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2012 Fiat 500 Cabrio Is Friendly With Benefits

May 13, 2012 By Leave a Comment

The Fiat 500 Cabrio is about what you’d expect and not as much as you’d like from an economy car. But its endearing charm converts the complainers.

My week in a 500c Lounge Cabrio with the Gucci package drew glares and stares — as if onlookers were hoping to see J. Lo, who jumpstarted awareness of the brand in the breezy TV ad campaign.

Sold in Pop and Lounge models, Cabrio prices start at $20,000 and $24,000. The test car was J.-Wow at $28,400 with the Gucci gear. But Fiat blew out the first run of 2,000 Gucci models and is sourcing more. The $4,000 package — in white or black paint — highlights the hallmark Gucci colors of a red stripe in a band of green and adds satin trim, 15-inch white alloy wheels, leather-trimmed bucket seats with Gucci logos, green brake calipers, heated front seats and six-speed automatic transmission.

The package features are first-rate, particularly the leather seats and stitched steering wheel cover. The white metal flake paint is gorgeous, glittery and well applied. The creamy white interior appointments are attractive and precious. And they are of higher quality than the basic plastics that surround them.

With the sales success of Gucci, more niche models are being planned, such as the high-performance (160-hp) Abarth, now on sale.

There are desirable features in the Cabrio’s standard equipment, such as remote locking, automatic air conditioning, height-adjustable driver seat, cruise control, power locks-windows-mirrors (heated), six-speaker Bose audio system (with USB, iPod and satellite radio), Blue and Me hands-free phone connection, steering-wheel cruise-phone controls and floor mats.

Compared to the hardtop, the Cabrio has a slightly longer windshield with a reinforced upper cross member for rigidity. True to the original Fiat convertible, the slide-back roof opening works well and it’s power operated at up to 60 mph. Ride quality with the top peeled back is surprisingly not shaky.

The cabin is fairly quiet with the dual-layer top, but you know you’re in a ragtop from sound penetrating from above. With the roof open, there is some top bustle at the rear that cuts into visibility, and when opened partially, buffeting is noticeable above 40 mph. The back window is glass with a defroster.

Interior space is comfortably open with easy entry and exit for all ages. The slightly raised roof gives 38.6 inches of front headroom, and there is shoulder room for full-size adults. Back seat space is doable for the flexible passenger, but Fiat considers the seating to be 3+1 (child). The 50/50 back seats fold to stretch the 5.4 cubic feet of trunk space to 23.4.

I liked the fold-down driver armrest on the right, and my phone hooked up in seconds with Blue and Me. The TomTom navigation unit ($400) attaches to the top of the dashboard, but the screen was too much in my sightline. Fortunately, it can be detached when not needed.

With a 101-hp four-cylinder engine, running errands feels almost as healthy and wise as eating responsibly. 0-60 mph acceleration isn’t stunning, but the 500 scoots through traffic like a water bug and it’s almost small enough to park in a pocket. With this subcompact footprint, all roads feel wide and roomy. It is a pleasure to never worry about parking-space size.

But weighing less than 2,500 pounds, it rides like a little car and is bumpy over rough road. But the steering is steady and its four-wheel disc brakes have plenty of stopping force. Safety features include seven air bags, electronic stability control and hill-start assist.

Fiat 500s are 11.6 feet long and at their best in the city and romping along back roads, not dicing for space on the harried commute among trucks and American-girth vehicles on the Interstate.

Around town fuel economy with the automatic is good at 27 mpg, but highway mileage of 32 mpg isn’t what most Americans expect from such a small car. The manual gets 30/38 mpg. Premium fuel is recommended for peak performance.

The 500 Cabrio is friendly with benefits. You’ll like this car if you smile at the styling and are ready for some fun in your life.

Specs Box: 2012 Fiat 500 Lounge Cabrio Gucci

—Body style: subcompact, 4-passenger, front-drive convertible.

—Engine: 101-hp, SOHC, 16-valve, 1.4-liter 4-cylinder; 98 foot-pounds torque at 4,000 rpm.

—Transmission: 6-speed auto.

—Fuel economy: 27/32 mpg city/hwy; 91 octane recommended, not required.

—Fuel tank: 10.5 galllons.

—Trunk space: 5.4 to 23.4 cubic feet.

—Front head/leg/shoulder room: 38.6/40.7/49.4 inches.

—Rear head/leg/shoulder room: 36.8/31.7/46.4 inches.

—Wheelbase/length: 90.6/139.6 inches.

—Curb weight: 2,486 pounds.

