It happened in a flash. I was on my way to meet my wife for lunch. I approached an intersection, with my light green. As I entered, I saw it out of the corner of my eye. A flash of red. And it was heading my way. Fast.
"Hey," I thought, "that car sure is going fa..." BOOM!
The collision was loud. And jarring. My air bags went off, and my car was spun around 180 degrees. When it stopped, I sat there, in a haze of airbag dust, trying to figure out what happened.
I opened my car door and stepped into the middle of the road. Our news director, Tim O'Briant, was in the car behind me and saw the whole thing happen. He pulled his vehicle into the intersection to block off the traffic, which was probably a good idea since I was walking around with jelly legs, doing the requisite stagger and stare at my car, saying, "Wha---what happened?"
I went over to the sidewalk and pulled my phone from my pocket and called my wife. I then looked at my hands and saw they were shaking like I had just ingested 68 espressos. I handed the phone to Tim, and said, "Here. Tell Jenn." In retrospect, I was kinda putting him on the spot.
The paramedics came over to check me and the other driver out. Miraculously, neither of us was seriously hurt. I was wobbly and still hacking up airbag dust but actually didn't feel any extreme pain. Amazingly, I wasn't even sore. I kept anticipating the pain, which fortunately never came, leaving me no choice but to every few hours remind my wife, "You know, I was in a wreck." She said I can do that for one week.
My car was totaled. Even I could have diagnosed that. (Clue 1: When the front of the car no longer exists, and the engine no longer appears to be connected to the vehicle, you are heading toward Totaled Town.) So, now, I begin the process of looking for a new car.
I keep cars for a long time (this one we had for 10 years; my previous car I drove for 12). With my daughter being 9, I am most likely buying her first car, which is possibly the most frightening thought I have had since it occurred to me that she will, at some point, date.
As I stood in the paint and body shop, retrieving the items from my vehicle, I was kinda surprised to find myself feeling a little, well, sad. My wife and I got this car before our daughter was born. We traded in her Mustang for the family cruiser. This was our "grown-up" car. (Ironically, the car that hit me was a Mustang. I guess it has exacted its revenge at last.) This was the car that we brought both of our children home in. This is the car I learned to sing "Chick-chicka-boom-boom" in. This is the car I drove from Florida to South Carolina with a 6-month-old screaming the entire way. (Didn't even take a breath.) This is the car in which I changed a diaper in a grocery store parking lot during a thunderstorm. This is the car where I first said the words, "STOP EATING THE SEAT BELT!"
So we are beginning the quest for a replacement. Fortunately, I have the advantage of expert opinions of most everyone I come in contact with, which includes "definitely buy a new car," "definitely buy a used car," "definitely lease," "definitely don't lease," "definitely get a truck," "definitely don't get a truck," "definitely get a horse and buggy," etc.
Truthfully, I don't know what I am going to do. The settlement is for what it would take to replace my 2000 Ford Explorer that had more than 100,000 miles on it with ... a 2000 Ford Explorer with more than 100,000 miles on it. Of all of the expert opinions, the one that has not been served up is to buy a 2000 Ford Explorer with more than 100,000 miles on it.
I am trying to look on the positives of this whole thing. For example, the potential of a new car led me to clean out the other half of the garage, where I can hopefully put a car, rather than what was a collection of basketballs, bicycles, bags of clothes to be donated and, for some reason, a box of plastic cowboy hats.
So here's hoping my next car, whatever it is, will be the foundation for a new series of memories. Wow, to think this could be the car my daughter takes on her first date. I'll remember it well. Because I'll be in the car, too.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
Snow yeah!
It. Will. Not. Snow.
That is what I definitively told my wife last week, as she combed through a half a dozen weather forecasts, trying to figure out which one would give us the best chance for a snowball fight.
She asked me why I would say that. After all, she pointed out, I am a big fan of winter weather. I am almost as bad as the kids when it comes to anticipating the white stuff. The answer was simple: I was sick and tired of being disappointed. For probably six years, whenever it looked as if it might snow or ice, I got on the bandwagon - stockpile the pantry, get out the winter accessories, gas up the snowmobile. OK, we don't have a snowmobile. But if we did, rest assured it would be gassed up.
And each time we awoke with blue skies and temperatures in the mid 70s. It didn't matter what the forecast the day before was. There would be no snow, no ice, no nothing, save for me disappointed and having to explain to the kids that sleeping with their pajamas inside out didn't work because, well, they didn't want it enough.
So this time, when it became painfully clear that we were going to get some snow, I took the hard line stance. (I even had the headline ready should the snow not have happened: "Oh, snow, you didn't."
And I am fairly certain my contrarian position is what made it snow. So you're welcome.
To that point, some highlights of my snow day:
* Gravity can doom a snowman. By the time I got home, the kids had begun several snowmen in the backyard. My neighbor had crafted one that eventually stood around seven feet tall. It took three of us to get the midsection up. After about an hour, another neighbor and I noticed the snowman was leaning slightly. "How long do you give it?" he asked. "Thirty minutes?" I said. "Boom," said the snowman as it fell to the ground. "Guess not," my neighbor said.
