It’s As Sticky as Taffy Out Here

My car wouldn’t start.

So what, you’re probably thinking.

That’s no big deal.  It happens. Cars won’t start all the time Yvonne.  What’s so special about that? 

Surely you’re not going to write a whole blog whining about your car not starting, are you?

And no, I’m not.  I agree, cars not starting does happen all the time.

It used to happen TO ME all the time.

I had so many cars that wouldn’t start I swear AAA knew my voice when I called for assistance.

Then I started driving Toyota’s and my cars always started.  A fact I mentioned to my nephew in late July.

And then, just about 10 days later, my car wouldn’t start; an irony he felt necessary to point out.

He’s 9.

And perhaps a car starting jinx.

What makes my car not starting different was where it happened.

I was at the Go Kart track.

No, I’m not making that up.

Some things you just can’t make up.

I had taken my friend and her niece and nephew there and after the kids rode around the track blissfully ignorant of car not starting woes, we hopped into my Camry. It refused to start.

In front of us, 20 or so go karts continually started up and sped off and my well maintained Camry silently sat like a dumb log.  I sent my friends off in an Uber and then dug into my brain for my old AAA calling skills. But they’ve changed things.

Now you first have to get somebody to try to get your car started and if that doesn’t work, then you call back for a tow.

(What happened to the all in one trucks AAA used to offer?)

And so it was hours, waiting first for the diagnostic guy to tell me my car wouldn’t start and then the tow guy to arrive and bring my car back home, where it still wouldn’t start but at least didn’t have to be continually humiliated by all the go karts starting and zooming by.

It was hot while I waited.

And sticky.

And my mind started to wander.

It wandered right to this very old blog I originally wrote in 2013. And because August continues to be hot and sticky, and my brain is having trouble getting started on it’s own, I thought this month was a good time to repost a blog I named Taffy Summer.

And, if you’re looking for something exciting to come out of my sticky August then please see my fun news at the end of this post!

Taffy Summer

This post is dedicated to all of my Cape Cod friends who are likely in the deep, deep throes of Augustitis.  It’s ok my over worked, over heated, over tired, over questioned, over being run over friends- Labor Day will be here soon.

The stickiest job I ever held was at a candy store that made its own salt water taffy.

(In case you’re wondering, the salt water part is a myth- no we didn’t take beach pails across the street, collect the bay water and pour it in the taffy vat.)

This was my first real job at the legal age of 14 as opposed to the four not so real jobs I held before.   Those jobs included selling shells (high end shells painted with nautical themes by my very artistic uncle), sweeping the sidewalk in front of one lovely storefront at the bottom of my street, and babysitting the three year old whose parents owned the store next door to the sweeping place.

The wildest job was during the summers when I was 12 and 13 and ran my family’s guesthouse.  I would take strangers (often single men) up to their bedrooms in our empty home and give them the keys to the house.   Luckily it was never a problem (oh, the bliss of the naivete in days of old.)

But I have been thinking of the candy store job a lot lately, and I’m not sure why.   Is it because no matter how clean the owners kept the place or how many inspections they passed, the floor of the backrooms were always covered in corn syrup?

That reminds me of how sticky I feel in this miserable humidity.  In this damp sticky weather I am sticky as soon as I wake up.  I am sticking to clothes, to chairs, and with my MS clumsiness, I’m sticking to walls too.

The summers at the candy store I also stuck to everything. I easily ruined three pairs of shoes each season and those were the only times in my life when I actually followed my mom’s “take your shoes off the second you come in rule.”   I would need to allow an extra five minutes to make it back to work from my lunch break as my shoes stuck to the sidewalk with each step and added precious extra seconds to my walk as I forcibly yanked my feet off the ground.

No wonder I turned out clumsy, MS or no MS.

This weather is making me stick everywhere and I am just a sticky, icky mess similar to the sticky mess I was at the candy store. Problem is, at least taffy is sweet.  I’m not feeling so sweet these days.

Maybe this job is on my mind as I’ve been trying to get in better shape and those summers were the years when friendly tourists asked me how I stayed so skinny working in a candy store?   It actually wasn’t that hard.  Believe it or not, you get sick of fudge easy when you smell it all day long and I never again want to even see taffy or corn syrup.

Ah, but it is nice to remember that at one time people referred to me as “so skinny.”

Perhaps I am thinking of those busy summers as I suddenly realize that I used to love the season and the excitement the crowds, summer activities, and the hot weather brought.

Not so much anymore.

Now the crowds translate to noise which makes my ears hurt, much too long to get anywhere or do anything and dangerous road conditions.

And the hot weather makes me want to move to the Artic.

Yes, that’s it.

That’s why I’m fondly pondering those years in the seventies.  I’m wondering how I survived and I don’t mean in the guesthouse business.

No one in my world had ac in the eighties.  We definitely didn’t have it at home and not only did the candy store not have it, the heat from the ovens and taffy machines jacked up the temperature.   Yet I don’t remember suffering like this.

What is causing me to turn into an achy, sweaty, smelly mess as soon as the thermostat hits 82?  Is it the extra lbs?   Age?  Global warming?   MS?

Oh yes, multiple sclerosis affects everything, especially things that happen between June and September.  I can fondly ponder all the memories I want.  As long as I ponder them in an ac cooled room with a big glass of ice water and some time to rest.

And no taffy anywhere!!

FYI– With the help of some divine intervention, one of my long, bizarre dreams made it into the latest release of Chicken Soup for the Soul!  An edition titled Listen to your Dreams.  If interested, you can learn more below.  Please note, while I was paid for my submission I do not receive any royalties from purchases.

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Listen to Your Dreams