—Turning circle: 30.6 feet.

—Standard equipment includes: remote locking, automatic air conditioning, height-adjustable driver seat, cruise control, power locks-windows-mirrors (heated), tinted glass, rear window defroster, 50/50 split back seat, six-speaker Bose audio system (CD-MP3-USB-iPod-satellite radio, Blue and Me hands-free phone connection, steering-wheel cruise-phone controls, floor mats.

—Safety features include: 7 air bags (including driver’s knee bag), 4-wheel disc brakes with ABS, electronic stability control and hill-start assist.

—Base price: $28,000, including $500 freight charge; price as tested

—Options on test vehicle: TomTom navigation system, $400

—Where assembled: Toluca, Mexico

—Warranty: 4-years/50,000-miles bumper-to-bumper with unlimited roadside assistance; 3-year/36,000-mile mile maintenance program that includes wear-and-tear items and trip-interruption reimbursement

(SET IMAGE) may050812adAP (END IMAGE) (SET CAPTION) Sold in Pop and Lounge models, pricing for the Fiat 500 Cabrio starts at $20,000 and $24,000. The Gucci test car was $28,000 with the trademark red and green colors. (END CAPTION)

Fiat Abarth Video: http://www.youtube.com/maynard’s garage

Vintage Fiat 500 Gallery: http://local.utsandiego.com/photos/galleries/2012/apr/19/vingate-fiat-500/

Mark Maynard is driving in cyberspace at mark.maynard@utsandiego.com. Find photo galleries and more news at Facebook.com/MaynardsGarage. To find out more about Mark Maynard and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.

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Some Unusual but Excellent Mom Advice

May 12, 2012 By Leave a Comment

Photo courtesy of Dane Khy

Finally, I’m going to say some nice stuff about my mom. When a blogger friend was doing a round up of “best advice our moms ever gave us,” I realized that my mom had some gems.

Now, I share them with you.

Maybe her bon mots were a bit unorthodox, but I can’t argue with her wisdom. And now, on this Mother’s Day week, I offer some of her pearls to you to either judge or implement. That’s up to you.

1. If you think the shoes are too small, they are.

I realize not all of you have size-10 boats, like I do, like my mom does. But whatever your shoe size, it’s a universal truth that when that perfect pair is just pinching your baby toe a teeny-tiny bit, you will convince yourself that they are a once-in-a-lifetime deal and not really that small. Then, you will buy them and never wear them again. Let maternal experience spare you the expense.

2. If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.

OK, couple of things. First of all, I grew up in San Francisco, and my mom was a hippie, so her retooling of this classic Stephen Stills song made more sense in context. Still, it might sound a bit strange for a mother to tell her daughter, “Hey, lower your standards, and maybe just have sex with whatever dude will have you.” But that wasn’t the message. It was more along the lines of a suggestion that you try to embrace what is, not the ideal you wish for but don’t have. It applied to friends and boyfriends. Just have a good time, and appreciate the people who like you — and don’t waste time pining for those who don’t.

3. Know your dealer.

Well, stitch this to a pillow right now. My mom assumed we would experiment with drugs. She didn’t bother telling us to “just say no.” So, having probably had a few bad trips in her time, she tried to at least spare us that. If you don’t know the guy from whom you are buying, you could get something harmless like oregano, but you could also get something scary like horse tranquilizer. In fact, this advice made me not want to do any drugs at all.

4. You can’t always get what you want, but you get what you need.

This is another piece of life advice ripped from the lyrics of a song, in this case by The Rolling Stones. This one kind of gave me a headache when I was a kid, to be honest, because it’s maybe too deep for an elementary school mind. Oh, who am I kidding? I still don’t know if I get it. Do we get what we need? Really? Always? Not actually sure this is true, but it sounds deep, and if you start throwing it around, no one will question you.

5. Don’t be with strangers when trying a new drug.

Yep, another drug-related bit of forward thinking. New drugs are an unknown world of possible trippy side effects and screwy behavior or thinking. You could just pass out, in fact, and find yourself stranded or in danger. The thing to do if you are going to try something new, no matter how mild, is make sure you are among friends, people you trust, folks who will brush your hair or make sure you get the snacks you want or get you home safely or tell you the walls aren’t really bleeding. I’m not into drugs — probably because of advice like this — but the few times I’ve experimented, I made sure I was in a safe place with nice people. Don’t do drugs. But if you do, keep this with you.

6. He won’t be doing that at his prom.

This is my mom’s standard stance on anything that worries me about my child. His pacifier? His weird crawl? His nighttime diaper? His long crying jags? His drooling? He won’t be doing it at his prom. Perspective.

