Last week I left Quincy's lights on for a few hours. Opps! After a few failed attempts to jump start it I realized that my poor car would need more work *gulp* and since it was a weekend (one with a funeral no less) and because I was already borrowing a car from Grandpa Bird, I decided to leave any towing/fixing of the car until this week.
Just the thought of getting my car moved and having to talk to a mechanic gave me stomach pain, and so I decided to pretend there was no problem, until last night (5 nights after the car died), when my mother told me I had to be grown-up and take care of my car.
So, with my wonderful dad (couldn't even consider doing it alone) I drove out to my Grandpa Merket's and tried (without success) to jump the car again. When that failed (surprise, surprise) I called my road side assistance people (yes, I have people) and talked to some underpaid guy in Minnesota for a few minutes. He told me that they could only tow it once every 72 hours and that since my hoped for mechanic (someone my grandpa has trusted for 17 years) was already closed I should just call again tomorrow. So today my dad is biting the bullet for me and taking care of the towing.
On the drive home I was thinking about how much it might cost to fix poor Quincy and how long, when I realized that my insides where doing very disturbing jumps. That is when I realized that I am allergic to car repairs. I think that I am pretty good at being an adult. I pay bills on time and with no discomfort I take care of repairs at our apartment, I clean up after myself (usually) and I take care of my work and church responsibilities with out a second thought. But dealing with car trouble makes me ill.
Why? What is wrong with me that I would rather pretend that I don't have a car then call a tow truck. *sigh* I've decided there is something I want to add to the list of hoped for traits of my future husband - he must be good at taking care of our cars.
So I want this...
or this
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