The Beatles sound nothing like a flat tire.

I suddenly realized that I promised to share the story of my first flat tire here. So here you go.

I was maybe 18 years old. My first car was a 1995 Honda Accord. It was champagne colored (which is a fancy way of saying "old lady gold" colored), and it was a manual. It took me far too long to learn how to drive the bastard, so once I figured the transmission out I was constantly driving somewhere.

It was a lovely day in Atlanta. There was a cool breeze, and my senior year of high school was coming to a close. I was driving down Briarcliff Rd, headed away from school and toward home, more than likely. I had a Beatles song ("I Want You" from Abbey Rd) playing louder than my now 25 year old self would be able to enjoy. I love that song because of the bass line, and as I was listening to the bass kick in I heard an unfamiliar, "WHUB WHUB WHUB."

I listened for a minute, and then begrudgingly turned the song down. The "WHUB WHUB WHUB" continued.

I turned off onto a side street, pulled the E brake, and got out to investigate. The rear passenger tire was so flat ("How flat was it?") that it could be confused for Calista Flockhart's chest. Or pancakes. Or Otto after K-k-k-Ken c-c-c-came to k-k-k-kill him.

Being the little go-getter that I am, I decided to change the bastard myself. I had a spare tire in the trunk, and all the tools I would need to handle the job (despite the lack of a smartphone to coach me with its incredibly useful internet access).

As I pulled all the crap I would need out of the trunk, I suddenly figured out why a spring/summer day in Atlanta had such a lovely breeze. It was bringing rain. Or, rather, it brought the rain, which chose to pour down upon me at that very moment.

I looked up, scowled at the asshole clouds and their shit timing, and continued to search the trunk for the jack. I found it, went around to the side of the car, and started to try to change my tire.

I positioned the jack, figured out how to lift the tail end of the car with the hooked, hangar-esque rod I had, and raised that flat tire off the ground. Then I went to actually remove it, and realized that the lug nuts had last been put on the car by the Hulk. It was physically impossible to get them off.

Believe me. I sat crouched there for what seemed like hours, in the flash-thunderstorm, trying to convince myself that I just needed to twist a little harder. I was so determined to prove that I could handle a simple flat tire, and prove that I was an "adult" at 18, and prove that I wasn't afraid of a little rain, that I would've succeeded were it not for those high powered drills that shops use to put the lug nuts back on wheels.

I eventually gave up, frustrated, and managed to half-trip over the curb. Which then caused me to step in the most poorly-placed anthill in the history of ants. In flip flops, no less. And (still) in the rain.

I escaped the anthill with only a few bites on my foot. I got back into the car (gently, so as to not disturb the jack that I had entirely forgotten about/given up on), and searched for my old, flimsy flip phone.

I called my dad's office (he refused to have a cell phone, so it was the only way to reach him), and got his voicemail. So I called home, and got the answering machine (I assume Bec was out picking up Mara from school). I then sat in my car, in the rain, scratching the new ant bites on my foot, and I cried tears of frustration that rivaled those of a 3 year old coming down from a sugar buzz.

After a few minutes, I forced myself to put an end to the itchy, soaking wet pity party I was in the midst of throwing. I grabbed my shitty Samsung and called my grandparents.

Grandpa and Gram lived outside of Atlanta by anywhere from 30-45 minutes (depending upon the time of day.... You know, Atlanta traffic and all that). But they had always shown me that I could call on them no matter what. When my mother would promise to show up and then just find something better to do... when I was confused and emotional and needed to spend a night or two away from Daddy and Bec... when I needed to learn how to drive and Gramps would pick me up at 8am on Saturdays, trusting me to drive his truck around the city... when all I wanted was to build a couch fort and have chocolate malts and watch movies all night with Gram and Ida... they were always in my life, picking up any pieces that I dropped and making me feel loved despite that.

Gramps answered the phone on the third ring.

"Middletons," he said (which is still his greeting when answering the phone).

I sniffled, and tried not to be too upset so as not to worry him. "Gr-Gramps? I have a flat tire, and I tried to change it but can't get the lug nuts off, and it's raining, and ants attacked me and no one will answer their phones and I don't know what to do and-and-and...."

I lost it and just started sobbing.

I could hear Gramps on the other end of the line, trying really, really hard not to laugh at my emotional response to this hysterically ridiculous horrific chain of events.

"Okay, okay, tell me where you are."