Teresa Strasser is an Emmy-winning television writer, a two-time Los Angeles Press Club Columnist of the Year and a multimedia personality. She is the author of a new book, “Exploiting My Baby,” the rights to which have been optioned by Sony Pictures. To find out more about Teresa Strasser and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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Unknown Soldiers: Our Brothers

May 11, 2012 By Leave a Comment

Spc. Alex Rozanski of the Ohio National Guard, left, then a U.S. Marine, stands beside his older brother, Capt. Nick Rozanski, right, of the Ohio National Guard. The older Rozanski, 36, was killed in action on Apr. 4 in Afghanistan's Faryab Province. Photo courtesy of Spc. Alex Rozanski

Spc. Alex Rozanski was serving as a United States Marine in 2003 when his older brother, Nick, decided to follow in his footsteps and join the military.

“It was one of those things growing up; I knew I wanted to be a soldier or Marine,” Spc. Rozanski, 32, told The Unknown Soldiers. “I thought it was just something that men did, and in a way, I think Nick was the same way.”

The Rozanski brothers were a long way from playing with G.I. Joes when in 2005, military planes carrying Alex and Nick virtually passed one another in mid-flight.

“He was coming home from Kosovo while I was leaving for Iraq,” Alex said.

When the Marine returned from his combat deployment, his big brother was waiting to salute him.

“Nick was the first one to greet me and the first one to give me a hug,” Alex fondly recalled.

After serving honorably in Iraq, Alex decided to leave the Marine Corps and return to central Ohio, where generations of Rozanskis, including his father and grandfathers, have served our country in uniform. Nick, as a soldier in the Ohio National Guard, deployed to Iraq two years after Alex had fought there.

“He was more or less doing convoy escort, which means he saw the entire nation of Iraq,” Alex said. “That was supposed to be the hazardous deployment, as he was dodging IEDs (improvised explosive devices) on the roadways.”

In 2008, Capt. Nick Rozanski came home from Iraq to his loving wife, Jennifer. As the couple raised two daughters, the Ohio State University graduate immersed himself in family and work life, while resolving that if his country called again, he would be ready.

Alex, meanwhile, was hearing the call himself. Like his older brother, he joined the Ohio National Guard.

“I still had that draw to the military,” he explained. “You don’t remember the bad times, you remember the good times…the camaraderie.”

Not long after the two brothers once again became brothers in arms, Nick was presented with the difficult proposition of being thousands of miles from his family while serving overseas for the third time.

“My brother didn’t necessarily have to go to Afghanistan, he chose to because he felt an obligation,” the younger Rozanski warrior said. “If not you, it’s somebody else’s husband, son, or father.”

Even as an active duty soldier, Alex never thought his brother, who left for Afghanistan in January, could possibly return home in a wheelchair or flag-draped casket.

“You don’t think lightning’s going to strike,” he said. “But it does.”

On April 4, Alex got a late night phone call from his mother.

“The Army officers just left,” a sobbing Pamela Mitchell told her son. “Nick is dead.”

Earlier that day in northern Afghanistan, Capt. Rozanski, 36, Sgt. 1st Class Jeffrey Rieck, 45, and Sgt. 1st Class Shawn Hannon, 44, were killed when a suicide bomber detonated an explosive device, according to the Pentagon.

“You always hear the term weak in the knees,” Alex said. “I have never been weak in the knees before, but I fell to my knees.”

Two weeks after his brother’s funeral in Dublin, Ohio, which was packed to capacity, Alex’s thoughts are with his sister-in-law and nieces. But in his brother’s honor, he also plans to press forward.

“One thing I learned from my Iraq deployment is that no matter how bad something is, the sun still comes up the next day,” he said. “Life does go on.”

The family quickly established the Nick Rozanski Memorial Fund, which they want to spread awareness about the sacrifices of not only their loved one, but the entire military community.

“It goes back to that sense of obligation,” Alex said. “If I don’t do it, it will be somebody else’s son or daughter.”

Weeks after losing his big brother in combat, the soldier said something that was both surprising and poignant. He hopes that one day, his own children will consider military service.

“If they don’t, I would certainly understand,” Alex said. “But if they do, I would be proud.”

Spc. Alex Rozanski and Capt. Nick Rozanski are brothers. With our nation still at war, they’re our brothers too.

