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From Janet Daly, Production Manager and Trentagenarian:

Hello, Tripod Readers.

This week promises to be an exciting one at Tripod. Not since May, when we celebrated the joint birthday of Randy and Emma, has our staff experienced the level of birthday excitement that starts tomorrow. On Saturday, October 26, we celebrate the mid-twenty-something Membership Diva, Christina Simmons. On Monday, October 28, we'll raise a glass and celebrate the early-twenty-something Programmer Extraordinaire, DeWitt Clinton. And last, on Tuesday October 29, your humble production manager becomes a trentagenarian.

Lately, I've been getting crankier. And to be honest, the crankiness may have come from anxiety over my 30th birthday. It has increased with every week -- calls and e-mail from friends bring news of wedding announcements, baby showers, even a Ph.D. to be conferred. Hell, I just made the biggest commitment of my life -- to a credit union loan. Not exactly the stuff of alumni newsletters.

And yet -- what's really behind the monthly payment is a love story I long to share. It has drama, lots of color, searches, classified ads, expenses, a JPEG (hey, when you're on the 'Net you've gotta be sexy, right?) and mileage. It is the story of "Girl (At Long Last) Meets Car."

Until I considered coming to Tripod, cars never played a big role in my life. They were expensive, unwieldy objects that other people chose to maintain and insure. I lived by public transportation in my beloved Metro-Boston. Cars were for out-of-towners, or worse, people who couldn't come to terms with relinquishing the wheel to anyone. A veritable caravan of former boyfriends and current male relatives in big American cars, cursing a lack of free parking spots, immediately springs to mind.

Then, I learned the truth about the importance of having a vehicle here in Williamstown. As my sweethearts (Doug and the world famous Chuckles) live on Cape Cod, I figured (in May) I could rent a car one weekend a month (kind of like Guard reserves, only without uniforms), and be able to take my police auction bike or my two feet most anywhere else I needed to go. Hah! After a few events involving "little jaunts" to farms that ended up being 8 miles away, it became clear I'd need a vehicle of my own. I decided to use my monthly rental experiences to help guide me in car choice.

Moreover, I also learned the truth about the importance of having an appropriate vehicle not long after my Tripod interview. My Dior suit was fine, the midday change to biker boots better, and my answers and questions were on target. But the rental car! It was a shade of turquoise not to be believed. Communicatrix Kara and Golden-Butted Emma visibly worked to conceal their, well, repulsion at the color, hoping that the day-glo hue would grow on them. Coincidentally, almost immediately after confirming the car's rental status, I was offered the job.

The cars I rented were each carefully named by the Tripod staff, but not by make. Each was named by hue. There was the "that turquoise thing that almost stopped your hire"; "The Pepto-Bismol Mobile"; "Velvet Cupcake"; "L'Eggs Egg" (which Chuckles mistook for a toy); and the "God that's red, but at least it's not the Pepto-Bismol Mobile." The most famous of these, "The Pepto-Bismol Mobile," had a paint job that was pinkish-purple with a metallic blue overglaze. It was so overwhelmingly hideous that even my grandmother, who is legally blind, commented, "I can't see much, but I can see that. And I don't like it."

I spent a great deal of time combing the papers for either cars I could afford without loans (in the $700 range) or random doozies, which amounted to a goose chase/week. But the best part of the search was the help I got from La Famiglia Tripodia. First, they all offered their chauffeur services, and followed through with style & velocity. Not to mention advice. Tung saw a car on the side of the road in Adams, and took down model and number information for me. CEBo patiently listened to my blatherings after falling for a 1965 Plymouth Belvedere, then brought me back to earth with the word "practical." Scott told me of his local used car experiences. And the Motormaster, Bruce, gave me tips, checklists, you name it. He even offered to teach me how to drive a standard. Of course, throughout the summer it was in Margaret's interest to see to it I got wheels. We shared an office, which meant she had to hear incesssant replays of my fruitless car chases. One of her tasteful suggestions ("Y'know Jan, my entire family has owned a total of 18 Hondas..") while in her own smooth driving Civic sedan, and mention of a dealer visit by Kara finally got me moving. To the Web I went to get all the dealer cost and model info from Edmunds. Then, I placed a call to the local dealer and found they had the car I wanted. The test drive clinched it, especially when Tripodians oohed and aahed at Bella's elegant silver gleam and "cute butt." My job would be secure.

So, like our readers, I'm finding my own way. I watch and learn so very much from my colleagues and our members, it becomes easier to throw out the old prestige metrics. Maybe it's a good thing to have 15 years of work that went from runway to dishroom to desktop, or from shorts to suits to jeans. And after landing my first car, I don't feel like I'm "30." When driving, I feel more like all the best parts of "15" -- the world is large, electric and waiting for me to make my big entrance. We both have so much potential. And unlike most 15 year olds, I also have gas money.

Best of all, turning 30 means no one can call me Gen-X anymore.

So please, send your best birthday wishes to Christina and DeWitt, and tell them not to worry. Soon they'll get to turn 30, too.

A domani,

Janet, (10/25/96)

p.s. As always, send me your typos, your grammatical errors, your broken links, and I will fix them.

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Read more "Letters from Tripod" in the archive.

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