So Tuesday I limp home, and start looking for mechanics. I call Hubby to report. He’s taking it in first thing in the morning himself. I’ve been fired from mechanical maintenance.
Wednesday, the car is repaired by a man whose name I cannot even pronounce, let alone spell, for a “good deal”. Fine. We team tag with the cars and get everyone home and two working cars in the garage by dinnertime. High Five! We had waffles, by the way. Pretty good last-minute meal. Anyhow.
Wednesday night is Bible class, so rush, rush, and all jump in the car for the trip across town. Backing out of the garage was the easy part. Apparently putting it into drive was an issue.
Remember we got the Suburban brand new? We have the “base model”. Translation: every possible thing that we can make of plastic, we will. The plastic expires, apparently, at around 10 years.
I have Tupperware that lasted longer.
The entire gear shift handle has broken off inside the steering wheel column. In his confusion (translation: “WHAT IN THE…?”) Hubby puts it into park and well, we are parked.
At this point, everyone hops back out of the sub and hovers while the situation is assessed. I have pulled out my zen. Big can of it. This is just enough. “Everyone into the Lexus and we’ll figure this out tomorrow.” Yeah, at that point, our huge kids take one look at the parents’ faces and decide they can sit in each other’s laps across town and not make a peep.
We are not going to be held hostage by a big blue bucket of bolts. It can just sit there and think about the error of its ways.
Maybe I’ll get it fixed. Maybe I’ll put it on Craigslist for free. Do you know what gas costs these days? Do they sell mopeds with attachable sidecars?
Today, I am enjoying a beautiful, sunny peaceful day at home. There is nowhere I need to be. The kids are all able to get home from school on their own. I am thankful the car, if it had to die, died peacefully here and didn’t strand us elsewhere.
The sub gave it’s all to the service of our family, took our abuse and still carried entire water polo teams, sheets of plywood, bales of hay, couches, and a group of my girlfriends into Palm Springs for a weekend of birthday fun.
It was the Party Sub. It was the Clydesdale of cars.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Hopefully, I will see you next time around….in a new car.
Disclaimer: This was an email two years ago, and I felt much better after I wrote it. The sub is still among us, a one-eyed elderly retiree leaking bodily fluids into an oil pan in the driveway. You can’t get out of the driver’s door without first rolling down the window and pulling the handle from outside.
It wants to keep us.