* Some kids learn quicker than others. My neighborhood was crawling with adolescents looking for new and exciting ways to annihilate others with snow. I felt it necessary to refine their trades, teaching them the art of the lob-one-pelt-a-second-snowball tactic, as well as the shake-the-snowy-tree-branch. I was pleased to see one of the young students later bait a child under a tree and then send a large snowball into the branches above, raining a mini-avalanche down on him.
* Ice is good for a surgically repaired knee. At least this is what I told the two critics who said it was a bad idea to get on my knees and put Parker on my shoulders for a chicken snow fight against his buddy Haze. The initial ruling on the field was that Parker and I lost, but that decision is being appealed to the International Snow Chicken Congress.
* Don't go take a hot bath. I did not make this mistake this time, because I still vividly remember some time around 1980 when we got snow. I played outside in it for hours, and then, in an effort to warm up, ran inside, cranked up a hot bath, and jumped in. And immediately jumped out. Screaming. "Kids," I told them, "never risk a bath." "Kids," their mother told them, "never listen to your father. Warm up. And then get a bath. You're filthy."
* My neighbor learned this lesson: If you want to be hit with a snowball, step out of your car with four 12-year-old boys standing around and say, "DO NOT HIT ME WITH SNOWBALLS!" (OK, four 12-year-old boys and a 37-year-old neighbor. As I told my wife, "What? She can't ground me.")
The kids were a little bummed that the snow was gone by Sunday, but as I told them, it's more fun to have the snow come in quickly, enjoy a day of it and then move on rather than be chocked down for weeks on end with snow. I told them that once a year was a good frequency of wintry weather. So let's look forward to next year, when I guarantee - It. Will. Not. Snow.
That is what I definitively told my wife last week, as she combed through a half a dozen weather forecasts, trying to figure out which one would give us the best chance for a snowball fight.
She asked me why I would say that. After all, she pointed out, I am a big fan of winter weather. I am almost as bad as the kids when it comes to anticipating the white stuff. The answer was simple: I was sick and tired of being disappointed. For probably six years, whenever it looked as if it might snow or ice, I got on the bandwagon - stockpile the pantry, get out the winter accessories, gas up the snowmobile. OK, we don't have a snowmobile. But if we did, rest assured it would be gassed up.
And each time we awoke with blue skies and temperatures in the mid 70s. It didn't matter what the forecast the day before was. There would be no snow, no ice, no nothing, save for me disappointed and having to explain to the kids that sleeping with their pajamas inside out didn't work because, well, they didn't want it enough.
So this time, when it became painfully clear that we were going to get some snow, I took the hard line stance. (I even had the headline ready should the snow not have happened: "Oh, snow, you didn't."
And I am fairly certain my contrarian position is what made it snow. So you're welcome.
To that point, some highlights of my snow day:
* Gravity can doom a snowman. By the time I got home, the kids had begun several snowmen in the backyard. My neighbor had crafted one that eventually stood around seven feet tall. It took three of us to get the midsection up. After about an hour, another neighbor and I noticed the snowman was leaning slightly. "How long do you give it?" he asked. "Thirty minutes?" I said. "Boom," said the snowman as it fell to the ground. "Guess not," my neighbor said.
* Some kids learn quicker than others. My neighborhood was crawling with adolescents looking for new and exciting ways to annihilate others with snow. I felt it necessary to refine their trades, teaching them the art of the lob-one-pelt-a-second-snowball tactic, as well as the shake-the-snowy-tree-branch. I was pleased to see one of the young students later bait a child under a tree and then send a large snowball into the branches above, raining a mini-avalanche down on him.
* Ice is good for a surgically repaired knee. At least this is what I told the two critics who said it was a bad idea to get on my knees and put Parker on my shoulders for a chicken snow fight against his buddy Haze. The initial ruling on the field was that Parker and I lost, but that decision is being appealed to the International Snow Chicken Congress.
* Don't go take a hot bath. I did not make this mistake this time, because I still vividly remember some time around 1980 when we got snow. I played outside in it for hours, and then, in an effort to warm up, ran inside, cranked up a hot bath, and jumped in. And immediately jumped out. Screaming. "Kids," I told them, "never risk a bath." "Kids," their mother told them, "never listen to your father. Warm up. And then get a bath. You're filthy."
* My neighbor learned this lesson: If you want to be hit with a snowball, step out of your car with four 12-year-old boys standing around and say, "DO NOT HIT ME WITH SNOWBALLS!" (OK, four 12-year-old boys and a 37-year-old neighbor. As I told my wife, "What? She can't ground me.")
The kids were a little bummed that the snow was gone by Sunday, but as I told them, it's more fun to have the snow come in quickly, enjoy a day of it and then move on rather than be chocked down for weeks on end with snow. I told them that once a year was a good frequency of wintry weather. So let's look forward to next year, when I guarantee - It. Will. Not. Snow.
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