Shout It
Toyota Recall

Pedal muddle
by Sandra Staas (Fri Feb 26, 2010)

I thought I was lucky a year ago when I purchased a new 2009 Toyota Camry. But, now with so much publicity about the pedal, the carpet, the recalls, I've been going slightly more out of my mind than normal.

We were in Florida when the news really got ugly against Toyota, and with the prospect of a long drive back up north I decided to call the dealer in Pennsylvania (where I bought the car) to see if my car was on the recall list.

I was expecting a simple yes or no. What did I get?

‘Well, it's possible that your car could be on the recall list. We just don't know.'

‘What should I do?' says I, trying not to be annoyed.

‘You're in Florida, so go to a Toyota dealer down there.'

Off I go to the dealer in Florida, close to Fort Lauderdale.

‘Hi, I just would like to know if my car is on the recall list.' Clever me even had the Vehicle Identification number with me.

‘No. I don't think it's on the recall list. Well, it could be. But most likely not. But, to be on the safe side, speak to a mechanic. Oh, and here are diagrams of two pedals. One pedal is fine, the other is not. Depends on what pedal you have.'

Off I go to the service department to speak to a mechanic.

‘I just want to know if my car is on the recall list.'

‘You have the Vehicle Identification number?'

‘Yup.'

‘Absolutely not. Your car is NOT on the recall list.'

‘Yeah! Are you sure?'

‘I'm one hundred per cent sure.'

"Could you check the pedal anyway?'

‘The pedal is fine. But I'll remove the carpet, for you can never tell.'

Just then the big boss appears.

‘Based on the Vehicle Identification number your car is indeed on the recall list.'

‘Flip flop.' That's not what I wanted to say, but I was trying to be polite.

‘What should I do?'

‘We don't know. We really don't know. Toyota keeps changing by the hour. Come back this afternoon and we'll see what the latest new is.'

Next day, off I go again to Toyota, close to Fort Lauderdale.

‘I just want to know if my car is on the recall list, and if so, what I should do.'

‘Hmm. Turns out there are two types of pedals. Your type needs to be modified. Take a couple of hours.'

I settle down for a two hour wait as my car disappears into the bowels of the service department.

I got to speak in Spanish, so that was good. Met lots of grumpy, annoyed and frustrated people who were just like me, worried about the Toyota recall. As the two hours slowly evolved into three hours, then four hours we all became quite chummy with angst and a desire to get the hell out of the place.

What was the hold-up?

Turns out, that in addition to modifying the gas pedal the mechanics were reprogramming the car's computer. Alas, the central Toyota computer from where the reprogramming was to be downloaded had crashed.

Eventually, after almost five hours my car was ready.

What perturbs me is that on the news that night it was stated that Toyota hadn't figured out what to do about the sudden acceleration. So, how come my pedal was modified and the computer reprogrammed?



Fully Loaded and Popping Out
by Sandra Staas published February 24, 2010

I'm addicted to my laptop. I feel free, independent, youthful when I'm on my laptop. It's mine and I don't believe in sharing it.

You can imagine my distress when the hard drive crashed. I became anxious as I stared at it forlornly. I longed to see its bright little face, but the screen was a black abyss, a death trap waiting to pull me into its bowels. I was sucked into the whirlwind of computer repair people, those faraway voices in Mumbai.
‘Do not worry, ma'am.'
‘Oh?' Normally I can muster up more words than that, but I was still in shock at the demise of the hard drive.
‘Ma'am, you have two days left on your warranty? I can see that. Yes. Two days left. I shall take good care of you.'
‘Thank you.'
‘Ma'am. Are you at your laptop just now?'
Of course I am, you nitwit. How could I not be at my laptop? Didn't I just give you the error number that came up on the dark, dark screen?
‘Yes.'
‘Very good, ma'am. By the way, if you do not understand me at any point, just say so.'
‘Okay.'
‘Now, ma'am, we shall be sending you a new hard drive.'
‘When? I mean, when will it arrive?'
‘Oh, very soon, ma'am. Two or three days.'
Huge sigh of relief emanates from me.
‘Now ma'am. Let me explain to you what you have to do.'
‘I have to do something?'
‘Yes, ma'am. Very simple. Very easy. Do you have a screwdriver?'
‘No, but I can get one.'
‘No need. Just write down what you have to do when your new hard drive arrives.'
‘I'm ready.'
‘When you get the new hard drive, ma'am, unscrew the back of your laptop.'
‘Then what do I do?' I had visions of having to perform open heart surgery on my laptop.
‘I'm going to tell you now. Very easy. Very simple. Just pop out the hard drive. That's the old hard drive ma'am. Then, pop in the new hard drive. Screw on the back again. That's all there is to it.'
‘It's not difficult?'
‘No, ma'am. Not at all. Pop out and pop in. Pop out and pop in.'
‘It'll be here in two or three days?' Did I sound pathetic, or what?
‘Yes ma'am. Very soon. Remember, pop out, pop in.' He sounded as if he were singing a song. ‘Do you have any questions ma'am? Are you satisfied with my assistance?'
‘Hmm. I do have a question.'
‘Fire away ma'am.'
‘This new hard drive you're sending me, it is new, isn't it?'
‘It's a refurbished one.'
‘I don't want a refurbished hard drive. I want a new one.'
‘We call them refurbished, but that doesn't mean that they are old. Not at all, ma'am.'
‘What does it mean then?'
‘All that it means, ma'am, is that we have opened the hard drive and loaded it. You will receive a new fully loaded refurbished hard drive. It is new, just loaded.'

