Thursday, October 13, 2005

An Overly Long Post In Which I Turn a Daily Occurrence for People Into a Major Drama for Myself and the Mr.

We had big, big plans yesterday. We had dreams. They involved me and the Mr. driving to DC to meet maliavale for dinner at a Mexican restaurant that serves swirl margaritas. What? What more do you need? Did you not see the part where I mentioned the swirl margaritas? OK, OK. There was also to be chips and salsa, and after that, we were going to see Liz Phair.

We were making good time on the interstate. The Mr. napped while I drove and sang along to the music. We were going to be right on time, my preferred method of arriving anywhere.

Shortly after we got on 395, I heard a machine gun rat-tat-tat-tat-tat from below.
"Do you hear that?" I asked as I turned down the music.
"It's probably just the road."
Some guy in a VW Jetta cleared it up for us just then by doing the pointing motion that has become the international symbol for "you have a flat tire" or perhaps even "your blinker has been on for the last 20 miles, you idiot." We did the international symbol for "thank you" (wave and smile...we have a flat! YES!) and took the next exit.

After we parked, the Mr. hopped out of the car and opened my trunk. He took out the spare and the jack (I have a jack? I had no idea.). I, of course, helped by taking pictures and started thinking of the blog. How will I recount this? I swear, if we were driving off a cliff, my last thought would be, "Now, how will I write about this on the blog?"

He took the lugnuts off the wheel and tugged. The wheel didn't move. I called a certain Emergency Roadside Service Club (TM) of which we are members when it became apparent that we couldn't do this on our own. They left me on hold for 5 minutes, then disconnected me.

I called maliavale to tell her to proceed with Operation: Margaritas without us. It was a hard phone call to make.

I then called the Emergency Roadside Service Club (TM) again, they took my information and, then, in the friendliest manner possible, they informed us that they would be there sometime between 6:30 and 8:30. That's quite a window. Upon hearing that, the Mr. tugged at the wheel even more furiously, but this wheel did not want to leave my car. That's when I remembered I had some tire inflating and sealing stuff in my trunk. He put it in the tire, which not only inflated, but it grew very lumpy, as though it had a raging case of the mumps. I didn't want to die driving a car with lumpy tires, I'd much rather be a passenger for that, so he took over.

We drove around for a few miles trying to get the sealant to spread, then stopped at a gas station to put air in all the other tires. Just to be safe. We're paranoid about tires now. I hadn't had much to eat the whole day and was beginning to have doubts that we'd ever make it home, let alone to the show, so I went into the store to get sustenance: 2 bags of gummy cherries. Big mistake. One day, there may be an autopsy done on me, and they are going to cut up my stomach and find these cherry candies. Mark my words.

We knew it was a gamble to go to the show, as the tire didn't seem like it was going to hold out all that long. But we went, and Liz played a good, if short, set consisting mostly of old songs (yay!). You can also bet that what we lacked in margaritas, we made up for in beers and ciders. The story about the strange girls who flipped out when Liz played "Fuck and Run," screamed every word (story of their lives?) and danced like there weren't, oh, 40 other people around them trying to enjoy the show, then left after the song, is a story for another day. Or perhaps maliavale will share it. If she does, I hope she answers the question: Why are we always right next to the crazies at concerts?!! This is, like, the fourth freaking time. (Update: she is all over it.)

After the show, we walked out to find the tire flat again, as expected. The Mr., always thinking ahead, had bought some Fix-A-Flat stuff before the show. He tried to put it in the tire, and it instead of going where it should, it just made a giant mess.

He tried once again to just take the tire off and put on the spare. It still would not come off, and everyone had a theory: parking brake on or off? Car in gear, neutral or reverse? We called the Emergency Roadside Service Club (TM) and the guy was there within a half hour.
"The tire won't come off," said the Mr.
I started to say, ", should the car be in neutral for--" when the walked up to the tire, spun on his heels and, much like Fonzie with the jukebox, he kicked it. It popped right off.

We then put the spare on while he told us about a 24-hour tire place a few miles away (the miracle of large cities! I love it.), which is where we drove afterward. They had us in and out of there in about 15 minutes, and we were on the road and home by 3:30 a.m.

And today, instead of a margarita hangover, I've got a cherry candy sugar crash to contend with.