Busted.

We went away for Thanksgiving and (I fell completely off the blogging bandwagon) and came back this afternoon and I headed out to Target for some provisions, like you do. Then:

A stray chunk of concrete was sitting in my path as I pulled through an intersection I've crossed a thousand times. And I've always wondered: are they a problem, those rogue chunks? And I've always wondered: where do they come from? And I still don't know the answer to the latter, but the former is a yes. They are the original purveyors of road rage and they rise up and take bites. And you thought road rage was a human trait. The road, it rages. At us.

We've spent much of the past two months juggling cars as my geriatric station wagon has been complaining of its aching bones, most recently by declaring seatbelt mutiny. The back seat's middle belt walked off the job and wouldn't engage, meaning I couldn't put three kids in the car. Getting it fixed was a dedicate-a-day proposition, as it involved pulling out the back seat bench. It was a calendaring feat that we avoided for as long as possible, mostly by trading cars whenever one of us needed to be able to drive all three kids. My old lady wagon spent a lot of time in airport parking lots lately, as the lovely husband took to driving her on his way out of town, and I spent a lot of time helming his minivan. I have no love of his minivan, but as winter comes I do not argue its tushie warmers.

The only way to catch our flight on Tuesday without stranding a car anywhere involved me driving the lovely husband's minivan to work crazy early while he drove my wagon to drive kids to school and to the garage where finally she got her seat belts back in working order. She got home just for us to abandon her to six days in Boston without her, and now we're back, And in my first three miles behind her wheel again, she did let me know just how she feels.

But the joke's on her because for that little stunt and an undriveable wheel, she got herself towed straight back to the garage. And we're sharing a minivan again tomorrow, and I shall glory in its tushie warmers and remind myself that like with petulant toddlers, we should not take too personally the tantrums of the old and infirmed. Cranky car.

And what does one do while waiting for a tow truck? Try to catch up on blogging, of course. Did you miss me?