Yes, the rumors are true.

My truck, reliable, fabulous old Bronco II burst spontaneously into flames yesterday.

Well, not spontaneously. And not really flames.

But still, there we were at the red curb of my office building with the hood thrown up and the engine still running and the

fucking starter still engaging

and smoke pouring everywhere and my office field service manager and two guys from the building janitorial service trying frantically to disconnect the battery with found objects from their pockets.

And me, standing by with the fire extinguisher after having flung all the expensive hockey gear, goalie pads etc. out onto the perfectly manicured lawn.

Something of a nightmare, which the funniest things usually are.


The ultimate irony is that I'd just written a several-page paen to our friend and babysitter, on whom I'd hoped to foi-- I mean bestow this vehicle, waxing on about its finer points and how

fucking reliable

it was.


Goddamnit.

These things are funnier in flush times, where cars are easily replaced and repair bills easily paid and bosses aren't breathing down one's neck grudging every moment of lost work time.

Still, even now it's funny, with the goalie pads lying flung in the impatiens and me on my cell phone alternately crying and raving to my mechanic, whom I'm sure by now fervently wishes we'd never moved to Sunnyvale and he'd never, ever met me.


Thanks to Becca for the many rescues, and to Brian and Margo, who kindly offered to take me to the Mexican circus.

Or sell me to the Mexican circus.

Or something like that.
- posted by Kate @ 8:37 AM