This entry is dedicated to Cathy at the Subaru Roadside Assistance call center.
Yeah, so I had a tire blowout on the way home from work yesterday.
I was hoping by waiting a day or so to write about it I'd find a way to make it funny.
It's still not funny.
After it took my very slow brain to comprehend what had happened (What's up with the highway surface all of a sudden? Is that noise coming from MY car? That noise is not coming from my car. Oh wait, yes it is.), I pulled over to the center breakdown lane and timidly crept around to the right side of the car, praying that no insane driver (you know, like me) would clip my protruding belly and kill me while I inspected the tire.
Which was in shreds! Pop!
As I was trying to call Jason, a cop pulled up on the other side of the median and stared at me, like, WELL? I calmly explained that I'd had a blowout and was trying to call my husband, and was also fairly sure I had some kind of roadside assistance card thing somewhere.
Cop: (looking fairly and clearly disgusted that actually changing the tire my damn self was not on my list of options) Okay, let me know if you can't reach anyone.
And then he drove off, leaving me to wonder, How the hell am I supposed to let him know that? By sending up flares? Smoke signals?
Now, at this point in the story I wish I could tell you that I do indeed know how to change a flat tire, and that I was dependent on help merely because I didn't think jacking up a car is an appropriate activity for a pregnant woman, particularly while crouched in a narrow breakdown lane with cars whizzing behind her in the far left lane that all probably deserve $150 speeding tickets.
But the sad, sad fact is that I do not know how to change a tire. I've had it demonstrated to me many times but lo, I do not know. Am girl. (To be fair, all demonstrations occurred on the quiet safety of a residential street while replacing a tire with a damn "slow leak" or something, not quite the same high-pressure whizzing-car situation I was in yesterday.)
And dudes, I'm PREGNANT.
I couldn't get a hold of Jason (but left a slightly frantic and crying-ish message on his voicemail that he would later MAKE ME LISTEN TO, the heartless bastard), but I did find my glorious Subaru Roadside Assistance card, which is how Cathy came into my life.
Blah blah blah Cathy very calming and helpful and DEEPLY concerned about poor small pregnant woman stranded on highway and not judgemental AT ALL as I tried to explain that I was indeed small and pregnant and didn't feel safe changing the tire from this spot on the highway and actually, Cathy, I can't lie to you, I don't even know how anyway.
Blah. Help would be there within an hour.
Blink. An hour? During which I just...sit here?
And so I sat. And I tried very, very hard not to think about my small, pregnant bladder. Or about the creepy pregnancy fetishist who emailed me the other day. Or about murderers or kidnappers in general.
I counted eight (8) cop cars and three (3) tow trucks that passed me by, and noticed an SUV pulled over in the breakdown lane about a quarter-mile ahead of me. I wondered if Sullen Cop would ever come back to check on me, or if my calmness meant he had alerted all over cops that I was fine, move along.
Like, what if each stranded motorist get ONE SHOT with a cop and unless you're really hysterical or cellphone-less or in the middle of giving birth your car gets marked as "Had her shot. Lame story."? What if that's the system?
(Did I mention that I was doing ANYTHING to keep my mind off my bladder?)
I finally got a hold of Jason by calling one of his other assorted work-only cellphones.
(By the way, this story would have been WAY more suspensful if, you know, my cellphone battery was about to die, which it totally was when I first called for help.)
(But then I found my car charger. So yawn.)
Jason: Hey! What's up?
Amy: OH NOTHING. JUST STRANDED ON 270 SOUTH WITH A BLOWN TIRE. HOW ARE YOU?
Jason: Are you kidding?
Amy: OH YES. BIG JOKE. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
Despite what I bitch I was being, and the fact that help was on its way, Jason still decided to come out and get me.
Amy's Phone: RING RING!
Amy: Hello? Tow truck man?
Amy's Phone: Hello! This is the. Subaru! Roadside Assistance Automated. System! Your service. Is estimated to arrive in Four. Tea. Five. Minutes!
Amy's Brain: You know, I really like when the UPS guys start wearing shorts again.
Cop car #9 drove by and immediately turned on his lights, which, yay! Company! But he was there to protect and serve the SUV ahead of me, whose driver, I assume, had the good mind to appear hysterical during their one shot with the cop, as the cop stayed with them until tow truck #4 arrived.
Amy's Brain: So not fair! I could not be okay for all they know! I could be having contractions! Or kidnapped by pregnancy fetishists!
Finally, in a burst of excitement, Jason showed up right at the same time that I realized that the SUV's tow-truck driver was walking towards me, jack in hand, multi-tasking.
And that's basically, you know, the end. Jason handed me the keys to the other car so I could go home and pee while he waited for the tire to be changed. (He can change a tire, by the way, and could also probably do it while pregnant.)
Tomorrow we leave for Aruba. At 4 fucking a.m. I am not packed, I have not even begun to pack.
Except for this, of course.
The little preciousnesses are going to a super-nice pet "resort," yet because of their delicate little constitutionesses, I'm sending them each with individually-labeled meals for their entire stay. (Ceiba's meals are fortified with the extra power of Metamucil, which we hope will prevent another week of the infamous Puppy Projectile Diarrhea upon our return.)
Behave yo'selves while I'm gone. I'm leaving a babysitter in charge of comments and I promise to bring you all back something pretty. And that something will probably be me, and many pictures for you to be jealous of.
And for the love of God, keep your tires properly inflated.