I did.

"I'll be there in 35 minutes. Just stay there, stay out of the rain, and try not to step in anymore ant hills."

So I sat in my car, calmed myself down, and finished the Beatles song (well, finished the album) I was listening to back before I could even imagine a scenario such as the one I was living.

Finally, Gramps pulled up in his sparkly, green truck. As he got there, the clouds parted and the rain stopped. For a brief second I felt like Daffy Duck in those old cartoons, except for the fact that Daffy's grandfather never showed up to give that raincloud a talking to. Then Gramps got out of the truck, put the donut on my car, and followed me down the street to Sears.

Maybe it was because I was a broke, soaking wet, ant-bitten high school student... or maybe it was because he just loves me to death... or maybe it was even due to the fact that I managed to provide such unexpected entertainment... but Gramps pulled out his wallet and bought me a set of new tires (which was a HUGE deal, because he is very, VERY... careful with his money). He waited with me, to make sure they were on the car and safe and ready to go, and then he went home. And so did I.

I've since had to change a flat tire here or there, and managed it okay on my own. But despite the rain, and the poor timing, and the douchebag ants that had to bite a girl when she was down, I'm glad I couldn't get those stubborn, asshole lug nuts off that day. I love my grandfather, and damn it, he loves me too.

And that was the story of my first flat tire. Sorry it ended so mushily, but it always makes me feel loved, and that reminds me to be grateful. Sleep well, darlings. Or don't. You know, whatever.

<3
-L

Thank god I haven't been murdered by a stalker in an orange Pontiac Vibe.

Yeah, yeah, it's been forever since I've written anything, god how could I be so negligent, I feel so guilt-ridden, blah blah blah....


Moving on.


I have an interesting, disconcerting, weird story to share. A few nights ago, I loaded my art crap and my 120 lbs dog into my car and proceeded to drive 30+ miles in order to visit with some friends of mine. About 2 miles from my house, I came to a red light. In front of me was, you guessed it, a cat-shit orange Pontiac Vibe. When the light turned green, the guy in the car just kept fucking with his GPS phone dick whatever, so I flashed my brights at him, as if to say, "Hey, distracted guy, I sometimes get distracted too, which is why I'm not honking my horn. But, you know, the light is green now and I'd like to spend as little time as possible with my Great Dane in the back seat, panting on my right ear, if you don't mind." 


The guy blinked his hazard lights at me, waved nicely (a.k.a. waved instead of shooting the bird) and moved on toward the interstate onramp. 


It took about four miles of highway for me to notice that this same guy had managed to get directly behind me in his gross, orange hatchback. I noticed because he flashed his lights at me. Again. I thought to myself, "Self, this is a bit odd. But, you know, he could have accidentally hit the brights. I've done that before," and went on listening to Dave Ramsey tell me how to fix my finances on the shitty talk radio station we have here in Atlanta (I love Dave Ramsey [despite his religious nonsense] and Clark Howard, but the other programs this station airs just make me feel argumentative and ornery). 


A few more miles pass, and then I hear a horn on my immediate right. I look over, and it's the same motherfucker, with an ear-to-ear grin, waving at me enthusiastically. I give him my best "I don't really give a shit about whatever it is that you're doing, and thought you should know that you look like a jackass" face, and continue driving. 


He then pulls behind me, flashes his lights, and then turns on his right turn signal (while still flashing the lights) without changing lanes. I keep driving. My thought process was something like, "I have another 20ish miles to go, as well as a 120 lbs Great Dane leaning her giant, toothy face out of the back passenger window. There's no way anyone would go that far out of their way just to harass someone, ESPECIALLY someone who has their giant dog with them."


Boy, was I wrong. 


The light flashing continues. The Pontiac Dipshit keeps pacing me on one side or another, and waving his hand like an over-enthusiastic kid waving at Mickey Mouse, before falling back behind me. I try speeding up, and then cutting cars off in order to get him off my tail, but he almost runs two cars off the road in order to maintain his position. 


I became increasingly aware of this maniac's presence, and of my inability to shake him. I mean, Christ, I'm not a fucking stunt driver. I maintain two to three car lengths between me and the random bastards in front of me. I never go over 80 mph, because that's when the You're Extra-Speeding fines and whatnot kick in here in Georgia. I check my blind spot twice before changing lanes. 


My safe driving skills are going berserk, but I am determined to get this bastard to back the fuck off. 


