Et tu, Herbert?

Our car Herb (short for Herbert, also generically called Subi) decided to disinherit us. I know this for a fact because five hours and fifty minutes into our anticipated six hour road trip to visit family for Thanksgiving, he done lost his timing belt at freeway speeds and ruined his engine. I still wonder why he did this to us, and ultimately himself because, I’m sorry Herbert, you should have known it just didn’t make fiscal sense to spend more to repair you than you were worth moneywise, and if you know anything at all about us you know that we prefer not to do stupid things. Yes, I’m sure you knew this so I’m even more convinced this was a conscience decision to sit in a junk yard rather than be loaded to the brim with all of our crap for even one more road trip. I don’t blame you of course. I tend to over pack, and the kids are just so messy, and the Husband probably didn’t wash you enough, and we probably talked about getting a new car too much while in your presence. Still, the betrayal stings a bit. We’ve had fond memories and such.

I must admit though, our Herbert had impeccable timing. This was the hilarious chain of events for forty-five seconds: I was reading Harry Potter (Book 7 by the way!), two boys were in the back yelling for drinks, the Husband said something was wrong, we had no power, we looked up, we saw a rest area exit ramp, the car had just enough steam to pull into a parking spot, the car was dead on many levels, we called for help, my cell phone died. Luck or miracle or just a car with a wicked sense of humor, and a little compassion? I’m going to go with a mixture of all three. Mostly miracle though cuz that’s how I roll.

But sometimes miracles can be disguised or camouflaged I’ve learned because in the moment it feels more like confusion with a shot of hysteria. I had three new pimples by nightfall.

The scariest and most stressful thing that came about as a result of Herbert’s decided demise was not even that we had to buy a new car. The Hubso and I had already been shooting the breeze on that topic for forever and a day. It was that the V-A-N word was mentioned multiple times, in a serious context. Like, “Hey, I don’t know. Eight seats? We only need like four or five right now, but who knows. Maybe a soccer team will need a lift someday. And sliding doors just make so much more sense.” I found myself willing to give up a piece of my soul in exchange for a stupidly obscene amount of space. You know so the kids would have room to play tag or at the very least duck, duck, goose. And that compromise I made in my head scared the monkeys right out of me because I suddenly saw myself as a grown-up. And it just didn’t feel right on me, you know?

It was also very taxing on me emotionally as a stawlart thinker-througher to have to make big decisions in a small amount of time, which would have been obvious if you could have seen the tenseness in my shoulder and lower lumbar regions. It takes me two months to pick out a new set of towels. Imagine the horror when faced with choosing color, style, make, model, year, mileage etc.! I was having a mental fit!

Basically, what I guess I really want to convey is that I haven’t had any time to think about Christmas decorations and if this should be “The Year of the Garland” or perhaps “The Year of the White Lights.” So maybe don’t ask me yet.