When you think of a perfect weekend…

Jump to Comments

Mine is not what comes to mind. In fact, I would venture to say mine falls under the category of Someone is Trying to Sabotage My Life, I Just Know It, I am Henceforth a Hermit. That category has taken on a whole new role for me this weekend. Because bad things can’t happen to hermits; after all, they know better than to venture out into chuck hole infested world. Because you know what chuck holes do?? They leave you stranded at the side of the road on a Friday night with a dead cell phone, in the rain, with two flat tires. Not one. Two.

Let’s rewind, shall we? Scene: It’s Friday night, just had Carrabba’s salads with Kaley and Rob and spent some good time smooching on Avalon. 10:00 rolls around, and it’s time for me to leave the fun fest. Driving home, on this dark rainy night, I hit a chuck hole and BA-BAMM!!!! The first BA was my front right tire. The BAMM was my back right tire. BA and BAMM ruined the rest of my weekend. Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. They really just ruined the rest of my night and the better part of Saturday. I have a pretty quick rebound rate, if you’ve ever met me. Mad one second and asking for high fives and telling jokes the next. Like a schizo, really.

So I am now hyperventilating as my car starts to drift to the right side of the road because, well, there was no air in my tire and that tends to throw off the equilibrium of the car, as you may know if you know anything about balance, physics, cars, or have an iota of common sense. My heart is in my throat and I reach for my phone because what is a cell phone if not an adult’s safety blanket? It’s like Avalon’s Wooby… makes me feel like everything’s going to be OK because, well, I am cellularly connected and that can solve any problem.

But HARK! What’s this? My phone is DEAD, you say?! (Enter MAJOR water works)

I am now hyperventilating, heart in throat, crying, and trying desperately to find that car plug that Stockton left in my car accidentally and then offered to let me keep. Thank you, by the way. I owe you something that will, like, save your life. After plugging in the phone, I am trying to turn it on. But I get nothing. I am still fighting to keep my car on the road, driving at about 20 miles per hour… yes, still driving. Like a total moron. HELLO DUMMY!!!! Stop the car!!!! You have one, two TWO flat tires and you are still driving. Who thought it was a good idea to give me a vehicle and a valid driver’s license?! I make stupid decisions!!!

Finally, after about a mile, I get service and call home. Nothing. Surprise of the century, no one at the Helman residence is answer the phone. Then I call Maddie. Because my 16 year old sister will surely have the answer to this problem. Crying like a complete psychopath, I try to relay my situation and thoroughly freaked her the heck out, I’m sure. Bless her little do-gooder heart, she offered to come meet me somewhere. Because two clueless girls are way better than one in a situation like this. But at that moment, my knight was calling me. Dad. GOTTA GO MADDIE DAD TO THE RESCUE!!! First words out of my mouth:

“WAAAAAAAHHH BAHAHHHHHAHAHHHHHHH DAAAAADDDDDDDD!” and my dad is all, “Ummmmm, get a grip you freak” and I’m all “I’M GONNNAAA DIIIEEEEEEE”. He’s so nice. He totally tolerated me. Then threw on some grubby clothes and hauled his total Bat Mobile, MacGyver’d car to my rescue and changed my tire in the dark, on the ground, in the rain, while I droned in the background about my miserable luck and how lousy it is to be a car owner because “WAAAAA I CAN’T AFFORDDDD TIRRESSSSSS (hiccup) WAAAAAAA”.

Let’s just say that after learning a valuable life lesson of stashing some freakin’ weird stuff in every nook and cranny of your car, I am now equipped to build a house, fight off ninjas, paint my nails, and self-medicate all by popping my trunk. Thanks, Dad. You are the original MacGyver.

Saturday morning, I woke up early, seriously hoping I would walk out to my car and there wouldn’t be a small, stupid looking, yellow spare tire where my front right tire was supposed to be and that the back wheel wouldn’t have a goose egg protruding out of it the size of a soft ball. Certainly this was all just a dumb dream. What do they put in that Carrabba’s house dressing anyway??? But no. It was real. The spare was laughing at me as I walked out to reassess the damage. And cry some more. After making a few phone calls to some of my dad’s greasy-fingernail friends, we arranged for me to go to Tire Rack to purchase one, two TWO new tires. Ugh, makes me ill to think about. And then they were going to do the installation for me. Notre Dame game just hours away, I thought the toll road would be the best way to go with the South Bend traffic situation. And then, once I was on the toll road, I realized I had a spare tire and a tire that was threatening to explode at any given moment, so I drove 10 miles on the toll road at 40 miles per hour with my hazards on. Oh. My. Gosh. It was like plucking your leg hairs. Everyone else is shaving, but you are the freak who does it the slow, painful way. I had semis threatening to hit me because, well, their braking time isn’t anything to brag about and when barreling down the highway at 80 mph only to encounter the IDIOT who is on the toll road with a ticking time bomb of a vehicle, there are some major threats of rear-endage. Luckily I made it out without any love taps from behind, but I bet if I had bothered to take my eyes off the road, I would’ve seen some middle finger salutes aimed straight at me.

Once I got to tire rack, I was told that I was tenth in line. TENTH. And that once my car got in, it would still be 2 hours. Which means I would be there until my wedding. Waiting and crying. The lady sitting next to me in the waiting room with the pink hair who kept talking to herself wasn’t making me any more stoked about this whole process, so I chose to buy the tires and leave, thinking somewhere else might have a shorter wait time. Which means I got to drive back across town in the ticking time bomb. This time, I chose not to go the Toll Road route. After all, I had just bought one, two TWO new tires and I could afford no tolls.

Long story, eh? If you made it this far, we really are friends, I think. Oh, mylanta. Moral of the story: my dad’s the best rescuer ever. Amen.

7 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized