Snippets of Misadventure

When driving to the gym in a German blizzard, best to pack a coat and some basic common sense. (February 2012)

As I was driving to the gym this morning in what can only be described a blizzard conditions, a light I have never seen before on my dashboard popped bright red. It was the outline of my car with a big exclamation point. As I merged onto the highway, my hybrid Altima came to a slow roll on the side of a very busy A-81 (German autobahn) despite the fact that I was putting all of my body weight on my peddle foot and thrusting my hips forward as if the momentum would  get me to the next exit. Yelling, “No! No! No!” yielded the same results. 

The car was dead. The lights worked but the engine had already acclimated to the sub-artic temperatures outside and was simply adding injury to insult by blowing cold air in my face. “No problem,” I thought, “I’ll just call Mongo.” Naturally, my phones were sitting above the sink in my bathroom. “No problem,” I thought, “someone will pullover.”

20 minutes passed.The car was but a mere windscreen and the black spandex capri pants and thin black jacket I had chosen that morning were not only horribly inadequate but the zipper on the jacket was broken.

No one stopped.

I got out of the car, semi’s zooming past me and grabbed my stupid German mandated triangle out of my trunk. Snow beating me in the face, I walked it back a hundred feet or so and tried to open it. It wouldn’t stand up. I finally got it to stay somewhat vertical and then ran back to my once car, now igloo. I sat for 10 minutes violently pumping my legs up and down while I hummed the Maniac song from Flashdance to keep myself warm. 

No one stopped.

I got out again and began to wave my arms “look at me! I am the dumbass who has no phone and is dressed like a tropical ninja” (oh and I also did not have socks on).

No one stopped.

I ran back to the igloo. I then surmised that despite the fluorescent orange vest I was donning, fellow drivers probably just couldn’t see me. I ran back to the stupid triangle. I waved said triangle around my head. I then held the triangle right in front of me and began to jump up and down (mostly to stay warm). I incorporated the Maniac high knees to punctuate my distress and my love of 80s films. 

No one stopped.

I abandoned my interpretive dance and tried to put the triangle back on the ground but it wouldn’t stand up. Three times I tried to keep it upright before I gave up and, frustrated, viciously punted it in the the ditch. Back to igloo. A small wave of panic hit me. No one was going to stop, I had no phone and the nearest mode of transportation was 2 miles away. To top it off, my triangle was now taking a dirt nap in the ditch (which rendered me helpless as according to the German who issued my liscence, the triangle was a magical device that could rescue you in any situation). I looked at the dashboard–it dawned on me at that moment that the giant exclamation point meant “you’re pretty much fucked.”  I screamed, “Go fuck yourself, fucking exclamation point!” and then violently shoved my keys and wallet into my sports bra and began to run. On the side of the autobahn. In a blizzard. Dressed like a slutty Jane Fonda. Except for the dick who hollered what I can only assume was German for “Yeah Baby!”, no one stopped or seem to notice. For the entire 2 miles. Because people normally go for a run at 0530 in a blizzard along the side of a busy highway. In an bright yellow emergency vest.

I finally got to the Boblingen train station and grabbed a cab. I walked into my front door, my toes had turned little blue frostbit nubs. I caught a glimpse of myself as I based the first floor bathroom mirror. I had raccoon shaped rings around my eyes from the previous night’s laziness of not removing my eye makeup. My face was beet red. I had a line of frozen snot along one side of my face. I was covered in mud. I headed upstairs and turned on the bedroom lights and recounted my sordid tale to what seemed to be a concerned husband, still groggy from nocturnal superbowl reveling. He muttered mid-yawn and one-eyed, “Wow. Yeah. Glad you’re  allright. You should call USAA. And oh, can you turn off the light please, I’m pretty beat,” as he rolled back over on his side and fell back asleep.

Which adds to the pile of why he is now the ex. 

Because 911 is for emergencies. Not idiots. (February 2014)

Get a cup of coffee, take a seat. This is a long one and ranks up their with “fell on my face at the metro” and “almost blew myself up with a rocket”.

