This past weekend, I suffered a minor accident. My new van is not as snow friendly as one would hope. While driving VERY (seriously) slowly, I began to break as I approached a Stop. My wheels slid me directly into the back black iron bar across the bumper of a large semi. Almost immediately, the semi pulled out onto the road, totally oblivious to the accident.
The plastic-ish front of my van, easily shredded a perfect indention of the bar. No need to worry. We were not shaken in the least. I'm happy to report, no child repeated the swear word I muttered.
Though, I'm sure Coco has filed that nugget away for later use. Probably during Mass.
I was busy with blizzard like festivities, extra kids home from school... and it took a couple days to call in my claim. Now... the accident, the swear word, the damage to the van?? The worst part? Nope.
The worst, stomach dropping part of this story, took place during the 22 minute claim phone call.
A very cheery, young sounding (probably pretty) girl answered my call. I patiently allowed her to do her bit (as I unfortunately suffer PTSD from two years lost in the cave of an insurance claim center.) She asked her typical questions, I appeared like a moron.
Her: Name of street the accident occurred?
Me: Ummmm, I don't know. The street by Fox?? Unless a Christmas Card friendly relative lives on a particular street, I have not actually learned road names and opt for descriptions like: You know, 1 block down from The Dairy Queen... or 2 houses down from where so-an-so's grandma lived...
Still NOT the worst part...
When describing the road conditions, I realized this young girl must have spent her life living in Arizona.
Her: Ohhh.. there was a big snow storm?? 6-8 inches?? Wow! Your van just slid right into a semi?? Wow, again!!
Me: Yep. It snowed across like 9 states. Yep, snow is crazy. Yep, tires slide on snow. I know, it sounds nuts.
16 minutes into phone call, not the worst part.
No, the worst part occurred shortly after.
Her: Ok... can I get your drivers license number. Ok.. date issued... ok... and can I get your birth date?
Me: One. Nineteen. Seventy-Seven
Her: Ohh!! You're gonna have a birthday this week!!
Her: Ohhh!! Wow! And it's a BIG one!
Me (take a cleansing breath moment, pretending not to envision my dry-scaly- winter living in the crazy-snow-land old lady arm into the phone to yank out her young, probably wearing a tank-top cheerful throat.):Yep. Sure is.
For a rude young lady, she sure can calculate numbers and dates quickly.
Anyway... Long story short,
only 4 more days until Coach repeats his famous guest blogger performance. The very mention of my birthday may cause young girls to shudder over the phone but Tru Stories followers world-wide... have patiently waited all year for Thursday.
Silver Bleepin Lining.