Black Magic Woman

I am cursed when it comes to borrowing Chris' car. His cars only break when I'm driving them. Back when he had his Hyundai, I came home from grocery shopping and announced the dash lights had gone completely dark. This began a saga that eventually ended in the car not functioning at all, a small electrical fire and thousands of dollars of (thank goodness) warranty work. I hope the new owner is having better luck with it.

The Subaru never gave us a moment's worry when it was mine but this winter, after Chris inherited it, it started to smell distinctly gassy. At first I thought it was just the lingering aroma of Chris. After another grocery shopping trip, I realized this was not so. The car had a leak. This led to a month of tightening, tinkering, returning of gas smell and repeat. On a really cold day, it still smells like an Exxon station.

This past week, I had big plans. I've started to try to shop with coupons which requires trips to multiple grocery stores. I hit Safeway and came away with two months' supply of fruit cups, apple juice and the heady feeling that can only come from getting as close to stealing something as I ever will. Next stop: Albertson's. The coupon game didn't work so great there. I had been out for a couple hours at that point and it had gotten dark and windy and cold and had started to snow just a little.

That's when I saw it: the flat tire. I'm a modern woman. I can change my own tire. That's what I told myself as I started to get out the spare and dialed Chris, coolly telling him I had some flat tire business to attend to and I would be home a bit late. He said he was coming to change it for me. I protested. He insisted. Conversation ended.

(This, by the way is not it, but I wish the weather was like this in my story.) 

I would show him. I would change the tire before he could get there. I leaned the spare up against the car and tried not to let anyone see I was reading the owner's manual to find out where the jack was. Jack located. Tugging to no avail. Owner's manual consulted. Frozen fingers prying at nut to no avail. Screwdriver located. Leverage obtained. Jack finally freed. Hands are painfully red but blissful numb begins to set in. Chris arrives. Task gratefully surrendered. I get in the other car with the kids and drive away, happy that I'm not in a dark, cold parking lot changing a flat tire. I'm convinced I have some kind of bad voodoo when it comes to my husband's car. Perhaps it stems from my hatred of his first car. Or perhaps not.

All I know is that I am getting ample payback for being so unreasonable in college about B's incident when she was borrowing my truck. If it means anything now, I wish I would have let you guys borrow my truck more often and I now realize what a jerk I was. Accidents happen... and well do I know it now.