying to say without sounding like a drunken frat boy who has roofied so many drinks at the party that he's managed to inadvertently poison his own drink and is only ten seconds away from a coma (and involuntary anal sex with the guy who everyone thought was TOTALLY straight ) -- is -- I don't care about the bleeding or the bloating or the fact that for five days my wife whispers to me while we sleep, vowing that she's going to murder and mount me with the help of her new lover who just so happens to be a taxidermist. I care about one thing: the ticking clock -- whew.

They say a man's sexual peak is roughly in his late teens, possibly up to his mid-twenties. And a woman's starts late-twenties, sometimes pushing into the late thirties.

I'm 54.

My wife is 58.

And yet I'm all but certain that she hasn't even hit her stride when it comes to these aforementioned figures. While there are some nights when I can just as easily crawl into a good Mccarthy novel, take a shot of Tylenol PM, and trundle into dreamland - not unlike the frat boy but without the tender tush - my wife consistently feels the need to tap me on the shoulder and let me know that it's time to tussle. On most nights of the week, I have no problems with this, at least not mentally. My body might have other thoughts on the matter.

But when it's a few days shy of the arrival of the crimson express, that's when things start to go downhill. Or uphill maybe. Not sure if that constitutes sexual innuendo or not...REGARDLESS...All I know is that on the twenty fourth of every month, my Palm Pilot sounds the alarm, alerting me of what's to come. An intensive, non-stop fuckfest - my wife's desperate attempt to get as much sex in before she retreats into the recesses of ladydom. Twenty-four hours before D-Day ( I suppose P-Day is more fitting) my wife becomes a stock car driver, bumping and grinding her way to the finish line. In these twenty-four hours, I am a skid mark on her path to pleasure.

She is not unlike a squirrel storing up nuts for the winter, or a bear stuffing its face with camo-clad NRA members before hibernation. She completely consumes me.

The reason for this coital bombardment is beyond me. That critical, selfish, sinister part of me assumes that she's trying her hardest to put me out of commission for the same length of time that she has her period. Which it actually does. I find myself hobbled and having to take handfuls of arthritic medication and consuming liter upon liter of any ginseng drink I can find just to get through the following week.

Once I have the time to sit down and enjoy a nice cup of oolong, the Times, I realize that this isn't the case. It can't be. Does she really want to punish me? Does she truly feel that God has placed this burden on her ovaries and she is going to impose an equally painful punishment upon me? (My apologies to the ladies reading this. I know what you go through is so much more painful than anything I could dream up). Not Melinda. It's not in her nature. And I know that.

This delicate yet virile spark plug would never, even in the darkest depths of her subconscious, want to hurt me. I know this. She's not doling out punishment, she's not trying to grind me into a fine powder. She simply knows that with every fleeting laugh, every passing smile, every bump, every bruise, every glass of spilled oolong, every one of Rusty's messy 'accidents', every racquetball lesson, every thunderstorm, every kiss, every touch, everything, it's going to come to an end sooner than later. And she simply wants to lap all of it up before it's too late. And for this, I can't blame her. I can only do one thing:

Pray for menopause.

And that's how it is,

Syd Pellegrino