Two cars, one tow truck.

My husband says you 'can't script' the situations in which we often find ourselves. But, just in case, I'm going to write down some of this nonsense in the event someone actually does want to script it and can pay us for it. That'd be especially convenient since 87% of the crap we deal with is generally related to our lack of funds.

It is the lack of funds has consumed us lately, but I will forgo my sob story. The truth is -most of us are struggling with money - it's just the manner by which Gary and I get slammed into financial conundrums that is more interesting than most.  

Getting a lil' extra cash is among the reasons my husband traveled to Bowling Green Saturday night. He went to judge a Hardrock MMA show. He could go, carpool with some folks and gain a small profit- basically enough to pay our gas to work and back a couple times this week. I stayed home, even though Gary originally planned to drive us both to Bowling Green. I had mentioned the need for a MMA fix since I hadn't seen people bash each others' bodies in a while, but fiscally it was totally irresponsible, so I was going to have to get my violent, aggression-voyeur fix elsewhere. Hey, I'll go visit my parents! Kidding. Totally joking. 


So I hung out my parents and played with Charley until she finally crashed at 11 PM. Sometime around 1 AM I woke up, took her to bed and called Gary. I can never sleep when he is on the road after fights.  Mostly because I am certain something bad will happen.... call me Miss Cleo. 


Unable to sleep and without TV, I played on my phone and did laundry while I waited for Gary to get home. I called him at 2:30 to see where he was- he'd made it Mt. Sterling and he was stopping for a drink. He promised to call me when he got to Bath County and again when he got to Rowan County. I requested something in the chocolate candy department and went back to my chores. Looking back, I realize my body stress eats, even when it senses stress in the near future. (Do you like how I say 'my body eats' as though I have no control over it?! Ha!)




At 3 AM, as I am organizing my kid's closet, Gary calls and says: "Bad news." Please judge accordingly, but I swear before he uttered his next sentence I thought for sure he was going to say: I forgot and/or ate the chocolate you requested. If only it were that simple.




Gary was stranded on the side of the road in Bath County. Complete and utter destruction to his tire, wheel and fender. We had been planning to take his car in for maintenance after our next paycheck - too late.




Charley was asleep, so I made the decision to not take her with me on the road. I called my mom and planned to drop her off there so she could sleep and I did not risk her waking up mid-trip and asking 4500 hundred questions that all begin with 'why' - and her safety, of course. Of course, I was also considering her safety. In addition to being on the interstate in the dead of the night, watching her mother and father lose their sanity could lead to years of therapy we clearly can't afford.




I get to my parents and shamefully walk into their room to dump my kid on the bed. My dad is sitting straight up with his AAA card in hand. I grabbed the card and I felt like I'm 10-years-old all over again, as he had been hounding us to get Gary's tires fix for awhile now. He mumbles something about a free tow and off I go to rescue Gary from the side of the road. Rescue is a strong word. Honestly, it was not as if  his situation was incredibly urgent. Only my husband could be on the shoulder of the interstate at a very safe distance, with cell service, a wi-fi-connected computer, his dip, and plenty of snacks. So, he is basically in his recliner at home.


I almost grabbed my mom's keys as I walked out because my car was about out of gas (and I love her Sirius radio), but feeling like the biggest burden in the world already, I jumped in my car and searched for a 24-hour gas station. 



I hit 64 and said a prayer- Lord get us home safely, without further incident.

Now, 
Gary says I mumble. He can never hear me. I contend he is a poor listener. Tonight I confirmed God is male- he only heard half of what I said.


At mile-marker 130 I started losing speed and I heard a loud whirring behind me that interrupted The Doors (stoners take over the radio at 3 AM). 

The repeated thud from my driver's side back tire confirmed God's incredible sense of humor. 


I pull over as far as possible, but I was seconds away from the Bath County line, which crosses a bridge over the LIcking River. I get completely off the road with only a foot to spare. (Did I really just say spare?)