I would have taken a ten-year-old unloaded hard drive, just to get my laptop working again. A new refurbished fully loaded hard drive didn't sound too bad, I guess.

Two days later the hard drive arrived. I wanted to sing, jump up and down with glee and joyful bubbly exuberance. I ripped open the box. Grabbed a screwdriver and proceeded to perform surgery on the back of my dearly beloved laptop.

The new hard drive didn't fit.

I didn't scream. I didn't even throw the screwdriver. I was very calm considering the circumstances.

Back on the phone to Mumbai.

‘But ma'am. The hard drive that we sent you does fit.'
‘No, it doesn't. It's too small.'
‘All you have to do ma'am, is pop out the old one and pop in the new one. Very easy.'
‘I've done that. It doesn't fit.'
‘Did you take off the case that the old hard drive is in?'
‘No. I didn't know I had to.' Wasn't I just to pop out the old hard drive and pop in the new fully loaded refurbished one? I felt like popping him on the head.
‘Ma'am. Do it now. Pop out the metal case and pop in the new hard drive. Then pop it into your laptop.'

After so much anguish, surgery was successful. My laptop is up and running.

And I'm popping out right now for a nice bottle of wine.


Check This Out

Online Sherlock Holmes
by Sandra Staas (Wed Dec 02, 2009)

I'm addicted to researching online. I can't help it. I just meet someone for the first time, then I have to go online and check them out. Yep. At intelius.com I can get their age, even names of family members. I don't always care about their age, well, if they seem around my age, I guess I do care a little. Then, I go on to the white pages site and look up their address. After that, it's a matter of a few clicks at one of the property assessment websites to get the price of their house, what they paid for it, and many times even an image of their house. In a matter of minutes I have found out so much about this poor unsuspecting person whom I may never even meet again.

Why am I addicted? It all started some ten years ago when I researched our family tree. My mother was adopted, so it was quite a long and laborious journey finding out about her biological parents. I hit the jackpot. I was so successful, that I even got photos of them, which was the ultimate goal of the research.

Whilst embroiled in all this research of my mother's biological parents I found myself being attracted to finding out more about the other names I came across. The Ellis Island website is wonderful. You can look at the ship's log and find a description of the people, how much money they had, where they came from, where they were going. I'd be scrolling down looking for my mother's father's name, and have this urge to investigate the names next to his. Why were they going to the United States? What became of them?

Later, once I had all the pertinent information that I needed about my mother's parents, and after the excitement of feeling like Sherlock Holmes had dissipated, I felt a huge vacuum in my otherwise boring life. I even considered becoming a detective. The thrill of the unknown, of investigating, of finding out, of basically being downright nosey, enticed and enthralled me. It was a challenge. I wanted to see how fast and how much I could find out about people, or sometimes about anything at all.

Someone would ask me what's on at the Benedum Center in Pittsburgh, and in three seconds I'd have the schedule of all upcoming performances. Want to know about Spanish irregular verbs? Not a problem. How about a concise explanation of the French subjunctive? You're going to Aruba on vacation? I'll find you the best deals. Want to know what the weather is like in Buenos Aires in March? Which is better, a Toyota Camry or a Nissam Altima? Want to know about that guy you just met? I have him covered! Even if all that is known is a first name, I've still been able to find out about the person. I love it!

