|
|
Side |
|
|
Return to Current IPS Features
|
It was supposed to be a fun night. The hubster and I had hooked up after work and were heading to a nearby town to do some shopping. I was giddy with anticipation and really looking forward to a meal on the town. The whole plan for the evening had been carefully planned by me, to shop for ME, to eat out for ME, so, yeah, it was a selfish evening. Luckily the dude I am married to is an unselfish kind of guy so he was happy to oblige. We were nearly at our destination when my hubby turned to me, alarmed. “Is that MY car making that noise?” I was still shopping in my head and also trying to figure out if I was more in the mood for Greek or Italian food. I waved my hand at him. “No, no. Someone is mowing their lawn.” I reassured. About two more minutes and it was very apparent that the roaring of the “lawnmower” was actually the very real and horrible noise of our car imploding. We were in a high dollar neighborhood. The kind of moneyed area where lowbrow strangers like us are viewed with suspicion, especially when our car is blowing up in their front yards. “This isn’t good.” My husband said to me, pulling the car in front of a new construction home and opening the hood. I was optimistic. My guy can fix anything, and usually quite reasonably. He peered under the hood and came back, grim-faced. “Really bad news.” He mumbled. “You can fix it, right?” I was having a hard time concentrating. Could he fix it now, because I was getting hungryish. “I am talking about THOUSANDS of dollars.” He said. Now he had my attention. Thousands of dollars was indeed unwelcome news! It was at this point that I realized that not only would I NOT be shopping, but we were stranded in this super posh section of town in a broken down, steaming hulk. Luckily we have AAA because, honestly, none of our cars are that dependable that we can gamble on never needing a tow. My hubby made the call. “They will be here in one hour.” He said. ONE HOUR? I was getting freakishly hungry but figured it probably wasn’t the time to mention it. We passed the hour very unpleasantly by being suspiciously stared at by runners, bikers and drivers, all the while my husband ruminated on the extent of the thousands of dollars of damage. Do I need to say I was a VERY UNHAPPY GIRL? Shopping foiled, starving to death, and being stared at like I had just escaped from the pen and was casing the neighborhood. When the tow truck pulled up and yanked our car unceremoniously up onto the back of his truck, I realized I needed to get home. “Climb on up.” My husband prompted. “On the back of the truck with the car?!” I could not imagine hanging on back there, riding down 280 in rush hour traffic. I think sometimes my hubby is stunned by my ignorance. “No.” He said, “up in the front with the driver.” Now for a word about our “driver”. He was young, thin, and waaaayyyyyy redneck. Not in a good old boy way. In a scary, Deliverance kind of way. He also seemed in possession of a double-digit i.q. and I HAD TO SIT NEXT TO HIM!
It was the ride of shame. Sharing inane banter with the idiot tow truck driver, time had never stood so still. I was in mental anguish from listening to him (LOUDLY) reveal how he loves to terrorize the tiny little cars in his giant big manly tow-truck. But to my shame, I laughed at his dumb-dumb jokes and tried not to breath the cloyingly heavy man-cologne he had seemingly bathed in before picking us up. Finally we arrived home. Imagine our neighbors’ delight when the giant tow truck dumped first me, and then my hubby steering the dead car into our driveway. Though our neighborhood has none of the old money charm of the neighborhood we broke down, people generally drive their cars home on their own speed. The ride of shame was complete. We were home, dinnerless, and in possession of a dead car. I was stunned to realize how quickly the whole plan had taken a dive into the “unfun” zone. Next time we went out, I told myself, I was packing a SNACK.
|
