Rocky Road, Indeed

I feel I have a healthy fear of cars, a fear that has been slightly alleviated by having a husband who likes to tinker with them. But overall, I live in a constant state of anxiety that I will do something totally insane and my car will blow up.

My nightmare came true a couple of weekends ago. It started off so wonderfully, you guys. I had packed up Wee 'Burb and met my roommate at her work and we took the tot off on her first girl's weekend with my sister-in-law at her cabin.

It promised to be magical: Wee 'Burb got to play with the puppies, the adult chickies would drink some vino and play in the hot tub and watch some movies. It was meant to be a relaxing weekend I had so very much needed.

And then GPS happened. You may recall my GPS was horrifically stolen recently, and Scott kindly lent me his.

Yes, I've been to her place before. But I'm one of those people who, when I am riding in a car, I play with the radio, eat a lot of junk food, babble a lot, and pay ZERO attention to where I am going. GPS, my friends, was a necessity.

And the complete undoing of my life.

It was all going along perfectly, I even recognized the dirt road to my sister-in-law's cabin. The problem is, I couldn't remember what side she was on and all the houses have long dirt driveways with lots of trees. GPS was telling me it was somewhere I was confident it was not, so I went past the non-existent driveway that she was insisting I take and decided I would turn around and call my sister-in-law.

I found a road I thought I could turn on (the road I was on was super skinny and full of trees, didn't want to damage my car with branches, you see). It was all going good for about 50 feet or so when I kind of noticed  that the road was also getting thinner.

Before I could realize that, I heard the most ungodly THUMP followed by my stomach going into my throat.

Roommate and I GASP and look ahead of us. She aptly described it as "Titanic: the boulder version."

By this point, I felt I was pot committed. There was nowhere to turn around.

I absolutely, positively should have just backed up. Every fiber of my being told me to back up, but I just...I kept going.

I don't know why. Perhaps boulder #3 occurring simultaneously with branch #200 on my roof just turned my brain to mush. I don't know.

At this point, the hood of my car started smoking and there was an awful stench. I looked everywhere, no lights. Nothing came on. I stopped and looked under the hood.

For what? Right? I mean, unless wires were exposed or something was on fire, I wasn't going to KNOW anything was wrong.

But we didn't see anything so I felt like the only thing I could do was do a 50-point turn and go back over boulder Titanic and pray. I had to get off this road, which meant going back over what I was sure was certain death for my car.

Every time I tried to steer around a rock, another one would hit my tire or another branch scraped the top and I felt the bile rising as I tried to hold back tears. Wee 'Burb was DEAD QUIET in the back, sensing that the Roommate and I were going to lose it any second.

I finally called my sister-in-law and figured out where I was, got to her house and saw more smoking. As soon as I turned the car off, my car, my sweet lovely car with over 100,000 miles on it, she started bleeding.

Seriously, dark red fluid pouring out of the vehicle as I stared on, completely helpless.

After my awesome brother-in-law consulted with my equally awesome sister-in-law and I simultaneously tearfully thanked my awesome husband for not telling me how stupid I am, everyone concurred that it was transmission fluid mixed with oil.

Which meant both pans were gone.

I was okay with this. Assuming that was "all" that was wrong, I had resigned myself to leaving my car in Wisconsin and facing a pretty hefty bill. Small price to pay for another 100,000 miles of no car payment.

Thankfully my in-laws had an extra car to lend me, we had free towing thanks to my Roommate, and we managed to get through the weekend drunk and happy.

Until I was informed by the mechanic that I drive a Saturn.

Yes, I know I drive a Saturn. This wasn't news. I'm not that stupid about cars.

I also know that they don't make Saturns anymore. Which means the part that I need? Doesn't exist.

Well, it does. Possibly in Pennsylvania. It's, seriously, the ONLY ONE out there and they're not keen to part with it. If they did, it would be $400.

My car is worth $1300 max.

All this is to say, please pray for me as I pull the girl card, crying softly while calling junk yards on my lunch hour today to see if they have Saturn parts.

Otherwise, know anyone who is selling a car?

Please tell me I am not the only directionally challenged one. And also that I am not the only one who has done something stupid knowing full well while doing it that it's stupid.

Waking at the Carwash, Yeah!

So for those of you not following me on Twitter (for shame, people!), I had a bit of that pesky Momnesia that's going around.

So my first Tweet came while I was waiting in line for a car wash.

Allow me to explain. Last week was the Perfect Storm in suburbia. Scott had a work trip, my roommate was dog-sitting, and my daycare provider was on vacation. Yeah.

