6/15/09 Dude, Where's My Car?

I'll tell you where it is...it's at the repair shop.

Last week I had a teeny little mishap. It turns out that if you and your car challenge a mailbox to a game of chicken, the mailbox almost always wins.

(No exception here either, although I'm 99% sure that the mailbox somehow cheated).

See, I was just driving along, minding my own business, when I happened to glance down and see that my new stereo wasn't scrolling the name of the song that was playing like it was supposed to. And since I've only had this stereo for a week, I knew that it was obviously testing its boundaries to see exactly how far it could push me and get away with it, and NOT immediately taking it to task by punching a bunch of random buttons would undermine its respect for me. (I know, I know, it was a totally stupid reason to take my eyes off the road and fiddle with the radio, but I've fiddled with it a bazillion times before without incident).

(Plus, I totally wasn't aware that a mailbox was gunning for me at the time).

(And believe me, had I known it was going to happen, I would have come up with a better reason, like I was swerving to avoid a family of baby ducks or something. At least that way busting up the front of my car would have been a noble sacrifice instead of just a boneheaded lapse in focus).

Anyway, while I was taking my eyes off the road for just .00001 milliseconds, the evil conniving mailbox saw its chance and positively LEAPED (LEAPED I tell you!) into the street and positioned itself directly into my path. Of course, as soon as I glanced back up and saw it there, my lighting-quick reflexes swerved to avoid it, but alas, it was not enough, and I gently clipped, nay, barely caressed the mailbox with just the slightest whisper of contact.

Which isn't to say that the mailbox didn't throw itself down in a blatant display of overacting, rolling around on the ground and holding its leg.*

And sadly, my car totally bought the act, because it immediately crumpled the front fender, headlight, and side quarter panel in a show of contrition.** The good news, I guess, is that no one else (meaning me or the mailbox, the rotten faker) was hurt. Only the car suffered any damage. Nevertheless, I left a note on the mailbox owner's door explaining what happened and to call me if the mailbox discovered any lingering injury that wasn't immediately apparent at the time of the accident. So far, no one has called, and a subtle canvas of the area shows that the mailbox is back to its vertical position with nary a scratch.

Meanwhile, I have $2000.00 worth of damage to my car***, an insurance agent who thinks that I'm a complete and total moron, and no transportation for the week while it gets repaired. (Our policy covers rental cars, but Tony didn't think we needed one, seeing how I just sit at home all day, blogging about the stupid things I do on the computer. Plus I think it's his way of punishing me for being, you know, a complete and total moron).

This could turn out to be a really long week.

*What is this, the World Cup?
**Because obviously my car is made out of wet tissue paper. I mean, c'mon! You look at it funny and the thing crumples! What happened to the good old days where they made cars like steel tanks? I hate you Chrysler.
*** Seriously? Two grand for wet tissue? I'm so in the wrong business.