I woke up yesterday at 4:30 am to “Sorry. I pooped the bed.” On a good note, it was the 4 year old, not Mongo (the ex) but it pretty much set the tone for the rest of the day. After an entire morning of cleaning up after the curse of the tinkle poops (sheets, clothes, toilets, towels, floors) and discovering that the only food we had in the house was 8 pounds of frozen bacon, I decided to brave it (Em’s bowels had slowed to a manageable pace and her appetite was ferocious) and take the girls to grab a quick lunch and hit the grocery store. After getting the my 4 year old and 2 month old (The Kraken) out of the car, I went to hit the lock button on the key, only to find the key missing, its whereabouts unknown but likely somewhere in the car as I had just pulled it out of the ignition. (NOTE: Before Mongo left for the day, he had somehow lost the key and put the spare key on my keyring. Not sure what he attached it with–an old rubberband, a 30 year old twist tie or perhaps just some of his hair–but it obviously didn’t last. He later found the key in his car.) Given the 18 degree weather and skin splitting wind, I held off the search and took the girls into the Pho restaurant.

After lunch, I put the girls back in the car, strapped them into their carseats and began to search for the key. The car was cold so I hit the auto-start button on my keychain, a device I’ve only used a handful of times–usually from my front door to warm up the car. Once you open the door, it shuts everything down. If you put the car in drive, it shuts down. And once you hit the button, it auto-locks the doors. Which is exactly what happened when I stepped out to check the back seat and locked my children in the car. With the key inside. And my cell phone. And Hat. Gloves. Most of my common sense.

I began to frantically circle the car, trying every door. I waved at Em to open the door but she thought I was playing a game and waved back, then a panic hit her face. “I have to go potty!” Now fueled with even more terror as I realized that the tinkle poops had not surrendered, merely ran out of ammo and after a large lunch, an impending assault threatened Em and her carseat.

I ran into the Pho restaurant, borrowed their phone and called Mongo who, not fully grasping the situation, blasé suggested I just get a cab. Through a string of delicately phrased colorful metaphors, I suggested he get a freaking cab as our children WERE LOCKED IN THE CAR and he had the only other key. As it would take him an hour to get there, a nice woman gave me the “no one is stabbing me but I need help because I am an idiot” number to the police and bowing my head in shame, I called. I went back to the girls.

The Kraken was out cold and Em’s impending wave of poop had thankfully ebbed. In the next ten minutes, no less than three groups people stopped by to include the kitchen staff from the restaurant. We all tried to get Emily to open the door but she couldn’t reach the lock and was more interested in her dolls. Each group listened to my story, each group nodded and looked at me like I was an idiot.

Then the freaking cavalry arrived. Three cop cars and a firetruck. I waved them down and they walked up just as I heard a click. Emily somehow unlocked the door. Unbelievably embarrassed, I explained what happened to the officers. They were very nice and told me this happens all the time (which I am sure is cop code for you are a dumbass, please don’t procreate further). They stayed with the girls as I returned the cell phone to the restaurant. When I came back, the officer told me that Emily told him how we didn’t have any food in our house and Daddy has a gun. I hysterically laughed and explained we were on our way to the grocery store, the gun is registered and was about to thank them and say goodbye when Em concluded, “And I have diarrhea!”. That detail was important because shortly after exclaiming it to the police, the tinkle poops struck again before I could get her out of her carseat.

All ended well. I later found the key in the bottom of a grocery bag and Mongo arrived shortly after the emergency task force departed and took the girls home while I grocery shopped at Safeway. I was enroute to pick up the essentials and and given the type of day I had, I grabbed some wine. Lots and lots of wine. In fact, I had just finished putting the booze into my empty cart when I ran into the firefighters who, taking advantage of a false alarm, had stopped in for some snacks. And they recognized me. Without children. Buying booze. Because apparently, that’s how I roll.