Completely manic and hysterical - I called Gary sobbing and cussing. Other than telling me I have to calm down and shutting down my irrational suggestion we just walk 'til we meet each and watch the sun come up...he convinced me to call my mom.




Lord. It's that phone call to your parents where you're telling your mom what happened and your dad starts asking questions and commenting from the background, so then my mom is talking to two people trying to relay messages and give instructions all at once. She spends majority of the phone call trying to clarify to whom she is speaking. Never mind, me folks, Ill just sit here on the interstate while we work out this convo. Their only advice 15 minutes later: "Call AAA, you have the card for free roadside assistance. See what they say and call back."




A girl takes one customer service professional development and she becomes an expert- AAA is the worst service I've yet to deal with. 


My favorite question was her first one- 'Are you in a safe location?'


'Why yes, ma'am. I am on the side of the interstate at 3:30 AM near a wooded area watching semi's whiz pass me at 80 mph. I've never felt safer. Matter of fact -I should open a preschool for visually impaired children in this exact location." Seriously?




Even after being as detailed as I could, Rhonda Roadside could not figure out where I was located. Apparently, I needed the longitudinal coordinates of my location because if she was not precise this whole deal was off-- i.e: 'ol girl couldn't move on 'til her computer allowed her.

I calmly endured the 15 minutes of her fumbling around with my location. I didn't snap when she thought I was in Connecticut. I said nothing rude when she asked me to list all the major roads I was near or just passed. When the woman told me the services could not be offered unless I could get 'my friend, Charles' to confirm my use of his card, I apparently became (as Kathy Griffin would say) a strong, black woman.




No way was I going to play phone tag and take more time for the already estimated hour until I receive assistance. I explained to her it was unsafe as it was, I was his daughter, and he is watching my 4-year-old as I was in this predicament because my husband was stranded on the side of the road (albeit comfortably) 6 miles ahead of me.




When she suggested I calm down and call the police if I felt 'that unsafe.' I lost it. 




'Ma'am at this point my safety is not my biggest concern, so unless the police drive up here passing out new cars and/or wads of money to fix this mess - I don't need the po-lice, I need to get to my husband and back home." And with the enunciation of po-leese, I was suddenly pretending to be a member of Honey Boo Boo's family on an episode of Cops. God help us all. I plea insanity.




Alas, I was approved for roadside assistance (she must've known I was hardcore). But by assistance - she meant a guy from Steve's Towing would be there in 45 minutes to get me and charge me $3 per mile after the first 5 miles, all due at the time of my tow.



Umm, no. Not happening.




I called my dad asked about the free tow? (Keep in mind, we have ruled out the spare. A. Not sure that I had one. B. I didn't want to be responsible for someone changing my tire while in the right lane of 64 at 4AM. C. The tow was supposed to be free). 


Irate and crazy, my dad sent my mom out the door to get me, wrote down AAA's number and promised to inform Rhonda Roadside where she can go and what she could do to herself. New discovery: I turn ghetto, while my father goes Clint Eastwood via RNC upon dealing with incompetent service peoples. Oy.




Remember Gary? Yeah, his car was completely dead at this point, but he was still perfectly entertained. Grasping at straws for a ride home, he decided to call his folks to get him, since my ETA was very uncertain - he made this decision prior to my dad losing his mind on AAA. Also, my mother is a nervous driver so with the fog and dark night she could've been a while. I decided to settle in sans snacks or computer hook up.




In the meantime, a very nice off-duty, MSU police officer stops and checks on me. Officer James. He offered to either drive me to Gary or get Gary and bring him to me, but since both of us had rides coming to us we declined.  Before he left, though, he flashed some light on my tire to expose to me what was left of my tire. Ugh. He was nice, but offered me no money or a new car. 




My mom finally made it to me. We passed Gary on the interstate. His dad was just ten minutes behind us and since he did not own a cell phone, we couldn't call him off his rescue mission.




Gary and I made it home, safely. Without incident? Hardly. 