Spc. Alex Rozanski of the Ohio National Guard, left, then a U.S. Marine, stands beside his older brother, Capt. Nick Rozanski, right, of the Ohio National Guard. The older Rozanski, 36, was killed in action on Apr. 4 in Afghanistan’s Faryab Province. Photo courtesy of Spc. Alex Rozanski.

To find out more about Tom Sileo or to read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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A Piece of (Wedding) Cake

May 11, 2012 By Leave a Comment

Photo by Christian Yves Ocampo - used by permission

Planning a wedding is stressful stuff. That’s why I like to let my girlfriend, Christine, plan all the hard parts. This basically entails her picking out a wedding cake and pretty much everything else, too.

Last Saturday morning she came running down the stairs and asked if I was ready. Ready for what, I thought in stunned silence. Apparently, we were going to visit a cake-maker fittingly named the Cake Lady and the process involved trying samples of cake.

“You forgot?” she rhetorically asked.

I had.

And to make matters worse I had no appetite because I had just wolfed down an entire plate of waffles.

Then I was whisked away to spend hours force-feeding myself 17 different types of cakes.

The tradition of wedding cakes dates all the way back to the Roman Empire. Since icing had not been invented yet, cakes at that time primarily consisted of barley bread and were basically the equivalent of eating a six pack of beer.

Clearly, wedding cakes aren’t as cool as they use to be.

Wedding cakes really came into their own in medieval Europe when our benevolent ancestors decided that there weren’t enough frivolous and inflated costs involved with a conventional wedding ceremony.

Other traditions would later become the social order of the day, like limousines, tuxedos and ridiculous reception hall security deposits, but it all began with the wedding cake.

These aren’t your mother’s cakes, either. These are elegant, multi-leveled culinary masterpieces that are so pristine you could eat dinner off of them.

When I was growing up a cake to me meant my mother would whip up some insane combination of flour, sugar, eggs and random pieces of candy or cereal she found in the cupboards. She would always cautiously choose a cake theme based loosely on something I was enamored with at the time (like dinosaurs or the solar system). Her cakes were simple, homemade and 50 percent of the time only slightly resembled an alligator.

By contrast, professional wedding cakes also involve heaping helpings of flour, sugar and eggs, but do not contain Lucky Charms marshmallows and are not shaped like reptiles, or even amphibians for that matter.

Wedding cakes do, however, have exuberant price tags attached to the same empty calories.

Naturally this befuddles me because if you are a cake connoisseur like I pride myself to be then you are already aware that a fancy wedding cake tastes exactly like the $12 cakes available from the Walmart bakery. It almost makes me feel like throwing a box of Entenmann’s down on the reception hall floor and letting all of our wedding guests scavenge like a bunch of starving dogs,

That’s the thing about cakes; they all taste good regardless of price.

Cakes are a lot like wine: a bottle of 1986 Duckhorn Napa Valley merlot basically tastes the same as a bottle of Boone’s Farm. You save money to get just as drunk. It’s a double score.

But I get it, I am getting married and buying an outrageously priced cake is a piece of that process — I accept that.

What I don’t understand is how a cake can be that expensive. It’s pretty hard to mess a cake up, my mother’s abovementioned cake baking “talents” notwithstanding. Unless you throw in a whole can of clove peppers and chives, chances are your cake will be delicious even if you throw in the egg shells.

If all else fails, any cake-related problem can be quickly rectified with a whole tub of chocolate icing.

This all dawns on me as Christine and I are shoving our seventeenth brick of cake into our cake holes. I realize wedding cakes are so expensive because you are paying for all of the fancy glitz and glamour and edible beads. This upsets me most of all because it seems silly to dress up food like that. Whether it’s a $900 cake or a bag of discount biscuits, it all looks the same after the grand voyage through the intricacies of the human digestive system.

In the end, we picked out a wedding cake that was accommodating to our pocketbooks. But honestly, what other choice did I have.

What’s that saying again? When in Rome, do as the Romans do.

To contact Will E Sanders email him at wille@willesanders.com. To learn more about Will E Sanders, to read past columns or to read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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Don’t Snore On My Parade

March 29, 2011 By Leave a Comment

“Honey, you were snoring really loud last night,” alleged my husband.

“That’s impossible,” I said. “I don’t snore.”

“Oh no?”

“No, I would hear it if I snored.”

“You don’t hear it because you are sleeping!” he declared. “Something I was not able to do so well with all that snoring going on.”

“Maybe it was the dog?” I suggested.

“Listen TyranaSNORous Rex,” he said. “The snoring was coming from the body in the bed next to me.  I think after all these years, I can tell the difference between you and the dog.”

I shrugged and disappeared into the bathroom.

