Mission Aborted!

I should be enjoying a nice, hot cup of tea with my mother in Kentucky right now.  Last night, I was going to show her pictures from my wedding, pictures of her grand-cats, and maybe read to her a bit of my novel-in-progress.

Instead, I am in the same fur-covered pajamas I have been wearing for the past three days, my hair unwashed, an empty coffee cup next to me and my (slightly) overweight cat passively trying to shove me out of my chair.

I had planned to visit my mom last week, the same day that Princess Sandy, Destroyer of the East Coast, came to call.  While Pittsburgh wasn't hit hard (we suffered only a leaky window), apparently my route was dumped with about two feet of snow.  Although I was dead-set on going, that news, paired with my Neon's lack of anti-lock brakes and my family's persistent pleas not to risk it, convinced me to stay home.

I don't know what put it in my head, but I decided that I'd try again this week, after I voted on Tuesday.  Something in me felt that I wasn't quite ready, but I convinced myself that if it was a good time for my mom (it was), it had to be a good time for me.  It was important that I see her.  I packed a bag for an overnight stay, filled me favorite mug with coffee, drove with Ross to cast our ballots, and ended up behind my dad on the road.  He had just dropped my step-mom off at work.  We pulled over, had a quick chat, then decided Ross shouldn't need to take the bus that day.  I dropped him off at work then popped the coordinated in the GPS and headed out of the city.

There was a certain thrill to the prospect of taking a road trip on my own.  The independence, the time to think, to laugh, to sing Mister Mister at the top of my lungs...I was excited.  Ross had (lovingly) forced me to have the oil changed before I visited my sister, and, since the tech is a friend of the family, we knew he did a quick once-over to make sure the car was doing well.  I was confident.

I had been driving for about an hour and a half when my delicious morning coffee began to rear its diuretic head.  I had just crossed the border into West Virginia, and I stopped at a Sheetz to fill up the car and empty my bladder.  I pulled back onto the road.  Up ahead was a traffic light and the turn-off to I-79.  I slowed to a stop at the red light.  I noticed in my rear-view mirror that there had been a minor accident several cars behind me.  The light turned green.

My car wouldn't move.

I quickly threw on my four-ways and put the car into neutral.  A few times before, on the  coldest days of winter, the car sometimes needed some gentle urging to shift into drive.  This time, however, when I  foot off the brake, the car began to slide backwards.  Frantic, I called my father (the former trucker) and screamed that I was in the middle of a highway and my car had died.  He gathered all his strength to keep me calm, and said that I needed to get out of the car right away.  Fortunately, there was a strip of pavement between the lanes, and I carefully fled there.  My car had died between two lanes, so at least people could drive around both sides, as long as they were careful.  One particularly persistant old woman waited for quite some time behind my car, apparently not realizing that the car was unoccupied.  I finally had to wave her past. 

Things happened quickly, I am happy to report, and in my favor.  The police had already been en route to the site of the accident behind me, so they arrived in minutes.  Two officers pushed my car to the side and made sure I had someone to call for help before they returned to get the statements of the drivers in the fender bender.  After going back and forth between my dad, my husband (who was on the phone with a student at the time) and AAA, a tow truck arrived.

The gentleman who stepped out was everything you would expect: tall, lanky, tattooed, his lip bulging with a plug of tobacco.  He lit his cigarette as he peered under my car.  "Tube's bin cut.  Looks like ye ran sumthin' over, er ye hit sumthin."  He gestured for me to see what he meant. 

I could have quoted Shakespeare and he would have looked at me with the same expresssion I gave him.  "Oh," I said. 

"Dun think yer transmissin's bad, tho."

I understood that!  That was a good thing!  Transmissions are expensive!  Yes, good!

I was transferred to another, equally tattooed gentleman, who drove me to our family's mechanic, in Bridgeville.  I must have been doing something wrong when I drove out, because it took me about seventy minutes.

We made it back in about forty.

I laughed a lot to myself the way, when I wasn't peeing my pants and frantically clutching at the "oh crap" bar in the bed of the truck.  And in my head I was writing this blog.  On the upside, the driver (who actually was a very nice gentleman, despite my less-than-flattering description), thought I was still in school.  Thanks for the perpetually-young genes, Mom!

Seriously, life?  What the heck is wrong with you?  In September, I lost my third baby.  In October, I lost my job.  Now this?  Screw you, life.  I am done being pooped on.  No more poop, life.  Only good things.  My birthday, for one.  It's next week.  Don't mess with it, okay?  Let me turn thirty-one in peace.  Or I swear, I will kick your butt.  If that isn't possible, since you're really kind of a personification anyway, then I will invent words for what I am going to do you you.

I have a degree in English; I'm allowed to do that.