I’ve made no secret of my disdain for the minivan. But lately I’ve been feeling sorry for both our cars. They were both purchased on the west coast; hell, one of them hails from Southern California. They didn’t ask for any of this.
The shitty minivan is especially perplexed. (Where am I, Toto? What is all this cold, icy business falling from the sky?)
First, I slid on some ice and tore off the side mirror. (In case you were wondering, duct tape is remarkably effective.)
I won’t even go into the cracked windshield. It’s still too painful. Damn you, winter branches.
This morning I tried to back the car out of my driveway. I got stuck with about 2/3 of the car sticking out into the street. One of my front wheels was wedged in what appeared to be an ice hole. I sat there for about thirty minutes. The smell of burning rubber from my spinning tires was starting to make me queasy.
A kind man unsuccessfully tried to dig me out. I called AAA, but they apparently did not have me on file, even though I held a VIP member card in my hand. M, the reigning king of VIP membership, took this as a personal affront and called them later to find out why; they had no record of my call.
(Eerie. Like Sandra Bullock in The Net.)
Eventually the kindest sanitation workers in NYC showed up, dug me out, got behind the wheel of my car and drove it out, and then told me that “We’d all been there.”
My God, I love New York.
But the car has taken a bad winter beating.
Between today’s debacle, and my collision with a snow bank in Yonkers a few weeks ago, the underside of the minivan is wrecked.
A giant piece of plastic has been ripped off, and is now dragging underneath the car like entrails spilling out of a dying deer.
Passers-by point and stare.
I can hear the dragging sound over the car radio.
Tomorrow I’m going to try and fix it with some duct tape.