Now, occasionally I have made a mistake. I was investigating someone who was born in Kentucky. Came up with loads of information, and felt quite proud of myself. I even discovered that the person had run in a local marathon, and that she had graduated from an Ivy League university. I was getting so involved that I soon started to investigate friends and acquaintances of this person. (Told you I was addicted.) I later found out, however, that I had the wrong name. Right from the beginning. Oops. It didn't bother me, for I'd had so much fun zooming all over the Internet, in as fast a way as possible.

My talents are wasted. I should be a spy, a famous CIA detective, roaming the world, saving the planet with my investigatory powers. Is it a plane? A bird? No, it's super sleuth, the Internet diva.

Hmm. What did you say your name was?



Lucky Numbers

Nine before five
by Sandra Staas (Mon Nov 09, 2009)

My mother lives in Scotland and I live in the United States. She thinks she's 92. Whenever I inform her that she's 95, she still insists she's 92.

She hasn't called me in two years. I'm the one who does the calling. Our conversations go along like this:

‘Mother, it's me. How are you?'

‘I'm still here. Still know who I'm talking to.'

‘Who are you talking to?'

‘I'm talking to you.'

‘Who am I?

Silence.

‘Well?' I try not to sound whining. The last time I visited her, two years ago, she didn't remember me. Maybe she did for a moment or so, but she never did remember my visit nor the gift I gave her.

‘You're my daughter.'

‘Yeah!' I am delighted she knows me. ‘What's my name?'

‘Eh. Oh. Cannae mind. Imagine not remembering my daughter's name.'

I put her out of her misery by telling her my name. With loud shrieks reminiscent of her old self she yells at the top of her lungs, ‘Sandra!'

She laughs hysterically, sounding like she used to when I was growing up, when she'd laugh with this huge screeching sound.

That was long before she got dementia and forgot me.

I'm smiling like a young girl again.

‘Sandra. That's your name? How old am I?'

‘You're 5.' We are having our usual conversation. It's like being a child and hearing the same familiar story over and over again.

‘Am I?'

‘You're 5 with a 9 in front of it.'

Another screech comes swirling down the telephone, almost deafening me.

‘Am I 95?! No. How could I be 95?'

Before I can answer, she continues, ‘The trees are shuddering.'

‘The trees are what?' It sounds like ‘the peas are murdering.'

‘They're shuddering.'

‘Oh.'

‘How old am I?'

‘I just told you. You're 95.'

‘Who'd have thought I'd live to 92?'

‘You're 95.'

‘I feel I know you.'

‘You do know me.'

‘Who can phone me?'

‘Anybody who has your telephone number.'

‘What number? Am I really 92?'

Our conversations over the past two years have rarely changed. Sometimes I ask after my brothers, and she'll say, ‘Who are they?' Sometimes I'll ask what she had for dinner, and she'll say, ‘Cannae mind, but I ate it.'

Twice this year I purchased airline tickets to visit my mother and twice I decided not to go. I console myself with the fact that my mother doesn't remember that I was going to visit her, that even if I had gone, she'd not recall the visit, nor would she know who I am. I feel guilty, annoyed with myself, yet I can‘t face the way she is. I prefer to remember her the way she was. And the money I lost on the airline tickets? Just more numbers, I guess.

Guilt is a major factor dealing with elderly parents. No matter what you do you feel it's not enough. Even if I had visited her this year I'd still feel I need to do more. Fear is another factor. You realize that one day you might end up like your parent, that what the future holds for you is confusion, of forgetting everything but the immediate present.

‘Is that your boyfriend on the phone?' Someone calls out.

My mother has a fit of the giggles. She roars with laughter. ‘Me, with a boyfriend?'

‘Mother, why does she think a man has called you? She's the one that answered when I called you.'

I'm puzzled. Yikes! It dawns on me.

‘Mother!' I yell, sounding just like her, ‘My voice must be very deep for her to think that I'm a man.'

‘The older one gets the deeper one's voice becomes.'

Mother can be very matter-of -fact.

My mother hasn't lost her sense of humor. Nor has she lost her funny way of shrieking when she laughs.

When I call her, how many times do she and I repeat ourselves? The numbers are mind-boggling. Yet, it's like hearing the same bedtime story every single night for years. What greater peace and luck is there than that?
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