I finally make it to my exit (after changing highways, varying my speed between 45 mph and 79 mph, and attempting to get off at the wrong exit before swerving back onto the interstate). The son of a bitch pulls up next to me at the offramp red-light, and rolls down his window. My windows are already down, because otherwise the entire car ends up reeking of dog breath because Lucy is accompanying me. 


"You drive pretty fast," he says with an odd, maniacal grin. 


"I do. Because I'm not interested. Back the fuck off," I respond (probably not the most clever retort, had he been armed or something, but I was livid that someone had made me feel so helpless and I figured that were he going to shoot at me, he would've done it already), before rolling up all the windows on the passenger side of the car (much to Lucy's dismay).


I turn onto the main street, and the dickwad follows like a lost, mentally handicapped Rottweiler. I then take a somewhat unnecessary turn, and he follows again, flashing his lights and trying to signal me to pull over. I make another turn, onto the street that will lead me to the neighborhood. When he follows that turn, I start freaking out.


I call the friends I was going to meet. No response. I know for a fact that there are 2-5 people there, 2 being the worst case scenario. I have to decide what the fuck I am going to do about this potentially homicidal, maybe-rapist lunatic.


I make up my mind to do one of two things. I decide to try to lose him in the somewhat confusing neighborhood. If that doesn't happen, I'll bypass the house and use my handy-dandy iPhone to find the closest police station. 


I take a left into the neighborhood and immediately floor it. It was fairly late at night, and I'm familiar with the area, but there are a lot of twists and turns and blind curves. I try not to go above 50 mph, and I make my turns and end up at the house I was headed to. I turn out my lights, roll up the windows, and wait. I force myself to count to five, and then grab my shit, open my door and the back driver's side door (because Lucy still doesn't have thumbs), and yell at Lucy to get inside. She runs up to the front door of the house with me, and we burst through it, me slamming it behind us. I quickly inform everyone of what happened, and tell them that I'm worried that the psychotic son of a bitch may be roaming the neighborhood, looking for my car. They grab a sledgehammer and a baseball bat (which are conveniently stashed by the front door, along with a crowbar and a 9-iron), and stand with me on the front porch for a few minutes, waiting and listening for the sound of a poorly-constructed Chevy engine carrying a discontinued Pontiac chassis. 


Eventually it was decided that everything was okay, and we all went back inside. I would be lying if I told you that every engine I heard for the next few hours didn't have me staring out of the front window, holding my breath (when you're worried and paranoid, all engines sound alike). 


Never in my adult life have I felt so threatened. I have no idea if this person intended to hurt me because I flashed my lights at him at the red light, or if he was just looking for an excuse to murder/rape/stab someone, or if he was just interested in getting my number and completely socially inept, or what. One thing that I do know, however, is that I will never again leave my house without my asp.


Let that be a warning to you, loves. People that willingly buy orange Pontiac hatchbacks are morons, and ought to be avoided (unless you have one, and love it, in which case DON'T EVER FOLLOW ME FOR 30+ MILES LATE AT NIGHT AGAIN, OR I WILL FUCKING DESTROY YOU). 


<3

STICK your pun up your ass

I spent today being a total puss nostalgic. Somehow, I ended up telling someone about Spidey (oh, my sweet, adorable piece of shit car). Spidey died last year, actually. Talk of Spidey brought up the fact that he had the only super lame transmission automatic transmission I've ever owned, which steered the conversation toward how I learned how to drive a stick to begin with.

My first car was a 1995 Honda Accord. It had a manual transmission, which is great if you know how to drive it. Or, you know, drive at all. The most traumatic learning-to-drive-a-stick story I can recall happened when I was forced to take Honda to rehearsal because my dad went somewhere retarded with his car. My first journey (for which I was not prepared. Like, at all) went like this:

Me: Okay, Honda. Now, we're going to leave the neighborhood. Are you okay with that? Please don't die please don't die please don't die..... K?

Honda: *grumble*

Me: Hey, Honda? How's it going? Look at you, in second gear. Way to go. Now we're going to try third. Are you ready for third gear? Yeah? Okay, here we go.

Honda: KKRRRAAAAAA (that's how you spell what you hear when metal and metal are grinding)

Me: OH, HOLY FUCK. SHIT I'M GOING TO DIE. I'MGOINGTODIE. Oh. Clutch needs to be in. Sorry, Honda. Okay, ready this time? No, really, I'm sorry. Okay, clutch in.... shift to third... clutch out...

