Well, the debate about what I should ask for for my birthday ended at approximately 7:30 Tuesday night when my van broke down in the nastiest storm I’d seen in years. (I really liked your suggestion, Kate, I guess I'll just have to wait for next year. Maybe I can take an exotic vacation to VT sometime soon!)

I hadn’t decided right then and there that the van had crapped the bed for the last time. I decided just then to be patient.

I was fortunate in that I was close to home. After calling my dad to come help me out, I called a certain roadside assistance service to come and tow away the Crap-mobile. I was informed by the service person that I would receive an automated response telling me how long I’d have to wait before the tow truck showed up.

In the time it took my dad to show up, look at the engine, check a few belts, and then sit with me while I warmed up in the Honda, the “automatic response,” had not come.

He took me back home where I changed into warm clothes (I had just come from the gym. I guess that’ll teach me to work out when I don’t feel like it), and called the roadside service again. They told me that they had placed a call to the tow truck service and everything was all set. They were surprised that I hadn’t received the “automatic response.” I was too, I told them I expected the machine to call me automatically, thus the fucking name. They also told me that I had to wait with the van, which seemed obvious, but I asked anyway because it was a shitty night to go back out.

I bundled up, grabbed a magazine to read, and stepped back out into the freezing winds and quickly accumulating snow, which was piling up on top of thick ice, which had piled up on top of more snow. Visibility was next to nothing when the wind picked up and blew snow and ice into the air. The roads were becoming more treacherous and the plows were hours and hours away from clearing our streets. Personally, I didn’t mind driving in it, I consider myself a safe and experienced driver, and making my way through thickly piled snow makes me feel like I’m using my mad New England skills.

It took no time at all to return to the van. I parked the Honda on the side of the road, flipped on the meager interior light, and thumbed through the latest copy of Wizard (woo hoo! Geek!).

Back when I called to inquire about the “automatic forget-to-call-me system,” I was informed that would have to wait between 30 and 90 minutes for the tow truck. I shuddered at the thought of being stuck in the dead van all that time. I was lucky to have been so close to home… if you can call it luck.

In situations like this I really try to look on the bright side. I said to myself, “Well, I’m not dead.” Of course, when I said it, I thought I heard a voice outside, coming from the direction of the van, say, “Damn!”

Time came and went. I alternated between my magazine, the radio, and just sitting in silence. The ghostly glow of headlights occasionally passed by on the nearby main road. Once in a while one would turn onto the street on which I waited. I would get all excited and prepare to help the truck driver pickup my van, only to discover it was some moron fishtailing down the road in an SUV.

The time came again to call the roadside assistance service and let them know that their original time estimate was bullshit. I answered all the automated questions for the third time and finally spoke to a representative, who promptly put me on hold. While I was listening to a rousing muzak rendition of a Hootie and the Blowfish song, my connection was interrupted. I called again, answered all the questions again, and was transferred to the person I had been talking to, who put me on hold again. Bastard. He picked up before I could be cut off and told me that I was next on the list, and a truck would be there in the next 15 to 20 minutes.

15 to 20 minutes came and went. My phone rang. It was the automated service. I half expected it to tell me the tow truck would be there in 30 to 90 minutes; instead it told me that “Our records show that your vehicle has been towed. We would now like you to take our customer satisfaction survey.”

I looked out the window, and although it was a little difficult to see in the swirling snow, the van was, in fact, still dead on the side of the road in front of me.

I decided to hang up and call a real person, because the machine would never understand how I felt, no matter what creative, and sometimes foreign, words I yelled at it.

I called roadside assistance again. I answered the questions before they were finished asking, as I had memorized the sequence of numbers I had to press. I was transferred to Pam. Pam put me on hold while she checked on my claim. While I was on hold, the tow truck showed up.

Things were kind of a blur after that. The van was taken to the shop and I got the call the next morning telling me they would check it out. Later in the day I was told that a belt was broken, the coolant was leaking, and the converter was infested by magic gnomes from the land of Narnia; or something to that effect. All told, it was a $280 bill. I wasn’t devastated. Ever since I brought the van in to have the hood latch fixed and ended up with a $900 brake job, (see the earlier post about that) I don’t consider $280 to be all that bad.

My mom dropped me off at the service station and waited until I checked in and asked them if everything was fixed. They said yes and I gave mom the thumbs up, so she sped off to her meeting. I paid my ugly, but not mortifying, bill and got my keys.

I’ve already discussed the feelings I have about my van when I pick it up from the shop, so I won’t go into that again. What I will tell you, is that when I sat down, buckled up, and turned the key; the god damned thing wouldn’t start.

I went back into the shop with a smile on my face; well, more of a grimace of pain. They took the van back in and looked at it, not able to figure out what was wrong. The mechanic came out and told me that for some reason, the van would start on the third try, every time. I was given the option to leave it there another night, or try and drive it home. As my mom was at a meeting, and my dad was seeing tax clients, I had no choice but to drive it home.

I got in, turned the key, nothing. I turned the key again, nothing. I turned the key again, vroom! It started on the third try. Where the hell is the logic in that?! It’s a mini van, not a fucking lawnmower! How is it doing this?!

Long story short, I made it about a mile from the service station, and the van stalled twice. I made a u-turn and went back to the shop. I handed them the key and said, “Screw it, you keep it.”

I just want to give a special thanks to Chris for picking me up that night.

Anyway, I got the call yesterday that they did ANOTHER diagnostic and found pixie dust in my fuel system, or some such shit. The bill this time was $380.

That’s when it hit me. I was going to get a new car NOW. I had no money for a down payment, I had virtually nothing to trade in, I just started a temp job after being unemployed for two months, but I was getting a new car. On a modest payment plan, $380 was two months worth of new car. That van won’t get one more god damned dollar from me.

My parents have offered to skip the video games and movies on my list in lieu of a little financial support. I accepted, though I was looking forward to a weekend of Looney Tunes.

I guess I’m excited about getting a new car, but I’m not in the greatest position financially for it. I’d rather not be spending the money right now. However, I haven’t been in the greatest financial position for two years, otherwise I’d have a new car already. Maybe this was the last kick in the butt I finally needed to take the plunge.

Yes! This was a sign from the higher powers. They either wanted me to finally get a new car, or they’re trying to kill me. The more I think about it, the more I’m certain they want me dead, but damnit, if I’m going to die, I’m going to die in a sedan!