Truth be told, I kind of knew I had been snoring. It might have something to do with the fact that I was dreaming I was bowling in a thunderstorm while fireworks were being shot off and men with jackhammers worked nearby.  Or maybe it was the fact that I actually woke up at one point because I heard someone snort. When I realized my husband was not in the bed, it did not leave a lot of other people to blame it on.

I was actually pretty aghast to discover that I might be on my way to becoming my father.  My dad snored so loudly that one time when I was growing up, the neighbors called wildlife control because they thought there was a wounded warthog roaming the streets.  Although I have been informed that my snores sound like a cross between a congested cow and a rusty chainsaw, I had no doubt that I would soon be elevated to warthog status if I didn’t address the problem.

I was pretty sure my snoring was due to the fact that every night I was stuffed up. And I was pretty sure I was stuffed up because our humidifier was on the fritz.  I decided that in the best interest of spousal harmony, I should call in the humidifier repair people.  However, calling for a repairman and actually getting something repaired are two different things. It took four days to get someone to come look at the problem, two hours to determine that it needed a new part, half an hour to determine that the repairman didn’t have the part on the truck, and then another week to get the part in and install it. During that time, I was informed that I snored nine nights, snorted four times, and whistled through my nose twice.

The good news was, by the tenth day, the humidifier was back in action, the bedroom seemed less dry, and I was sure that my night would be snore-free.

The morning after a well-humidified night, I woke up feeling really refreshed and was convinced that my snoring days, or rather nights, were over.

“So,” I said, turning to my husband.  “Did I snore last night?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I couldn’t hear anything over your teeth grinding.”

Note:  For the latest “Lost in Suburbia” News, become a fan on Facebook!  Go to http://www.facebook.com/LostinSuburbiaFanPage and click “like!”

 

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The World’s Fattest Toddler: I’m Not Worried

March 28, 2011 By Leave a Comment

Step aside, infamous Indonesian smoking baby, there’s a new gross-you-out and get-you-incensed Internet sensation in town. It’s the obese Chinese toddler!

Perhaps you have seen photos of Lu Hao, a 132-pound 3-year-old who eats three bowls of rice at a time and refuses to walk to school. It’s compelling stuff, the swollen kid crammed into a raft, floating in a pool, the massive baby gnawing on a chicken bone or being hoisted by his sweating, regular-sized dad as his girth tests the tensile strength of a T-shirt.

If you see the story anywhere online, don’t even bother reading the comments section. This is very predictable, the kind of kid story that causes parents to do one of two things: A) lots of pontificating about how mom and dad need to take charge and are actually abusive in their neglectful/idiotic parenting or B) feel sorry for the child and post about their pity, which causes group A to attack group B. These two groups will go round and round while missing the point: This fat baby is onto something, and I don’t just mean a steel-reinforced Bumbo chair.

I don’t know exactly what Bethenny Frankel does or is, but I know her name, I know she has written a couple of bestselling books, and I know she regularly trends on Twitter and has been featured on five reality shows, two that focus solely on her life.

Forget about the Strasberg Institute or the Writers’ Workshop at the University of Iowa. Skip Juilliard, practicing your guitar, attending classes at Second City or even going to culinary school.

Just have yourself some brawls like the “Desperate Housewives” or the cast members of “Jersey Shore.” In other words, embrace your total lack of impulse control, and you will be on the road to fame and fortune.

If you find you can’t keep your mouth shut, you might end up getting punched like Snooki and become an overnight sensation. If you can’t restrain yourself — from toppling a table at a party, screaming, conniving, drinking, vicious gossiping, smoking, having inappropriate sex, having a zillion kids or, in the case of little Lu, eating — we are going to be very interested in you. You could be five bowls of rice from your own series.

Discipline gets plenty of lip service, but if you want to “trend” in our culture, don’t call a therapist when you can’t control your impulses. Call CAA. I think they are opening a special “Impulse Control” division because that’s how profitable it is to completely give in to your urges, at least if there’s a camera there to capture it. Only suckers bother with training, practice and long, boring, expensive educations that mainly lead to working mundane jobs while hacking away at manuscripts that will never sell. You know who sells books? The Situation. He sells books, and last I checked, he hadn’t “paid dues” or “even read a book” himself.

If TLC doesn’t get ahold of this obese baby, they are missing out on a chance for a docu-soap that could fit nicely into their lineup, the way Lu’s diaper fits perfectly over a queen-size bed. “Little People, Big Baby” could be the story of two little people struggling to raise a giant child. Look out for “The Littlest Biggest Loser,” in which Lu competes in weight-loss challenges with other chubby babies from around the world.