Honda: *bucking like a bull with its nuts in a noose*

Me: No. No, no, no, no, come ON you piece of SHIT.

Honda (clearly insulted): *stalls*

Me (with angsty, emotional, teenage tears falling from my eyes): FUCK. I am NEVER GOING TO LEARN THIS. Where the HELL DID DAD TAKE THE OTHER CAR?! GOD DAMN IT! SHIT!

Everyone else in the entire world: *HONK* "LEARN TO DRIVE!"
"Hey, KID! Get OUT OF THE ROAD."
"This ISN'T a parking lot!"
"What the HELL ARE YOU DOING?"

I could hear my dad's voice in my head, saying, "User error, Linds," over and over again, like he does anytime something that clearly isn't broken chooses not to work. So I took a deep breath, started the fucking bastard piece of shit engine, and put the car in first gear while trying to stab people with my almost tangible anger. I think the only reason I couldn't was because the tears water I got in my eyes (it was raining) deflected the sight-daggers/ machetes/ a-bombs.

This drive (that was supposed to be 5 miles or so from start to finish) took me 30 minutes. When I FINALLY arrived I turned into the first driveway I saw that was part of the rehearsal halls property. Having never been there before, I was unaware that this particular "driveway" was actually just a bunch of dirt with miscellaneous clumps of grass clinging to it. And it was still raining, so the dirt was actually some weird, cake-batter-thick mud. Seriously. It was wicked (and not the British "oh, that's so neat but I'm British and have to be all posh so I'll call it wicked," wicked). I'm talking the kind of mud your neighbor's miniature poodle gets into one day, and then the poor bastard is stuck being a hard brown lump for at least a week, even though your neighbor is a prim and obsessive-compulsive gay man, and the dog has a dog show in three days and the neighbor's lover is getting back into town in a week so everything has to be spotless and perfect and the dog is immune to bleach and is washed 24/7, because that shit is so sticky and oozy and gross that bleach is all, "Uh, I'm gonna pass on that one, man," and the neighbor is like, "But I spent a fortune to get a bleach-immune poodle specifically for this reason. Oh, fuck it all." And then he loses his mind because of his OCD and his muddy poodle. Yeah. That mud.

So I end up in the mud, entirely unable to get the car to move because I give it too much gas in first gear, sobbing my angry, hate-filled eyes out, and 30 minutes late for rehearsal. Getting out of the car was just as much trouble as trying to get the asshole to move, and by the time I had escaped my 4-door hell and made it to the front porch I was covered in mucky mud mixed with good ole' Georgia red clay and sweat, I had red, puffy eyes from crying allergies, my hair was tangled and soaking wet and attempting, unsuccessfully, to be windswept, and I was panting like a chow chow during a summer in Buenos Aires.

As I threw open the door to the building, thunder clapped and lightning flashed behind me (it was probably the most epic entrance I've ever made, and it was unfortunate that I was so pissed upset exhausted frustrated dirty distracted that I didn't notice it), and every single person in the entire cast gasped and looked at me as though I were the lovechild of the witch from Left4Dead and their worst nightmare, personified. Their horrified, shocked expressions registered to teenage Lindsey as looks of disgust and embarrassment, and I broke down.

Me: *sobbing* D-d-does anyone... *sob* know.. uh, know how *sob* to drive a- a- *sob* sstttiiickkk shiiifffftttttt *crying and wailing*

Everyone in the room: "Oh my god, are you okay?"
"What happened?"
"Jesus Christ, I thought you were here to murder us!"
"Will someone get her a towel? And a box of tissues?"
"Where the hell did you park?"
"You don't know how to drive a stick shift??"

After I calmed down and dried off (but before the PTSD that was caused by the whole experience kicked in) a friend of mine went out to move my car. She walked through the mud, though it seemed to have no interest in clinging to her clothes or shoes. She started the car on the first try. She had absolutely no problem getting Honda to leave the mud-field-driveway-thing, and that was that.

So, you know, when I offer my friends the opportunity to learn how to drive a stick, they may be wise to decline. I honestly doubt that anything would have taught me as well as the trauma of that afternoon. Fucking bastard Honda. I don't think I could possibly inflict that much trauma on another human being, though. I mean, come on. I'm not that driven by the misery of others.