<Originally posted elsewhere on December 4th, 2008>
Let me start off by saying that I dislike cars. They're expensive, confusing, messy and nothing dumps me more quickly into my gender girly-girl oooh-do-these-look-ripe-to-you role than a car that doesn't work.
Yes, they were a salvation of sorts in my teenage years and it gave me a method of displaying my beloved "Born Again Pagan" bumper sticker. And as an adult, it allows me to participate in such important tasks like work, combing every Ross in Phoenix in search of body pillows for STuart's new snuggle room, and getting myself to a dusty little place about 900 miles away where I get to be a pedestrian for a whole week.
Even still, I hate cars. I think my childhood is probably to blame. My single paranoid mother prepared me for a lot of things but with any good deed, you can take it too far. Thanks to my mom, I have perpetually lived in fear of breaking down by the side of the road and being gang-raped by a bunch of midget clowns with nothing but time and evil on their hands. She drilled it into my head that most of my fellow humans probably want to rob me and steal my lunch which is probably why I don't hesitate to look sideways at a 4 year old on a Big Wheels. You never know.
I married the other end of the equation. "It's fine," Edward says every time I ask him to check my tires or drive my car. I have tried to impress upon him the imminent threat that awaits me every time I leave the driveway but he is apparently unaware of the gang-raping clowns or the state of juvenile delinquency in our country. He once told me that cars rarely break down on the road and whether that's scary-paranormal-accurate or as accurate as John McCain communicating with his constituents via email, it's something I have repeated to myself at the slightest shudder, whir, or vibration.
Today, I almost became that annoying person stuck in the middle of the road and who seems so engrossed in her phone call that you wonder if she's aware that her car has broken down and that traffic is moving around her. Almost.
On my way to my 3rd and final client of the day, I exited the highway and came to a stoplight. When the light turned green, my car refused to move forward. Semi-calmly, I attempted to accelerate again and my car politely refused. Engine was still going, but no move-y. I flipped on the hazards, turned off the car and turned it on again (which is my method for fixing all electronics thanks to years of being married to a programmer). The car grudgingly went forward.
The next stoplight brought a repeat of the first. Not-even-close-to-calmly, I again flipped on the hazards and used my programmer intervention technique. The car roared to life for about a second but it was enough to get me moving forward. I realized very quickly that while the car was still moving, it was only because of momentum and I managed to safely steer onto a side street.
I summoned my roadside assistance (thank you Edward) and he brought our truck along with REAL roadside assistance. My poor little Escape was towed to the car doctor. I think it's probably rather sick and I'm praying that it's not the tranny (not that I have issues with trannies but car trannies tend to be more expensive than the kind you'll find downtown. Just sayin'.) I'm in no mood to go car shopping and I'm rather fond of my faux-SUV. I even promised her that she wouldn't have to go Burning Man anymore.
I now await the phone call from the vehicular powers that be as to what the damage is to make me mobile once again.
I hate cars.
And seriously, do these look ripe to you?
No comments:
Post a Comment