Marry me, roadside assistance!

My day of "recovery" was just what I needed. I took lengthy naps and watched bad, albeit entertaining, tv. By four o'clock, I was worried that I'd have a nervous breakdown if I didn't get some new scrapbooking supplies, so I ventured out to Michaels.

Scrapbooking paper was all HALF OFF. This type of thing excites me. Very much.

I walked out of Michaels on a veritable scrapbooking high. I could barely contain my excitement....that is, until I realized my rear driver's side tire was as flat as a pancake.

Here's the deal. I typically panic about any car-related trouble. I clearly remember my first flat tire. I came upon it after a long night of folding cheap towels at Sears. Tears immediately started welling up in my eyes and my voice was shaking when I called my dad, who was ninety miles away and obviously unable to physically assist me in any way. Dad's advice? "Find a man to help you, Angie. In this situation, you should always be able to find a man to help you."

Dad was right, as usual. I found two men to help me. They argued about who could do the job better or faster. I didn't care. They got 'er done and I couldn't find words strong enough to express my appreciation. I considered offering them sexual favors but I settled on thanking them profusely...over and over again.

I went home that weekend and Dad gave me a lesson in changing a tire. The problem is, I'm the kind of girl that doesn't remember a new trick unless she puts it into practice. That was four years ago and I haven't had a flat since.

Thankfully, tonight it didn't matter that I haven't honed my tire-changing skills in...well, ever. God bless roadside assistance. I calmly dialed the number posted conveniently on my back seat windows and had those friendly Pontiac types dispatch someone to do the job for me. Despite having to wait in the KMart parking lot (I feared for my life) for almost an hour, the situation was relatively painless.

While I was sitting in the car waiting for East Side Auto to rescue me, I had two men stop by and offer to change the tire for me. Little things like that make me happy. It's comforting to know there are good people out there who will go out of their way to help someone in need, especially someone who's just sitting in her car, not requesting help. I'm not one of those kind people. Having said that, I also have no skills worth sharing with stranded strangers.

The tire-changing man, who wouldn't talk to me until I forced him to, diagnosed my problem. A sharp salt rock. That's what I get for taking the back roads that the old man insists are thirty-five times faster than coming up Central Entrance. From now on, I'll wait at those lights and, damn it, I'll like it.

Looks like I'll have to factor some emergency tire fixage into my weekend of relaxation. I never thought I'd be so happy that Firestone is conveniently located in the mall parking lot. What better excuse to shop?