Margaret Anne Lonsdorf Frey, “Peggy,” 55, passed away on Monday, June 22, 2009, in her home following a long illness.

She is survived by her loving husband, David Duval Frey; four children, Christine of Orlando, Florida, Kevin of Greensboro, North Carolina, Joseph of Clear Brook, Virginia, and Catherine of Wilmington, North Carolina; one grandson, Hayden of Clear Brook, Virginia; two sisters, Jane Lonsdorf Keffer (and husband Walter N., Sr.) and Patricia Lonsdorf Perucca (and husband Richard J., Sr.), all of York, Pennsylvania; eight nieces and nephews; as well as seven great-nieces and nephews, with two on the way. Peggy also leaves behind her in-laws, the Frey family, William S. Frey, Jr. and wife Carla, Andrew W. Frey, Sr., and Purdon Hobbs, all of York, Susan and Paul Haddaway of Easton, Maryland, and Dave’s twin, Catherine, of Thomasville, Pennsylvania; as well as numerous nieces and nephews. She was preceded in death by her parents-in-law, William S. and Purdon W. Frey, Sr.

Peggy was born January 27, 1954, in York, Pennsylvania, the daughter of the late John F. and Margaret (McLaughlin) Lonsdorf.

Peggy lived a life full of friends and fun things to do. She was a member of the board for the Youth Development Centers in Winchester, VA, and Wilmington, NC. She was also a board member for the American Cancer Society in Winchester, VA, and the YWCA in Wilmington. Peggy volunteered at the ACS in Wilmington, as well as her local hospitals in Winchester and Wilmington. Peggy was also a member of the Apple Club in Winchester, and an avid supporter/participant in the annual Apple Blossom Festival, an Exchange Club member, and a board member for the Winchester Medical Center Women’s Auxiliary.

Peggy was a 1971 graduate of York Catholic High School and attended York College of Pennsylvania. She was employed by several different banking institutions before leaving the workforce to be a full-time mother. She will be greatly missed by her many, many friends and family members.

A public visitation will be held from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. Friday at the John W. Keffer Funeral Homes and Crematory, Inc., 2114 W. Market St., York PA 17404, with a service from 1 p.m. to 1:30. Burial will follow, in Prospect Hill Cemetery.

Serving as pallbearers will be Kevin M. Frey, Joseph P. Frey, Walter Nash Keffer, Jr., John Lonsdorf Keffer, Paul R. Keffer, and Kevin Hoffman.

Contributions may be made to any local American Cancer Society, or Youth Development Center in memory of Peggy Frey.

I have had plenty to post about, but not much I wanted to say publicly. I just didn’t want the post about getting pulled over to be the latest post for the rest of the year.

I got pulled over for speeding in Prince William County, on I-95 North, just outside the beltway on February 8th. The state police officer, David Todd Shrewsbury (D.T. Shrewsbury on the summons) also gave me a ticket for expired Virginia tags. Since it’s such a pain in the ass to drive up there from North Carolina, I just paid it. Lame. But I did not appreciate the officer’s handling of it, and I wanted to represent myself, and tell the judge why the officer’s judgment that night was questionable. So I’m going to bitch my side here.

When he pulled me over, I was going a moderate speed. Yeah, I’m not going to lie; I wasn’t going exactly 65 mph, but was I going 80 mph? No, I don’t think so. I was going the flow of traffic – there were other cars around me – could one of them have been clocked? Who knows. Was his equipment properly calibrated? Who knows. In court, I could ask, but I don’t have that luxury now.

Anyways, he asked for my license and registration. My license is from North Carolina, because that’s where I live. I hadn’t gotten my new tags yet, and I had no freaking clue they were expired, otherwise I’d have gotten the new ones. That really irritated me. I know it’s my responsibility to keep up with that stuff, but I just didn’t realize. He was already citing me for speeding; couldn’t he have given me a break? So he asks me if I’m in the military. I tell him no. He says, “Well then why do you have a license from one state, and tags from another?” I reply, “I just moved.”

He then asked if the car is mine, and I tell him yes, that I have the title signed over to me in the glove compartment. He nods his head, and I guess doesn’t bother comparing the name on the registration (my dad’s) to my name on the license, because he asked why I was speeding, to which I replied I didn’t realize I was, and he walked back to his car.