Lu could move in with the Duggars or be disciplined by Jo Frost or perhaps team up with the smoking baby (who has finally quit smoking, by the way) to live in a house on the Jersey Shore with Bethenny, her new family, a few MTV Teen Moms and an aging Puck from “The Real World.” A swirl of ids could provide new catchphrases, books, spin-off shows and viewing parties.

This fat baby is already learning something important about making his mark. The only thing he really has to worry about? The next 500-pound 4-year-old knocking him off his top spot. Or the smoking baby picking up again. Fame is a hard habit to break.

 

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Unknown Soldiers – Top Gun

March 25, 2011 By Leave a Comment

 

U.S. Navy Cmdr. Dave Mundy, executive officer of the Carrier Airborne Early Warning Squadron (VAW) 121, presents a U.S. flag to the widow of Lt. Miroslav Steven Zilberman during his memorial ceremony April 8, 2010, in Norfolk, Va. (U.S. Navy photo by Mass Communication Specialist 2nd Class William Wienert/Released)

When future U.S. Navy pilot Miroslav Zilberman lost his grandfather, a Russian World War II aviator who spent almost a full year as a prisoner of war, he searched for the right words to honor his hero.

“I will always remember him as a loving and caring grandfather,” Zilberman, then training to become a pilot, said at the cemetery. “The next time I come here, I will proudly be wearing my uniform, and with honor, salute my grandfather and remember his life.”

Zilberman, known as “Steven” by many of his relatives and friends, worked incredibly hard to turn his dreams into reality, becoming a Navy lieutenant. He grew up in Kiev, Ukraine, but quickly became endeared to America after moving here in elementary school, eventually even referring to Columbus, Ohio, as home. Yet other than his family, including a wife and two children, there is one thing he adored above all else.

Officers bow their heads aboard the aircraft carrier USS Dwight D. Eisenhower (CVN 69) during a memorial service for Lt. Steven Zilberman. (U.S. Navy photo by Mass Communication Specialist 3rd Class Chad R. Erdmann/Released)

“He loved to fly,” Zilberman’s mother, Anna Sokolov, told The Unknown Soldiers. “One time, I remember I called him, and he was in Texas, and he was not in a good mood, which was unusual. I asked him, ‘Did something happen?’”

Zilberman told his mom that bad weather conditions would prevent him from flying that day.

“I said, ‘So what, you’ll fly tomorrow,’ and he said, ‘Mom, you don’t understand,’” Sokolov recalled. “He breathed aviation.”

Assigned to Carrier Airborne Early Warning Squadron (VAW-21), Zilberman soared into the skies, earning numerous educational and training achievements as a naval aviator. But as a dear friend who once helped a young Steven learn English noted, he did not make these sacrifices at his family’s expense.

“At the same time, (Zilberman) fulfilled the lofty personal goals of remaining a loving son to his devoted parents, Anna and Boris (Zilberman), a loving husband to Katrina, the love of his life since age 18, and loving father to their two beautiful children, Daniel and Sarah,” Marylin Rofsky said.

Tragically, those touching remarks were made at a memorial service for Zilberman at Naval Station Norfolk, Va., on April 8, 2010. The 31-year-old pilot’s E-2C Hawkeye crashed in the Arabian Gulf on March 31 while returning to the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower from a mission over Afghanistan. Despite a frantic and extensive search, his body was never recovered.

“I thought that it could not be because I only had one child and I brought him to America for a better life,” an emotional Sokolov told me. “Everything was all right in our family, even though my father was in two wars before he died at 92. It was horrible.”

(U.S. Navy photo by Mass Communication Specialist 3rd Class Chad R. Erdmann/Released)

Zilberman’s selfless actions in the moments before the crash earned him the Distinguished Flying Cross. According to numerous accounts, the pilot urged his three crewmembers to bail out as he battled a mechanical failure, keeping the plane steady just long enough to save their lives.

“Without his courageous actions, the entire crew would have perished,” a Navy citation reads.

Zilberman’s parents were unaware of many of their son’s accomplishments until his memorial service.

“He was a top pilot, but we didn’t know,” his proud mother explained. “He was very modest and would never brag about his own accomplishments. To him, it didn’t matter.”

When we think of American military pilots, many of us still recall Maverick and Goose gliding around the skies in the classic ’80s film “Top Gun,” with roaring engines and rock music in the background. Yet as we are reminded by Zilberman’s call sign of “Abrek,” which means “valiant man” in Russian, the real protectors of the sky are in danger at this very hour, flying perilous missions over combat zones in Afghanistan and Libya.