Mom just called an Charley sounds horrible- coughing and complaining of a sore throat.  But, God love her, she is worried about how we are getting to church today. I am worried about how we are all getting to work tomorrow. We have a few hours to figure out how to get our cars off the interstate and fixed.




We are safe and (despite bouts of obesity) physically healthy. I think our emotional and spiritual health is compromised some- but by now we know the drill. We have been here before -often, too.damn.often. Nevertheless, we always seem to get exactly what we need to make it. 

Well, except that chocolate. I never got my chocolate. 

There's no swagger in my wagon, but can I offer you a seashell?

Four years ago Gary allowed me to make a pregnant lady decision. I insisted we needed a new car and it needed to be able to ride 7 people because we were adding just one small, tiny person to our family. I guess the enormity of my  personal weight gain during pregnancy made me miscalculate exactly how large my newborn would be and exactly how much space she'd require. Assuming I'd be chauffeuring Charley plus a small herd of wayward highwaymen daily,  we bought a Chrysler Pacifica. It was spacious and had a family car feel without that godforsaken sliding door that I will spend my life trying to avoid. I really enjoyed the car when I wasn't dealing with air conditioning, tire, wheel, tie-rod,  radiator, alternator, or remote-start issues (let's hope the dealership people don't read this). My love for the car mimics the similar feelings I've expressed for my daughter - she is perfect... when she's asleep (that car is incredible...sitting in my driveway). An increased commute has solidified  my desire to trade-in  the Silver Spaceship. 

Shopping for a new vehicle requires a lot of work. No, not researching and looking for deals- the Internet has made that a no brainer. I now realize the hard work apparently comes the night before when you have to clean out your old vehicle in a desperate attempt to slick 'er up and pretend you've kept it in pristine condition all along. 'No...that's not melted chocolate and dog hair permanently hardened into the carpet.' This is especially difficult when you've been using the vehicle as an extension of your home for 60+ minutes a day. By that comparison, I'm not sure I am willing to publicly admit which part of the home we use our vehicles for. 

I will say that the deep cleaning and total purging of my car has made me consider a few rules for my next car. 
Most people enact the standard no-eating-in-the-car rule, but that alone would not encompass the entire problem- even though I now know how Charley ate all those yummy sweet potato fries so quickly last month. 

I'm extending the ban. Based on the recent findings in my car the following will be forbidden in the new car: 

1.  Phone chargers. I may not be able to offer your car battery a jump, but I can give your cell some juice- Nokia? Nextel? Apple? Pick a cord...any cord. 
2. Straws- especially those that come with juice boxes and will stab your hand as you blindly reach beneath the seat.
3. Anything that has the potential to melt: crayons, chocolate, cough drops, suckers, raisins, ice cream, my kid without a nap...
4. Cups with lids
5. Cups without lids
6. Removable straps  that are supposed to keep certain 'cups' comfy and secure.
7. Bottles with caps- the caps are everywhere.
8. Bottles without caps- too many spills related to excess tobacco juice. (Our daughter knows to cautiously ask before drinking from any bottles...life lessons from her daddy). 
9. Anything that can be crushed: cookies, crackers, goldfish crackers, biscuits, cereal, chips, my hopes & dreams...
10. Discount/club cards for stores I frequent maybe every 6 months and never have with me in the store, but I still get the discount because I punch in my phone number- genius!
11. Hairbows, hairbands and bobby pins- I could open a Claire's from my backseat.
12. Shoes that can not be tied and double knotted to the wearer's feet. 
13. CD's both with and without cases- and especially burned CD's wherein the creator assumed it would not be necessary to write a title, date or other info- because accidentally popping in Gary's angry-teenage-boy mixed CD instead of Charley's Kid's Bop is never unsettling to my passengers. 
14. Anything that can easily rest above the sun visor without being seen and then unexpectedly attacks  my face when I go to check my make-up
15. Important papers that have clearly expired, but because I'm fuzzy on the time period in which they should be kept, my console becomes napkin disposal and an ancient artifacts museum. 
16. Clothes hangers: wire, plastic, children's -"Nooo wire hangers!!"
17. Baskets/crates/tote bags  that are suppose to be organizing the crap all over the car. Good effort guys.
18. Stickers.Especially those shiny ones of cartoon characters that are obviously made by the Gorilla Glue Co. and obviously belong on a window.
19. School supplies- pencils, pens, highlighters, paper clips, paper, post-its, textbooks, binders, common core standards, curriculum maps, etc. Just in case you wanna align curriculum on the go. 
20. Wallet sized and mailed holiday photos (including/especially-those featuring my own daughter).
21. Seashells. I was driving around with a box of seashells? 
22. Toys and dolls. The time will come when I am mistakenly arrested because someone saw Polly-Pees-Herself strapped in the back seat and reports me for leaving a baby in the car. 
23. Tampons/pads. Regardless of how or where they are stored they always wind up in the passenger side floor board, mangled and fully unwrapped (usually on days I have to cart a guy in my car).
24. Chapstick/lip gloss. I have it for two days, but inevitably open it after it has sat in 90 degree temps and it liquifies all over my lips or lands in gob on the floor mat.
25. Pennies. Sure they add up, but even if I have 300 and take the time to collect, roll and cash them in- I still don't have enough to cover the price at my next car wash vacuum session. At 75 cents a session, I need a small loan to tidy up my upholstery.  


