I'm Back in Baby's Arms

I text my friend James while I wait for the first valet driver to return without my car. He doesn't drive a stick shift and did not want to squeal and jerk and stall all the way from the lot to the door. Good thing. I might have killed him for that.

James will appreciate my story. He recently got a fabulous new car and in its first week on the road it was totalled. HE didn't total it. It was the unwitting victim of being totalled. A utility truck driver blazed through a construction site in front of him, driving so poorly that he struck all of the big orange and white plastic barrels that were meant to indicate "Don't drive HERE," sending them all flying into the air, where, as luck would have it, they returned to Earth striking James' car.  All of them. He couldn't even open his door.

But being James, he did manage to get a photo of the truck, inclusive of an excellent shot of his license plate, to present to the police officer who arrived moments later to extricate James from his precious vehicle.

The car was indeed totaled, but James had been spared the expense of the repairs, thanks to his quick thinking and handy iPhone 5.  He'd be thrilled to hear that I'd had equally good fortune.

My frenzied texting conversation is interrupted by a man from the dealership who has appeared at my side. Uh-oh. I am sure he just realized that my car is not in any way, shape or form covered under warranty and has come to lead me back inside by the hair to part with some cash.

No. He came out to chat. He thinks my car is cool. He thinks it is even cooler that it is a stick shift. Cooler even more so because I am a girl.  (My Dad told me once that knowing about football, and driving a stick shift, and other such boy-dominated things would pay off one day. I am not sure this is a pay off, but it is a compliment, nonetheless.)

I tell him that I am still mortified that a family of squirrels had chosen my car above all others to make their home. He laughs that off. Tells me I am the third car in just that week with an animal problem.  One guy came in to get his tires rotated, and when the car went up on the lift, a baby ground hog came sailing out onto the shop floor and they had to chase it into the woods behind the dealership.  And another lady brought in her car because mice had infested her upholstery.  Burrowed in and were living in all the seats and headrests. (I almost plotz at the thought. Talk about distracted driving. Can you even imagine tooling along the highway and Stuart Little comes peeking out of the headrest behind your dangly earrings?) 

We laugh and chat a bit, and then the second, evidently more competent valet driver brings around my baby, pulls out the protective papers on the floors, and hands me my keys.

I hop in, adjust the seats, and pull away waving to the guys as I do.

I peel into traffic in front of the dealership.  Mama's got her mojo back. And not a moment too soon. I will need every ounce of pep in my step that I can muster for the battle I face next week.