When you’re a blogger, blog posts tend to take shape in your head. Or at least that’s the way most of my blog posts start out. For instance, there was the time that I was driving along in the Jeep with a friend and the transfer case fell off the Jeep and right onto the road. That blog post? Written in my head by the time my anxiety-ridden self returned home.
And then of course, there was the time that Stevie swallowed a penny.
The same thing happened the time I had to take Alex to my annual PAP smear appointment.
As you can see, the best blog posts generally write themselves in my head while they happen.
Most recently, I was driving home with the boys, my friend, Linda (Hi, Linda!) and Bentley. We had dropped Bentley off at the groomer and then hit Hobby Lobby and grabbed lunch before picking him up to head home. This particular day, I had opted to drive the “back road” instead of the interstate. I typically hate the “back road” because most recently, I’ve been getting a tad car sick thanks to the twists and curves of the road. This day though, *I* decided to take hang a left onto the “back road” as opposed to staying on the three lane busy interstate as I typically do.
I now know why.
The boys were in the back seat going on with some kind of nonsense as they typically do, Bentley was whining because he wanted in the front seat with his Momma and Linda and I were discussing the fact that we would be parenting TEENAGERS this year.
As if that’s not enough to bring a person down, it was during this conversation that I noticed something funny about the brakes on the truck.
Yes, I drive a truck.
You may recall that I drove a Minivan for many years, but then McDaddy went and decided to sell it because HELLO SATURN SKY!!! I drove the Jeep for several months after that, but then McDaddy went and raised the stupid thing another three or so inches making it tough for me to get all of this up in there, so I decided to start driving the truck, instead.
Anyway, back to the brakes. As Linda and I were driving, I thought the brakes were acting weird, and by weird, I mean I would press the brakes to the floor, and they would barely even slow the truck down. In the midst of conversation with Linda, I said something like, “My brakes are acting weird. I don’t think they are working.” A sentence like that several years ago would have caused me unknown levels of anxiety, but somewhere between the transfer case falling off (or is it out?) of the Jeep and the gas pedal getting stuck on the Minivan, I’ve learned a thing or twelve about scary situations involving the automobile.
Either that, or McDadddy is trying to kill me.
Thankfully, traffic on the “back road” was scarce that day and my Paxil had apparently kicked in, because I was – in my own words – handling the brake situation like a boss. I pulled off at a cemetery parking lot and pumped the brakes a couple of times. Then, I turned the truck off and then back on, because anytime there is a *situation* McDaddy always asks if I’ve done this, as if I’m supposed to somehow know that turning the vehicle off and then starting it back up will somehow fix the situation. In this particular case, it did nothing except turn the truck off and then back on. I asked Linda if she was okay with me driving the rest of the way home, because it was hot and the thought of waiting on someone to come rescue my friend, my boys, my dog and me was more than I could process at the moment. Linda said she was fine if I wanted to drive home, and so, we drove the final seven or eight “back road” miles very slowly and prayerfully, and with my emergency flashers on.
Thankfully, we made it home safely and got parked without crashing into anything.
After a little online research, McDaddy discovered that Chevy Silverados are known for rusting brake lines. And that, lots of people experience this same scenario where the brake-line just busts and decides not to work.
It’s a small miracle that I’m still alive.
Hopefully, McDaddy can get the new brake line on without issue when we return home. We have one more small trip planned before school starts back two weeks from now.
Honestly, where did summer go? I can’t bear the thought of answering to my stupid alarm (Crickets are my main method of torture these days) for the next 180 school days. Have I ever mentioned I am a crazy person in the morning? Well, if you ask McDaddy, he’d tell you I’m crazy all the time, but if there is ever a time that the crazy is at an all-time high, it is early morning – or as I like to call it, the worst hour or my day.
For instance, when I first get out of bed, I wander around in the dark for a solid five minutes before turning on any type of light or opening the curtains. If that means I plop down on a closed toilet, then so be it – I’d rather do that than have light shining in my eyes. And, honestly, don’t start with the glad tidings of great joy at that hour, either, because there is nothing glad or joyous about that hour of the day. And, by all means, do not, under any circumstances, call my house before 9 AM unless you are bleeding or dying or calling about someone who is bleeding or dying. In my honest opinion, ringing someone’s phone before 9 AM on any day, should be against the law.
Now, if only the blog post would have a clear ending…
Have a great Tuesday, y’all