The list could go on, but ultimately I should probably just ban people (at least my filthy lil family) from my car. While I'm ranting and raving over the disaster our vehicle, Gary stands by and dreamily lists the great times the car has seen: the first Thomas family vacation to Florida, a couple of trips to TN, Sunday trips to visit family, bringing our daughter home from the hospital...

'Are you going to miss it? It was our first family car with Charley.'

When you have scrubbed chocolate milk on the verge of spoiling from the carpet right below your precious offspring's seat in 90 degree heat, or sat uncomfortably behind the veil of tinted windows in the Target parking lot trying to breastfeed at midday despite the clear view offered to people passing the extra wide front window, or listened to your child scream from Owingsville to Christy Creek, or driven 25 miles with a crazy-terrified cat clinging to your steering wheel while your 100lb dog wants to climb to the front seat to lie in your lap, or sat in Lexington traffic 9 months pregnant when the AC goes out and the power to the windows stalls during abnormally hot temps for April...you somehow block out the sweet car memories. 

'Oh, this car can only transport one person? Where do I sign?' 

So they loaded up the truck and moved to....Clearfield.

. 

Almost four years ago exactly, Gary and I hammered a couple of 'For Sale' signs in our neighborhood and yard. I'm think I'm supposed to remember the hope and excitement we had that day, but mostly I just think about how clean my house was. Seriously, my house was so clean the day the realtor came over to take pictures. We even really mopped, and not just Swifter mopped. Actually, that may have been the last time we really mopped? I remembered it smelled so freaking good.

---------------------> Fast forward 4 years. 

I think it smells like wet dog, foot, and apple cinnamon in here. We are clearly trying to cover up the smell with every Glade product on the market. 

For every single item I pick up, Charley drags out four equally or larger sized items. Isn't that a Newton law or something? 

Hang on. Charley just ran into the living room to ask me if she can help cut daddy's hair - she is wearing high heels and underwear. Awesome - this means hair all over the bathroom floor and/or another trip to the ER. Shout out to Gary. It's good he is teaching her a trade. Maybe beauty school will keep her off the stage. But really, today? We need to do this right now???

You know back in 2008, when our house was immaculately clean, moving would have been a breeze. I hadn't gone back to grad school yet. Gary wasn't neck deep into operating a MMA media business in addition to his real job. Charley was a tiny little infant confined to a crib and had tiny little toys instead of a 75 lb music stage. 

It was all too simple. 

So here it is, March 31st. We finally sold our house. It happened very suddenly and unexpectedly. Technically our house wasn't even on the market, but through word of mouth and God's wicked sense of humor we finally sold our doublewide to a sweet elderly couple, who really need to live here. 