Thank God for my mother-in-law who dropped in to help me in the afternoon, because after starting a new job in January and planning some time off in April, work wasn’t going to be super keen on me taking a week off so my daycare lady could go to California.

My mother-in-law took Wee ‘Burb EVERYWHERE. Which was great, except that the kid was so wired when the days were done, there was zero chance she would take an afternoon nap.

Which meant right around 4:00 she was so punchy, it was like living with a drunk. A happy drunk, but still a rather out-of-control-needing-to-go-to-bed-break-into-giggles-at-the-word-“off” kind of drunk.

So it was important to me on this day that she actually nap. And so I’d figured even if it was a half hour, it might stave off the sillies.

As we pull into the wash, I start to freak out a bit. I had forgotten just how loud those things are when those washers get going!

I turn to look and see if she’s disturbed. Just as I let out a sigh of relief, I see her jump up and look at me like I had smacked her. Not because of the noise. But instead, well, see Tweet 2.

Yup, somehow the window didn’t roll up all the way with the shade and my baby was now wearing my $8 extra soapy carwash.

I climbed back as fast as I could to get the window closed before it came back around, breaking the shade in the process. I looked at her, she grinned. I tested her. “Off?”

Insane giggles.

Long night, people. Looooong night.

Never been so happy to see my daycare provider as I was this morning. Now she’s her problem.

I mean, uh…no, you know what? I mean exactly what I wrote.

It was a long week, people, a looong week.

Where I Ask if I Just Need to Embrace My Lack of Cool

So the latest discussion in Suburbia is related to vehicles. And the need to purchase a new one.

Soon.

Preferably before last week when the current vehicle snapped a belt and cost us $400 when it’s barely worth that in trade-in.

Sigh. Hindsight and all that.

Our discussion is an age-old one, with a bit of a twist: the slightly cooler SUV with fair to crappy gas mileage or the practical mini-van with the total giving up of any pretense that we’re a cool young couple.

The twist? Scott is the one who is clamoring for the mini-van.

I know! What dude is all “this is half the reason I got married and had a kid, I want the mini-van.” Say whah?

Look, I was never a member of the cool club. I was marginally acceptable in school, not so dorky as to have the radar gun of bullies at me; but not cool enough to bully anyone myself. I just imagine after I get the keys to a mini-van, there will be a line of cool moms with their colored hair and manicured nails ready to throw tomatoes at me.

That’s what happens when bullies grow up, right? This is my understanding.

There are no practical reasons Scott wants a mini-van, I would just like to point this out. Since he’s given up his truck, he is clamoring for a place to put his tools. Apparently a 1997 Saturn doesn’t provide enough space for the amount of tools formerly held in a Chevy S-10? Who knew?

And let’s just be honest: this is going to be like the dog. “Oh we can totally handle a baby and a dog, I’ll walk the dog twice a day, it’ll be fine.”

Yup, til you get a job and don’t want to walk the dog at 6 a.m. I’ve got approximately 4 pairs of eaten shoes and a destroyed comforter that shows you how well THAT argument worked out. Let's not even discuss the nightstand drawer. THE DRAWER, PEOPLE!

It’ll be the same with the van. I’ll be driving the damn thing around with his tools and a bunch of baby crap, and really, is it big enough to hold all my tears, people? IS IT???

The man has done his research, though. And he wanted to show me the coolest car he’d found. The Honda Odyssey. Honda…freaking…Odyssey.

He tries to point out the cup holders, the fancy seats, the this and the that. I’m searching for the in-seat Kleenex dispenser and mentally revising the lyrics to the Britney song all “I’m not a giiiirl, not yet a crone.”

I mean…come on! Who are you trying to kid? He’s talking to me the way I talk to Wee ‘Burb to try to convince her that the broccoli is just as delicious as the steak I am eating. Only, contrary to popular belief, I wasn’t born yesterday!

The only thing I am afraid of with the SUV option is the perception of invincibility you get when you get behind the wheel of those bad boys. I saw the best example of 4-wheel-drive hubris the other day. A tow truck driver and a cop had stopped traffic while they towed a car out on the ditch. The tow truck had to park on the right side to get the car out of the left side ditch, for some reason I assume has to do with gravity or leverage or something. I didn’t question it, just put the car into park and turned up the Christmas music.

But the 4WD vehicle in front of me was in NO MOOD to wait. So he attempted to drive around the tow truck. And ended up in the ditch himself! I am not going to pretend I didn’t totally crack up and thank the entire principle of karma.

And thought to myself: don’t think there’s such a thing as mini-van hubris.

So weigh in, party people. Mini-van or SUV?