The Californian

I can’t find the post where I talk about how I’m shy of the guy, because the search engine on this blog is a woeful piece of shit. But I am shy of the guy. Not all guys, of course. There are many many guys in this world of whom I am not shy. But when it comes to the cable guy or the car guy, for example, I don’t wanna do it. I want my husband to do it. I am a progressive, passionate, articulate, big mouthed woman of the world and I want my boyfriend to do it. So lame.

Last week we were in need of both the cable guy and the car guy. Bill called the car guy for me, and made arrangements for the big fat stupid ungodly expensive repairs. We’ll come back to that.

The cable thing wasn’t a big deal at all… until it affected me directly. When I sat down with my family to queue up a movie on demand, and it didn’t work, I grabbed the phone and yelled at all the guys. Shy shmy, guys. Fix mama’s movie.

While my car was under repair, I drove Bill’s truck and he drove the westy. I like driving the truck, it’s powerful and roomy and fun. It’s bigger than my car, but it’s not one of those huge monster trucks that you need a step to get into. The only times I feel uneasy driving an unfamiliarly big(ger) rig is when I have to park it, and when I have to merge on the freeway during traffic. Traffic is a bitch no matter what you’re driving, but I’m good enough at it. There are, however, a couple of locations where freeways meet that can reduce me to that lame girl who wants her boyfriend to call the guy.

One of those hateful spots is traveled when we go to pick up our girl from girl scouts every other Wednesday at 5:30. From Friar’s Road, you get on the 163 south, but there are many many cranky people in line to merge onto the 8 freeway in both directions, and you have to pass through all of those lanes to stay on 163. You also have to stay in the right lane so you can exit on Washington West, not University, not Washington East.

I know, I know.

So anyway. I went to get my girl on one of the days I was driving Bill's truck. It hadn't been bad when I dropped her off, but I should have factored in more time for the later time and traffic sitch. I was running late, and the traffic was awful.

I came around the entrance ramp off of Friar's, immediately scoping out the friendly looking vehicles to see where I might find a place to squeeze in and pass through to the next lane. This is where the minor difference in vehicle size got me.. .I just didn't feel sure about how much space I needed, so I was being extra cautious. I was also running out of time before I ended up stuck on the 8 gridlock, the victim of a crippling inability to merge. Lame.

I saw my moment, I edged in and just at the point when it became clear that I was in and no one was going to bash into my rear end.... the truck stalled.

It stalled! I was halfway merged and literally in between 3 freeway lanes, and the truck stopped going. It stalled. I was all like: "ohmygodohmygodohmygodOHMYGODnoooooooooooooooOOOOOOOO!" in an alarmingly screechy wail. This was pretty much the worst possible scenario, on so very many levels. No.

I was certifiably freaking out, but something else was also happening. Despite the incessant irritation of my whining, I knew what to do and I played through the scenario in my head. This would be bad for the traffic and I'd need help to get off the road, but I knew what I had to do.Radio off, hazards on, put it in neutral, eyes on the mirrors, try the ignition... pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease... it started.

Crisis averted. It was like a 10 second crisis, but it was a crisis fer sher. I waved my apologies, continued the merge, took a breath got my girl.

It really is nice to have a boy to help with some of the tasks I find unsavory, like calling the guy, but we all knew I could handle it, right?

Right?