Today, we find ourselves set where Lt. Miroslav “Steven” Zilberman once stood, searching for the right way to honor our heroes. Maybe we can start by living a little bit more like them: making our country better and following our dreams, while at the same time always putting our loved ones first.

 

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Dave Says, “Get Out of Debt Even Faster”

March 24, 2011 By Leave a Comment

Dear Dave,

I’m 26, single, and I’ve been working your Total Money Makeover plan to pay off my debt. Right now, I have just $25,000 left to pay off, including my car. Recently, I was offered a chance to move to Singapore for the next six months as part of my job. I won’t have any real expenses while I’m there, but I’m worried about the effect it might have on me getting out of debt. How can I make all of this balance out?

Jared

Dear Jared,

Why does there have to be a balance here? In my mind, this whole situation is a fantastic catalyst for helping you get out of debt even faster than before.

Think about it. You’re single, and you’ve got no strings attached. This is a wonderful opportunity to travel and make more money and save more money than ever before! You’ll be able to accelerate your financial plan and have a great cultural experience, too!

Now, I’m not up for this idea if you’re going over there just to hang out and goof off. But if you’re committed to the plan and to getting out of debt, then this is something you absolutely must do. You could even go ahead and sell the car now. You’ll be rid of insurance payments, buying tags, and all that stuff. Plus, it’ll just sit there losing value while you’re gone, anyway.

I’m not hearing anything negative in this entire situation. Go for it, Jared!

—Dave

Dear Dave,

I called a creditor recently to settle an old debt. They offered a settlement, but said it was their policy not to put settlement offers in writing. Should I accept the deal?

Joseph

Dear Joseph,

No way! If you don’t have anything in writing, then you have no proof that they extended the offer or agreed to a specific amount. The only one who will have “proof” of anything in this scenario is the creditor, and that’s just asking for trouble.

My suggestion for handling this ridiculous situation goes something like this. Explain to them that you seem to have reached an impasse, because you have a policy of never accepting settlements and handing out money unless the settlements are in writing. No writing, no money! It’s not a hard concept to understand, and it’s fair to both parties.

—Dave

Dear Dave,

I’d like to move to Las Vegas when I retire in about 10 years. I’ve saved up quite a bit of money, and could pay cash for a property now. Should I go ahead and buy, and maybe rent it out for a while, or wait until I actually retire?

Bruce

Dear Bruce,

If you can pay cash now and still have plenty of savings left over, then there’s no reason not to go ahead and buy. The housing bubble has burst out there, and you’ll be able to find some real bargains in and around Vegas.

I’m not big on being a long-distance landlord, but I’d be tempted to do it in a situation like this. Keep in mind that you’ll probably have to renovate the place if you rent it out for several years. It’s just the nature of things in the rental world, so make sure you figure that into your cash plan—and your emotional plan, too!

—Dave

* For more financial help, please visit daveramsey.com.

 

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Getting Our Ducks In A Row

March 23, 2011 By Leave a Comment

Photo courtesy of Lee J Haywood

“DUCK!”  Yelled my daughter.

I dropped to the floor.  “What? Is something coming at my head?”

“No. Duck… in the backyard!” she clarified.

I got off my knees and peered out back. Sure enough, there was a mallard pacing back and forth along the outside of our pool fence. He was quacking and pacing and if ever a duck looked annoyed, this one did.

Last time I checked, ducks could fly, so I was perplexed why this duck was staying on the wrong side of the pool fence.

Now for those of you who are new to this column, you should know that it is not an unusual occurrence for us to get ducks in our backyard. There is a pair of mallards, Larry and Loretta, the snowbirds, who fly up from Boca Raton every spring to their lovely place here in New Jersey. They have been doing this every year since we moved into our house 11 summers ago.  The last two years they brought their friend Sy with them to enjoy duck paddling in the frigid water that collects over the winter in our pool tarp.  I tried to convince them to wait a month until we actually open the pool, but I guess they prefer to be here early and get first dibs on the drowned worms.  Early bird and all that… you know.

Anyway, at first I thought one of the ducks had arrived alone. But I soon saw that all three were actually here:  Larry and Loretta were in the pool and Sy was the one outside the fence.

This is when I realized that there might have been a falling out in duckland.

Every time Sy approached the fence, Larry hopped out of the pool and ran straight at Sy, quacking and flapping his wings in obvious disapproval.

“I think the ducks are fighting over the pool,” I said to my daughter.

