Liz Swain 4:24 p.m., May 24
I’m sitting here nursing a glass of cheap red wine, trying in vain to regain my composure after yet another episode of major car trouble.
My car is 12 years old, and I’m starting to believe that car years are about the equivalent of dog years - which means that my car is either ready for assisted living, or on death’s door – depending on the breed.
I guess you could say the first 11 years were the “honeymoon period." The car ran like a dream, really. OK, there was that one time I got a flat tire on the I-15, but otherwise, I really can’t complain.
But there must be something about turning 12, because my car has literally broken down three times in the last four weeks.
Today it broke down right in the middle of a busy intersection. The only thing I can say is, it’s a miracle I’m still alive. I’ve never seen such venomous anger in my life. I guess people don’t understand the concept of not being able to move your car. I had people shout at me, scream at me, and even flip me off for blocking the intersection, as if I were just sitting there for the fun of it. The best one was the desperate housewife in the Cadillac SUV who honked her horn loudly and then gunned the motor and whizzed by - narrowly avoiding hitting my car - obviously in a huge hurry to get to her mani-pedi.
The tow truck finally arrived, and I’ve never been so glad to see someone in my entire life. Honestly, I wouldn’t have been happier to see Brad Pitt himself pull up alongside me. My car is now in the shop and I will have a couple of days to think about my next move. I doubt new wheels are in the forecast anytime soon.
I’m hoping my car will go through a midlife crisis, and start acting like a teenager again.