When he came back 20ish minutes later, he accused me of lying: “I thought you said this car was yours.” Guess he finally realized the name on the license and the name on the registration were different. I told him the car is mine. I bought it, and I paid for it, and it was registered under my dad’s name, but the title was signed over to me – I just needed to make it official by getting my NC plates. He then proceeds to bitch at me for having two drivers licenses. By then, I’m freaking annoyed. I tell the guy, “Hello, I told you I just moved to North Carolina,” to which he replies, “You said you just moved to Virginia.” I say, “No, I did not just say that, because that is not true.” And he says, “Well, I wrote the tickets with your Virginia information, because I heard you say you just moved to Virginia.”

What I wish I’d thought to say to him is, “OH MY GOD – How could my fucking VIRGINIA TAGS be expired if I just moved to Virginia!!! And why would my North Carolina drivers license be dated two weeks ago?! He’s a freaking State Police officer. Are their standards that low, or was he just too tired or stoned to do his job? Anyways, I would have tried to use that idiocy as a defense in court, and say, “Given those mistakes, it’s hard to believe the officer was competent enough at that particular time to single me out as the offender,” or something like that. Seriously, I believe the cop screwed up, and I had to pay for it. Instead, I just told the trooper that he was wrong, and I no longer possess a valid VA license, and I no longer reside in the fair state of VA, so I wasn’t sure what he was going to do about the tickets. He just looked at me and said, “Well, it won’t be a problem if you prepay them.” That was what made me determined to go to court in the first place (even though I changed my mind after talking to a lawyer, a law student, and another VA police officer).

I think it’s so fucking retarded that they have cops who are solely focused on financially punishing people going over the speed limit instead of watching out for safety. I mean, I’m driving a post-year 2000 vehicle, the conditions (road surface, visibility, etc.) are perfect, there were cars around, but all going about the same speed, and traffic was, by no means, heavy – what if I am going 70, 75, or 80 mph? I don’t see how that is so much less safe than 65 mph unless I’m somehow impaired (drunk, super tired, etc.). Yes, it increases stopping distance, but any alert driver won’t be too affected by that. Driving fast and driving unsafely are two different things at least as often as they are the same.

One last thing. The next night, I got pulled over again. I wish I could remember the state trooper’s full name, but I got rid of the ticket. All I remember is Cline. Trooper Cline pulled me over for expired tags. Yeah, frustrating. What he did, though, was write the summons, and give me his phone number. He said if I take care of the tags in the next few days like I said I would, I could call him up, and he’d tear up the ticket. Of course I did get the tags taken care of, and I called him, and he asked me to please destroy the summons. So, thank you to Trooper Cline of Fairfax County. To me, that is fair, and police officers shouldn’t be encouraged to make the state/city/county money by citing every tiny issue they can find. That is not public safety. That is bullshit.

Last night I went to a post holiday party with Kristen at her co-worker’s mom’s house. Hanging around them is always interesting and fun, so I knew I’d have a good time, but I wanted to recount something I thought was funny. I was being introduced to people, and this woman shook my hand, then, about the man sitting next to her (who is very old, and has a big, white beard), said, “This is Robert.” So, I turn to him to shake his hand, and I say, “I’m Kevin,” and he doesn’t reply, “Hello,” “Nice to meet you,” “How are you,” or anything like that. Instead, he shakes my hand, looks up at me, and says, “I was in Cabin Fever. I played the old man Cadwell.” At first I was confused, because he didn’t preface that statement with anything, which I found hilarious, but what he said was a little lost on me, since I haven’t seen the movie. I’ve heard of it, but haven’t seen it. Anyways, the man I met was none other than Robert Harris, who was nominated for a primetime emmy for “Baretta” in 1975. He’s a pretty cool guy with a good sense of humor. And it was so freaking funny how random it was that, instead of introducing himself, he told me from which movie he’s most likely to be recognized.

The party was really fun, too. Thank god the stress of the holidays is over. Happy new year to all. No poignant New Years post this year. Who needs it.

My birthday ended three hours ago, I’m drunk, and I’m sitting in my office, alone. How did something so grand turn into something so unfortunate? I’m, like, the master of one hundred eighty degrees.

Happy birthday, Whoopi Goldberg and Claire Ashby.