“Seriously, mom? Don’t you know anything? She said rolling her eyes. “They are fighting over Loretta!”

I looked back and saw Loretta calmly preening her tail feathers while the male mallards engaged in a quack-off.

“Well, that’s not very cool of Sy,” I said glaring at the outcast duck.  “Doesn’t he know that ducks mate for life?”

“I guess he missed the memo,” said my daughter. I laughed out loud.

While we pondered the situation with the ducks, we failed to notice someone else who was becoming increasingly bothered by the duck wars.  It wasn’t until my daughter opened the back door to the deck to go out and get a better look that we realized the dog was on high alert. He bolted out the door and ran toward the pool, barking his head off at the ducks. Without another quack, both Larry and Sy flew the coop. But Loretta calmly hopped back into the pool and started swimming again.

“Well I guess that solves that,” I said. “She’s not going to pick either of them now.”

“Why?” asked my daughter.

“Because now she knows they’re both chickens.”

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It’s Ivy League Preschool or Enlarged Bust

March 21, 2011 By Leave a Comment

 

Photo courtesy of Gideon Tsang

She goes by the name Divine, but her life is anything but. When she can afford it, she speedballs cocaine after a long night giving lap dances at the Diamond Bar. Early mornings are hard — the sun coming up, the old baby toys glaring and gathering dust — and the memories of her baby, born drug-addicted and taken by the state, haunt her. The Xanax helps her sleep until her next shift.

 

When money is low, she carefully plucks half-smoked butts from the coffee can on her stoop and saves them in an Altoids tin.

She tells her johns she’s working her way through med school. No one ever believes it.

She smells like cheap detergent from the vending machine at the laundromat mixed with vanilla and regret — all of this could have been prevented 19 years before.

The same is true for Sam, who waits for dinner to be left in the dumpster behind a Pizza Hut. He eats the cold slices left behind by families who will go home to warm apartments and finds comfort in a tattered green sleeping bag perched on the stairs of a church where he sleeps most nights.

Both of these young people could have been spared a life of failure, struggle and despair.

Sadly, because their parents didn’t push hard enough to get them into the right preschool, didn’t do their research, didn’t attend the requisite school-sponsored Mommy and Me classes and fundraisers, because their parents missed this all-important bus to happiness and achievement, Sam’s and Divine’s fates were sealed as toddlers. Without admission to the right preschool — which could have provided access to elite elementary schools, which of course would have meant a high-caliber high school followed by college — their lives hit the skids. With one boneheaded move, Sam and Divine were robbed of the fulfilling lives they could have had.

Sam and Divine aren’t real people.

They are only real inasmuch as this is how serious parents are made to feel our choices about preschool really are, as evidenced by the lawsuit filed in Manhattan Supreme Court alleging that a $19,000-a-year preschool failed to properly prepare a 4-year-old for the ERB, an exam required for entrance into the city’s top elementary schools. The toddler’s mother, Nicole Imprescia, is suing York Avenue Preschool for sticking her child with younger students who were still learning shapes and colors and essentially charging her for running “one big playroom.”

According to court documents filed by the family, “(G)etting a child into the Ivy League starts in nursery school.”

When Imprescia realized her daughter wasn’t getting appropriate test prep (the ERB happens to be notoriously unreliable as a measure of intelligence from what I can tell, but no matter, it’s important to schools in New York, so it was important to this mom), she yanked her kid out of the school in a matter of weeks and wanted her 19 grand back. The school told the mom no dice, we’ll have our lawyer, who is well versed in shapes and colors, see you in court.

Sure, there’s much to mock here. Overpriced preschools, parents who bite and claw for the privilege of paying a fortune for “creative play.”

I have visited one preschool so far. My only question: Where are the books? You know, books? Those things that help you learn how to read?

“Learn by play,” they explained.

As we drove off, I muttered to my husband, “Whatever happened to learn by … learn?” and he muttered “$17,000″ over and over to himself, like the name of a lover lost at sea.

On the upside, the tour was very diverse: There were not only white parents; there were also SUPER-white parents.

It would also be easy to make fun of the mother for suing. But hey, I don’t fault a lady for wanting her dough back after a few weeks of shapes and colors. I’m just saying, let’s focus on what’s important in the life of a child: It’s the preschool, folks. That’s obvious from this lawsuit.

Forget family of origin, community, genetics and peer-group influence, and focus on where your kid will finger paint for a couple of years. Make the wrong choice, and mark my words, Sam and Divine won’t just be imaginary. They will be as real and stupid as this entire fiasco.

 

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