God Said "HA!"

The Little America Tour is coming soon — just five or six weeks away. And, boy, am I looking forward to it. An escape from my adult life and stresses. Me, the Beetle, the iPod, the road. Friends at every stop, bloggers at every cocktail bar. And R.E.M. to curl my toes at night. Yep, it’s a dream come true.

But methinks He doesn’t want me to go.

A couple of weeks ago, I did the unthinkable (well, the unthinkable in MY world). While balancing my checkbook, I found I was way ahead cashwise, so I transferred $650 from my check account into my savings account, earmarked for the tour. I paid off my credit cards about 18 months ago, and so far have kept the balances to nil — a balance I want to keep in anticipation of upcoming (and intentionally cryptic) life decisions.

Got up for work the next morning … pop into the previously mentioned Beetle … and nothing happened when I turn the key. The damn car is as dead as Abe Vigoda was once rumored to be. I had wisely reupped with AAA last month, so I called. The heroes showed up in less than thirty. It wasn’t a battery issue as I’d prayed to the God mocking me above. Oh, no. It looked to be the fuel pump. And so my silver Beetle hopped on the back of a tow truck while I hopped in the cab, and we headed to my friendly neighborhood mechanic.

Cost to replace the fuel pump? $661. My vacation savings, just twelve hours old, went back into my checking account.

But my mechanic is a class act. He detailed my car before I picked it up — at no charge.


God Laughs Again

Two days later. I had a fun, jam-packed [continue inserting clichés here] Saturday planned. Favorite Boy was in town, caring for his post-op mama. We went to high school together, so I’d arranged for us to hang with some of our favorites: Janice, my CHS BFF during the day, then dinner with Holly and Randy that night. We were going to spend the day in our old school ‘hood since it’s seen a major revitalization and none of us live there anymore.

Well, so much for plans well made. Hop in the car … turn the key … the same nothing. I quickly called Janice to make alternate plans in my little corner of the world, while the Beetle sat in the drive, mocking me with its disabilities.

The day was great, however. Many mojitas and a martini later, I was relaxed, laughing, enjoying the day, my friends, my man. I have so many great people in my life.

But Monday morning brought another tow-de-force for me. The AAA wrecker met me after breakfast and carted my car back to my mechanic. The wallet got a reprieve; it appeared to be a bad fuel pump. They replaced it at no charge and sent me on my merry way.

Readers wonder: Just how many trite phrases can she squeeze in one blog post?

And so I spent the next several days saying silent prayers as I turned the key. Made it to work … to Nick Lowe … to Tapes ‘n’ Tapes ... to dinner with Favorite Boy. A good week after all.


Okay, Yahweh, It’s No Longer Funny

Turn the calendar to this past Saturday. I’m watching the news and eating lunch before meeting Swirly Girl at an arts festival. The weekend anchor mentions that the Dubya rebates will be direct-deposited in the coming days. I think, “I can transfer that cash into my vaca-savings account, and my balance will be where it was last week.”

One hour later, I’m dressed and ready to fill my pockets with new baubles and unnecessary plastic objects. Pop in the car … turn the key … nothing happens. A-f*cking-gain. The Lord obviously heard my vacation savings plan, and continued his toying. Is this Groundhog Day: The Musical?

I slam the car door … call Favorite Boy to whine and snivel … and walked to the nearest MARTA station. Swirly Girl knew how to turn that frown into a smile, taking me out for post-baubling swirls. Nothing like tequila and sangria to relax a carless girl.

So, we’re duplicating Monday. I really am beginning to feel like Bill Murray. Mechanic David apologizes and promises to install a cross. I wait, gnawing nails and calculating just how much I can afford to pay to have my car’s internal organs rebuilt. (I come up with $57.28.) The MD calls late in the afternoon to let me know they can’t figure out what’s burning up fuel pumps. They’re going to take apart my fuel system to see if there’s something wrong in my tank.

“Is there anyone who hates you enough to put sugar in your tank?” he asks.

Sugar in my bowl, yes. My tank? No.

And so they keep my car overnight, while I spend the evening saying shiva to my vacation plans. I start tentatively canceling the week’s dinner plans … fill Favorite Boy’s text message inbox with car lamentations … and gnaw on the few remaining nails.

I get The Call at 2 p.m. this afternoon. Volkswagen has finally ‘fessed up that there’s a bad lot of fuel pumps out there; several VWs have landed again and again at the dealer in the last several days.

New fuel pump is installed. Car is running.

But I’m still saying prayers. And wondering what else He has planned to f*ck with my Little America Tour.

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