My Car Tried to Kill Me
And not in a blatant, roll-over-you or fall-on-top-of-you way.
No, my car knows that if it’s going to kill me it will have to do it subtly.
Like, pretend it’s been shot and make me think that I’ve been shot.
That’s what it did on Sunday.
I was driving home from the store when I heard the loudest BANG! come from the driver’s side door.
I looked for a hole in the door. Nothin’.
I looked for blood running from me, somewhere. Nothin’.
Then, apparently because I hadn’t died from the non-shot shot, the driver’s side window suddenly SUH-LAMMED! down into the door frame.
I admit a twinge of pain in my chest as I reacted to that one.
Or it may have just been that I’d suddenly forgotten how to breathe.
Fortunately, I remembered.
I got home, and since hubby was mowing the front yard he yelled over the lawnmower “Shut your window!”
“I CAN’T. It’s GONE!” I replied, as I proceeded to wave my hand around in the window frame where there should have been a hefty piece of tempered glass but now there was just dusty, grass-filled air.
As if the fact that I was gone a short time mattered, hubby said: “You were gone for like 5 minutes. What happened?”
I shrugged, “I have no idea, but the glass is inside the door. Maybe we can get it out and I don’t know, duck tape it in place.”
He looked at me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears.
Needless to say, that idea went nowhere. Fast.
Also needless to say, I tried anyway and got nowhere. Fast.
The next morning I was waiting at the dealership – the only place that could fix the car quickly – and I spent the day at home, playing with my new Kirby.
That sounds way more kinky than it is.
A Kirby is not a “who”..it’s a “what”.
It’s a fancy-schmancy (read ‘expensive’) vacuum cleaner, and hubby bought me one recently.
When I went to pick up the car, the bill was well over $400 and included words like “replace” and “regulator” and probably “flugelbinder”.
I admit that I grew faint reading the numbers. So much so, that the ‘Service Advisor’ (why isn’t anyone just a plain-old mechanic anymore?) offered me a hefty discount if I promised not to die right there on the service-bay floor.
So, although well-played Vlad (my car’s name is Vlad, because he’s an Impala – wait a moment, you’ll get it) you failed to kill me…barely.
Better luck next time.