And God damn.

The funny thing is Brandon will be the only one who reads this, because he’s got it in RSS. It’s okay, brandon. My birthday was pretty cool. It was only after midnight that things stopped going swimmingly. By the time you read this, everything will be fine. And I may have even deleted this post by then.

We are letting everything go to hell on so many levels.

I’m like that guy whose ghosts are constantly reminding him of everything he’s ever done wrong, and of every reason he deserves all the things that weigh down what could potentially have been happiness.

It’s Friday night, and this big, big world just keeps on spinning, unaware of subtle changes in mass occurring as babies are born and bodies wither away. It’s a sad Friday night.

At my office, there is a fella whose car claims to be a Mercedes-Benz SLK 230, which is a pretty nice car. In fact, let me quote from CarTalk.com:

This is a fun little car. If Mercedes set out to build its own Mazda Miata, this is what they’d end up with. The SLK 230 is a fun-to-drive, sporty convertible that’s about the same size as a Miata. Of course, it’s several steps up in quality in just about every respect–which had better be the case if you’re going to be shelling out an additional $22,000.

There you have it. Stated by the pros – Mercedes-Benz’ own upscale Miata. However, this car parked in the parking lot is hiding a dirty little secret. I am here today to spill those proverbial beans to all my loyal readers. Hahaha! I made a blogger joke. Loyal readers. Ha.

Without further ado (click photos to enlarge)…

So what is the deal here? Did someone get screwed thinking he was buying a Mercedes-Benz, or is this person just cleverly concealing the Mazda Miata hidden beneath all the fancy Mercedes-Benz insignia? The world may never know. I never see who drives this car.

But… should the owner of this vehicle ever happen to stumble along this blog post… you are driving a Miata, man. Be proud of your Asian engineering! Seriously. Being a Mazda owner myself, I can happily say that my Protegé5 has never been unkind to me.

And…what if my girlfriend made me wear big fake muscles all the time, so people would think I’m way more buff than I actually am? That would be so demoralizing. your car deserves so much more.

My goldfish’s name is Pesto, but now that I feel like we’re friends, I secretly call him CJ. I think it’s a friendlier name for a goldfish with his personality. He’s his own fish. He likes to put his mouth on the algae that grows in the bowl when I leave the water too long. He also knows when it’s time to be fed, and he watches the food container and my hand expectantly, until I drop the food on the surface of the water. He immediately darts for it with such force that water splashes up. His name is still Pesto, but until he does something like sleep with my girlfriend, I will affectionately call him CJ, which doesn’t stand for anything.

“I love you, but you kind of disgust me.”

I’m gonna go workout a lot now.

Then gonna go see some friends. And have a good time. A really good time.

Back in 2002-ish, The Perks of Being a Wallflower was a really trendy book, and I was told so many times I needed to read it, but I didn’t, because people liked it so much. It was natural for me to resist, but at some point, because it was supposed to be so good, I bought it for Emily (or so she says . Well, she finally read it, and really liked it, so she gave it to me a month or so ago, insisting that I read it. I did.

Big surprise – it is a really good book. The novel isn’t without its flaws (some of the letters are too “booky” to be letters), but some of the flaws probably aren’t really flaws, and instead are present out of necessity, due to the format in which the book is written. The main character, Charlie, writes a series of letters to a “friend” – someone he doesn’t really know, but has heard respectable things about. These letters make up the book. They follow Charlie through his freshman year of high school, as he makes friends, breaks hearts, does drugs, and discovers himself.

In the book, it’s clear that Charlie is the wallflower, but as the reader, you can’t help but feel that you are also a wallflower, silently standing by, gathering insight from this kid’s journey through one of the most tumultuous periods in his life. I couldn’t help but personally identify with the character (more than I care to admit, in some ways), as I recalled many of my own awkward and infinite moments in high school, but, moreover, I couldn’t help comparing some of Charlie’s attributes and experiences to those of my friends. Parts of this character (and others) fit so many people, which adds to the realism of the story, allowing you to associate most characters and events with your own real-life equivalents.

When all is said and done, Stephen Chbosky, the author, has painted a relatively universal picture of what it is like to experience many teenage firsts, and it’s hard to believe anyone could read this book without remembering what it was like “back then.”