Of all the areas in which my scatter-brainedness could choose to manifest itself, the area relating to cars and all things mechanical has to be one of the most trying and inconvenient—and, in hindsight, the most entertaining.
Take, for example, this clip, which I recorded a little less than a year ago, when I first embarked on this scholarly adventure—and also when I first encountered snow.
Needless to say, I now own a state-of-the-art dual ice scraper and brush, which occupies a permanent spot on the floor of the passenger side of my car. I don't worry too much about the passenger whose feet might occupy that spot. First of all, I am rarely solicited for rides, as my Chevy Metro is not large enough to carry a lot of people.
The other reason that I don't often give rides is the result of yet another of my frequently embarrassing shenanigans. In April of last year, as I was preparing to head home to Texas for the summer, I had found a storage facility where I could leave my car until I returned in the fall. At my mother's recommendation, I planned one morning to drive to the facility and "check it out". Of course I gave myself too little time to travel to, find, and inspect the warehouse before returning to my apartment to finish packing, complete last-minute cleaning checks, and take my last final before a shuttle came to deliver me to the airport.
It seems that poor planning almost always yields unexpected and unprepared-for circumstances—out of spite—a concept I became extremely familiar with that morning. Though I followed the online directions I had printed out explicitly, I couldn't find the warehouse. After at least half an hour spent on a wild goose chase, determined to locate it, I could no longer ignore the clock on my dashboard. Heaving a sigh, I began to head back to Provo. But soon after that, I noticed that my tank was dangerously close to empty, so I stopped to fill up before I got back on the highway.
After refilling, and uncomfortably aware of the time, I quickly grabbed the receipt and yanked on my door handle.
It didn't open.
I yanked again.
No response.
For a minute I simply stared in disbelief at my car, and at the keys which seemed to glint mockingly at me from their resting place on the passenger seat.
Fortunately, the cashier in the station said that police officers who happen to be in the area are generally happy to help motorists such as myself for free, and quickly contacted one. He arrived within three minutes, and, with the pleasantries and gentle chastisement typical of law enforcers, tried his hand with the slim jim on the driver's door. After several minutes of bending, poking and jiggling, he had failed to unlock the door, so he tried his luck with the passenger side. Several more nail-biting minutes passed, and still the door refused to open. I was tempted to kick my car for its stubbornness, but know from experience that such a loss of temper will result only in a swollen toe.
The officer was determined, and this time pulled out a tool resembling the instrument doctors use to measure blood pressure. Using a wedge to pry the passenger side door open slightly, he slipped a large, flat, fabric square into the door and began pumping it full of air, thus forcing the door open wider and wider. Then he simply grabbed the slim jim and used it to snare the lanyard which, I was now more grateful than ever, was attached to my keys, pulling them out through the gap.
I thanked him profusely, nearly grovelling, for rescueing me from a situation that I had begun to fear would force me to miss my final. He of course admonished me to be more careful in the future in order to avoid being in this situation again, and I made all sorts of heartfelt promises.
Shortly thereafter, I discovered that, in his efforts to open the passenger side door of my car, the kind officer had jammed it. The interior lock was frozen halfway between locked and unlocked, and no amount of jiggling, prying, twisting or pleading would get it unstuck.
By this point I was so frazzled that I almost didn't care, knowing that I had many other things to worry about before I went home, and that the car would be sitting in a warehouse all summer anyway. And to this day, if ever I give someone I ride, I must use the key to open their door from the outside and let them out.
As I said, though it makes it quite awkward in the rare case that I do give someone a ride, I have since been able to make light of my mishap. It makes for an interesting conversation, anyway.
But someone must not think my life is interesting enough.
I did it again a couple weeks ago. I stopped after buying groceries to fill up on gas, had even thought against it because I wasn't sure I had the time, but I did it anyway—and once again, I turned after replacing the nozzle in its holster to find that the wind had blown my car door shut. It was locked, and my keys winked at me from the passenger seat. Again, vainly I pulled the handle again and again and again. Then, swallowing the urge to kick my car the second time, I dragged my feet inside the little station's store and told the lady at the cashier's desk of my predicament.
"There's a mechanic right next door who might help you out," she said. "His name's Paul."
So I rushed next door to find Paul. Find him I did, but he seemed hesitant after he learned my car's model. "Those cars' doors have lots of little fragile parts inside that break easily, which can jam the door," he said.
"I know, the passenger side is already jammed from the last time I did this," I blurted without thinking. He just stared at me for a moment while my face crimsoned and I inwardly cursed my big mouth.
After we had exhausted any other options (my cell phone was also locked inside the car, I had no spare key with me, and I hadn't memorize the number of any roommate who could bring one to me), he consented to help me out and followed me to my car.
Just as with the police officer, minute after minute passed while the door refused to unlock, no matter how many different sizes, shapes, and lengths of tools the mechanic used. I was beginning to worry that the door would never open, but, finally, it did. Again I showered my hero with thanks and asked if I could compensate him, but he refused to be paid. Thinking of the groceries warming in the back of my car, I thanked him again, started my engine, and sped for home, loudly scolding myself the whole way back.
I pulled into a prime parking spot right next to my building, turned off the engine, snatched my purse from the passenger seat and pulled my door handle.
Broken.
For one panicked moment I wondered if I was locked inside my own car, then had the idea to roll down the window and open the door using the outside handle. So now I have to jump through all sorts of hoops not only to get out of my own car, but to let any passengers out. When I've accumulated enough funds I'll go back to Paul and have him fix my doors as repayment.
