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

Undead P.S.

While I'm here (here being "online, playing with the blog", not "on the planet" or "still alive" or anything like that) I ought to go ahead and post the zombie painting I did of my dad (if you're confused, I'm talking about THIS).

It turned out fairly badass. I dangled my actual, from-my-mouth-to-your-art adult tooth from some black yarn that I painted red, and then pulled the yarn through the canvas and tied a knot in the back.

So here it is, with my dad, in all its glory.

 

Okay, now I seriously have to go get ready for my evening of debauchery. 

"Ugh, god. They're so dramatic. They make me want to just... SET MYSELF ON FIRE."

Lucille Bluth, of Arrested Development, ALWAYS has the right thing to say. If you haven't watched Arrested Development, you're missing out. Seriously. It's like snarky, clever Pee-Wee Herman for adults. Although, that probably only makes sense to me, so ignore that unless it makes you want to go out and buy all three seasons. Of Arrested Development. Not Pee-Wee's Playhouse. Even though that wouldn't be a bad addition to your DVD collection, either. ANYWAY, I'm distracting myself from my current ANGER and HATRED, which is why I was talking about snark and insults in the first place. The only person that I feel possesses the ability to top Lucille Bluth (and shut the hell up, I don't know her real name and I am too lazy irritated at the moment to bother looking it up) when it comes to awesome things to say when you're pissed off or irked or disappointed to the point of anger or just generally rubbed the wrong way by someone would be my youngest brother, Bug. Bug (which is what the Step-Monster and Dad called him when he was in the womb, and my sister Mar was only four and trying desperately to understand how they fit an entire person in there) just turned 7 years old this month. He's blonde, and adorable, and a total ham for attention. He must have inherited his love for attention from my darling step-monster, who is an actress (she even has a theatre degree from UCLA, and enjoys bragging about how her major got her out of any math requirements.... Damn brazen hussy. Not that I'm jealous or anything okay, I'm totally jealous).  According to my step-mum, Bug and my sister were bickering at dinner the other night. Now, Mar just turned 11 (holy shit, right? It's insane! She's an entire person! When she was born, I was being a moody teenager but now it's her turn and she has opinions and thoughts and justifications for why her clearly incorrect-due-to-her-age opinions and thoughts are, supposedly, correct! What a strange thing to witness from the opposite side). She's a bit quiet around large groups, and got more of Daddy's "I'm just hanging out, I'm not into the whole 'social' thing. This isn't my forte," while still being the life of any gathering, because that's what genuine people that are just themselves have a tendency to do, while still being slightly uncomfortable (and that much more endearing) about it. With 4 years between them, Mar and Bug are no strangers to arguing with one another. Whether they're discussing the logistics of the latest 893,203-Lego sculpture-mansion-spaceship, or just talking to make noise and finding that arguing opposite points halfheartedly is the easiest way to go about that, they have certainly had more practice bickering with one another than I ever had with any of my siblings. Granted, I'm the eldest, meaning there was no argument (at least, as far as my adolescent brain was concerned), but still. You get what I'm saying. A lot of practice. Tons. EONS of practice. Despite being aware of this, and having lived with the kids for years before being deemed "not a kid" enough to move out, I am still ALWAYS surprised when Bug comes up with some of the shit he comes up with. For example, he once said to me, "Lindsey, Lindsey, guess what I can say?!?!?" I was confused, but decided to humor him because he's such an odd little kid you just never know what you may have missed were you to turn your solemn, adult back on him. Me: Um, okay. What can you say? Bug: ELLLLllllllll!!!!!!! Me: Um, what? "L"? Huh. That's, a letter of the alphabet.... Nice.  Bug: No! Mom said I couldn't say "HELL". But I can say it if I say it like Ron Weasley. (He looks at me for a good four seconds, and then busts out with it yet again.) ELLLLllllll! I think it only took a week or two of Bug going around the house, yelling the guttural, drawn-out, Ron Weasley version of "ELLLlllllll!" for Mom to go ahead and just let him say "hell," while undoubtedly rolling her eyes and half-laughing to herself about her odd children. According to Mum, the other night she, Daddy, Mar and Bug were sitting around the dining room table, having dinner. Mar and Bug were arguing about something, apparently. Finally, it was just too much for the agitated Bug, and he looked at Mar and said, with utmost seriousness and a full-ish mouth, "Mar, I wish this tomato I just ate was you." Apparently both Bug and Mar were scowl-y and angry and irritable, but in the two or three seconds that Bug's statement hung in the air, everything dissipated. And then Mum started laughing, complete with the, "Ppppfffftttt!" at the beginning (and when The Step-Monster thinks something is really, insanely amusing, everyone within 100 feet is made aware of it, because of her laugh... it's like her laugh thinks it's a stage-whisper, but it's already at normal volume, and she clearly has no control over it which is also funny as hell in its own right) and the entire table finally slowed their hysterics to an occasional giggle, and then resumed eating dinner. Not a single person choked to death that night (that's not to say you ought to choke to death right now, in order to give Bug's story merit or anything. Unless you're one of the few that have pissed me the fuck off in the past couple of days. In which case, if you feel so inclined to give a 7-year-old-boy some props, don't let me stop your windpipe.... I'm just saying). *But* my heart choked to death, with mushy, gay, lame as hell pride at my weird brother, and odd sister, and amazingly badass parents that were able to instill such bizarre, occasionally misplaced, but never dull creativity.  ..... And judging by that last sentence, I need to go make another drink, because the one I had was chugged a paragraph ago knocked over by my favorite scapegoat, Lucy's tail. Not to be confused with performance art. Well, unless that was Lucy's intention. Good fucking dog. On that note, good night. Sleep well, unless you're unfortunate enough to be one of Bug's tomatoes.