Yeah, sure. I should be jumping up and down and crying tears of joy. This is everything I've wanted! But all of that is a little suppressed right now as full on debilitating panic sets in. Here's the catch: 

                                                                  We have to be out by April 15th. 

15 days. 15 days to pack and move almost 10 years of our lives. 

Add in the following: I am recovering from strep. I have 495 assignments to do for grad school and my job. Gary is preoccupied with a MMA fight this week.  Charley is, well - a pain in the ass. She's acting like an emotional, bipolar 13 year old. She goes between full-on euphoria that we are moving, to crazy-sobbing depression that we are leaving her 'house, her home, her Baff County." Plus, she is extra pissed that we are, in fact, not moving into a castle. When she's not going full-on Lindsay Lohen crazy she's just being 3 and making messes. Everywhere. 

Yeah. This is more like it. This is exactly how I dreamed our moving day to be: the hope and excitement all buried deep beneath dysfunction, chaos and dirty laundry.

Pictures of our house - Pre-Charley. 

That rug was destroyed a few months later in a candy corn meets Gunner vomit incident. 

Sweet Dreams Are Made of...Irony

Bad parent admission #456 - Charley sleeps in our bed. Judge me. I have never in my life been as tired as I have been since this kid was born. When I see college students complaining about all-nighters and no sleep, I want to drive to their dorms and puke on them, "Here try not sleeping and cleaning up vomit." But I don't...because I'm too tired. So when I'm exhausted, I give in and let her sleep in the bed.

I will say that I've protested this horrible habit MUCH, MUCH more than her daddy. Oh! Her 'daddy'. The good guy. The guy that counts to three in 45 seconds and is famous for his 'This is the last time, I mean it' warnings that come 12 times before mommy steps in and means it. Apparently, the cord needs to be cut from her father when it comes to bedtime.

Last night I had the kid in her room...in her room...and in her bed. Sure sounds easy. Have you ever successfully convinced a puppy to sit still when it is surrounded by chew toys, treats and the possibility of a squirrel just in the other room? That is what putting a three year old to bed is like. The adult people, hell even the dog, are all tired - she is still ready to run through all of her toys and books, NEEEEEEEEDS a drink of water and needs to know what's going on in the other room even if it is just her dad sitting on the couch exactly how we left him 5 minutes ago.

So she is in the bed. I go lay down in our bedroom. Charley does her normal stall visits: I just have to tell daddy something, What is this (carrying a random part of a toy), I need some water...it could go on all night. She is eventually in her room. I hear movement, but confining her to one area is a master feat so I'm not complaining. However, her father is complaing.

Dear old dad can't stand it. Sheepishly admits he wants to Charley to sleep in our bed and gives me the 'She's only this little once' speech. He calls for her and asks her to come lie in bed with us despite my warnings:

When does it stop, Gary?

When she's four? Five? I don't know.

Okay, well...fine...when she and her 25 year old boyfriend are lying in bed with you because you let her do whatever she wants just because she says 'daddy' - you let me know how that works. (Extreme, I know, but this is how it all starts. Lohen's parents probably let her sleep in the bed with them, too).

How old is she then?

Seriously? Does that even matter? Twelve? Thirteen? Not my point.

And at that Charley is crawling in the bed with two pillows, a bear and a baby doll, "Here's my things" she announces as she dumps the load at her daddy's feet.

I roll over and let the bosom buddies tuck in the babies and cuddle with pillows. Okay - so I smile a little when she sighs and says, "We are the bestest family." Damn that sociopath.

Do you want to know just how good that little crazy is? It's 4 AM. I get up and realize that it is just me and the kid in the bed.

Yeah, that's right. Dear old dad got kicked out at some point and Mr. Cuddlebear himself is asleep on the couch, while the little princess is asleep in the bed.

Oh yes. This definitely is a moment where I wake up Gary and ask him if he is comfortable. Of course he claims it was 'too hot' in the bedroom - Oh, darling that wasn't the heat that was smothering you - it's the tight, chubby arms of manipulation strangling you.

Sweet dreams.