In the mean time, perhaps I should invest in a snow shovel, too?
Take, for example, this clip, which I recorded a little less than a year ago, when I first embarked on this scholarly adventure—and also when I first encountered snow.
Needless to say, I now own a state-of-the-art dual ice scraper and brush, which occupies a permanent spot on the floor of the passenger side of my car. I don't worry too much about the passenger whose feet might occupy that spot. First of all, I am rarely solicited for rides, as my Chevy Metro is not large enough to carry a lot of people.
The other reason that I don't often give rides is the result of yet another of my frequently embarrassing shenanigans. In April of last year, as I was preparing to head home to Texas for the summer, I had found a storage facility where I could leave my car until I returned in the fall. At my mother's recommendation, I planned one morning to drive to the facility and "check it out". Of course I gave myself too little time to travel to, find, and inspect the warehouse before returning to my apartment to finish packing, complete last-minute cleaning checks, and take my last final before a shuttle came to deliver me to the airport.
It seems that poor planning almost always yields unexpected and unprepared-for circumstances—out of spite—a concept I became extremely familiar with that morning. Though I followed the online directions I had printed out explicitly, I couldn't find the warehouse. After at least half an hour spent on a wild goose chase, determined to locate it, I could no longer ignore the clock on my dashboard. Heaving a sigh, I began to head back to Provo. But soon after that, I noticed that my tank was dangerously close to empty, so I stopped to fill up before I got back on the highway.
After refilling, and uncomfortably aware of the time, I quickly grabbed the receipt and yanked on my door handle.
It didn't open.
I yanked again.
No response.
For a minute I simply stared in disbelief at my car, and at the keys which seemed to glint mockingly at me from their resting place on the passenger seat.
Fortunately, the cashier in the station said that police officers who happen to be in the area are generally happy to help motorists such as myself for free, and quickly contacted one. He arrived within three minutes, and, with the pleasantries and gentle chastisement typical of law enforcers, tried his hand with the slim jim on the driver's door. After several minutes of bending, poking and jiggling, he had failed to unlock the door, so he tried his luck with the passenger side. Several more nail-biting minutes passed, and still the door refused to open. I was tempted to kick my car for its stubbornness, but know from experience that such a loss of temper will result only in a swollen toe.
The officer was determined, and this time pulled out a tool resembling the instrument doctors use to measure blood pressure. Using a wedge to pry the passenger side door open slightly, he slipped a large, flat, fabric square into the door and began pumping it full of air, thus forcing the door open wider and wider. Then he simply grabbed the slim jim and used it to snare the lanyard which, I was now more grateful than ever, was attached to my keys, pulling them out through the gap.
I thanked him profusely, nearly grovelling, for rescueing me from a situation that I had begun to fear would force me to miss my final. He of course admonished me to be more careful in the future in order to avoid being in this situation again, and I made all sorts of heartfelt promises.
Shortly thereafter, I discovered that, in his efforts to open the passenger side door of my car, the kind officer had jammed it. The interior lock was frozen halfway between locked and unlocked, and no amount of jiggling, prying, twisting or pleading would get it unstuck.
By this point I was so frazzled that I almost didn't care, knowing that I had many other things to worry about before I went home, and that the car would be sitting in a warehouse all summer anyway. And to this day, if ever I give someone I ride, I must use the key to open their door from the outside and let them out.
As I said, though it makes it quite awkward in the rare case that I do give someone a ride, I have since been able to make light of my mishap. It makes for an interesting conversation, anyway.
But someone must not think my life is interesting enough.
I did it again a couple weeks ago. I stopped after buying groceries to fill up on gas, had even thought against it because I wasn't sure I had the time, but I did it anyway—and once again, I turned after replacing the nozzle in its holster to find that the wind had blown my car door shut. It was locked, and my keys winked at me from the passenger seat. Again, vainly I pulled the handle again and again and again. Then, swallowing the urge to kick my car the second time, I dragged my feet inside the little station's store and told the lady at the cashier's desk of my predicament.
"There's a mechanic right next door who might help you out," she said. "His name's Paul."
So I rushed next door to find Paul. Find him I did, but he seemed hesitant after he learned my car's model. "Those cars' doors have lots of little fragile parts inside that break easily, which can jam the door," he said.
"I know, the passenger side is already jammed from the last time I did this," I blurted without thinking. He just stared at me for a moment while my face crimsoned and I inwardly cursed my big mouth.
After we had exhausted any other options (my cell phone was also locked inside the car, I had no spare key with me, and I hadn't memorize the number of any roommate who could bring one to me), he consented to help me out and followed me to my car.
Just as with the police officer, minute after minute passed while the door refused to unlock, no matter how many different sizes, shapes, and lengths of tools the mechanic used. I was beginning to worry that the door would never open, but, finally, it did. Again I showered my hero with thanks and asked if I could compensate him, but he refused to be paid. Thinking of the groceries warming in the back of my car, I thanked him again, started my engine, and sped for home, loudly scolding myself the whole way back.
I pulled into a prime parking spot right next to my building, turned off the engine, snatched my purse from the passenger seat and pulled my door handle.
Broken.
For one panicked moment I wondered if I was locked inside my own car, then had the idea to roll down the window and open the door using the outside handle. So now I have to jump through all sorts of hoops not only to get out of my own car, but to let any passengers out. When I've accumulated enough funds I'll go back to Paul and have him fix my doors as repayment.
In the mean time, perhaps I should invest in a snow shovel, too?
