Our Lady of Perpetual Hell

It occurs to me as I sit down to write about this that it’s been a long time since I wrote complained about the commute I deal with every working day. It’s not as if I haven’t had anything to whine about… I mean, on my last two visits to the dentist I have been asked if I knowingly grind my teeth. “Only when I’m driving to and from work,” was my answer. I could bitch and moan almost every day about parades of drivers who are too timid to pass a slow-moving farm vehicle or drivers who don’t put their lights on when they should (just because you can see me coming doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have your lights on at dawn/dusk or on a gray winter day–you can see me because I have my fucking lights on!!) or cars with super-bright lights that blind me in my low-slung Tib (there’s no pleasing me, is there? if you do have your lights on, they’re probably too bright for me and if you don’t have your lights on, I can’t see you in the murk–and I will give you the finger for both!), and youknowthereisnoendtowhatIcouldfindtocomplainaboutotherdrivers. Me being perfect, and all. *cough*

But here I sit today–a little shaken, and stirred enough by the remnants of the adrenaline rush to write a little bit about my drive to work this morning. Or, rather, my attempt to drive to work this morning. Because, in the snowstorm that hit Southwestern Ontario this morning, I failed to get more than about a dozen miles outta town–at a cautious pace well below the speed limit, I assure you–before I went into a skid through the ice and snow on Hwy 40 and slid right the hell offa the road just as quick and neat as you please. Clipped a highway marker pole on the way out and left it bent over like an osteoporotic 80-year-old.

Which is about how I feel, at this moment, too. Purely outta emotional stress, though. I am physically fine.

As is my car, from what I can tell.

It looks like it only suffered a bent license plate and the Leafs plate frame is snapped (broken like the team, itself) but, other than that, there is nothing that I can immediately see wrong with it. Granted, it will be easier to tell once the ice and snow that’s been rammed up its ying-yang melts and it dries–then I will be able to get a closer look to see if there are scratches or dents.

I ended up about 20 feet off the road, plugged into a couple feet of snow. I had to give the door an extra little push when I opened it to get out and inspect the damage.

And me in my ankle boots.

Y’know, I’ve been looking for “real” winter boots for weeks, now, but haven’t found a pair I like. I almost bought a pair of totally wacked-looking boots I found at Winners… They look like something Neil Armstrong mighta worn (’cept for the fact that they’re shiny pink and white, that is) and I did linger over them strictly for their truly demented appearance… hemming and hawing over whether or not they were “too”. And, finally, yeah, I hadda concede that they were. Still, they’d've been good today…

(artist’s rendering)

Whoa. Slid off-topic like I slid off the road. Anyhow, there’s me in my ankle boots in a coupla feet of snow in the middle of nofuckingwhere…

I put on the four-way flashers, climbed out of the car and, with the sour taste of dread burning the back of my throat, I made my way through the knee-deep snow around it, inspecting for damage. And finding, seemingly, next to none. Just the license plate and its frame were cockeyed. I pushed my way back around the car and then slogged up to the road in time to catch sight of something small and dark making a beeline across the top of the snow. My eyes saw it but it took my brain a second to process it… It was a field mouse. Maybe I’d plowed headfirst into its little nest under the snow. First, it skittered out toward the road as I stood there, my mouth agape at the unexpected sight, and then it made a U-turn and beetled toward the open door of my car. Keep in mind that the top of the snow was even with the bottom of the door–there might as well have been a red carpet inviting him inside–so I made a leap to shoo the wee beastie away from such easy access to the (comparatively) warm, dry interior. Missed. Little fucker was fast! Lept a second time. Scooped but empty snow away from the car as the mouse evaded me again. Sweet fuckety-fuck, I really don’t want a mouse in my car, pooping and chewing on the leather interior! Another leap. Another miss. Just as it was nearing the open door, it weaved to the left and–poof!–disappeared into the wheel.

I climbed in and slammed the door shut. Cast my gaze heavenward and wondered wtf next…

Ended up in the chilly Tim Hortons in Corunna with my parents, waiting for a tow truck driver to arrive. When he did, he made it pretty clear that he wasn’t interested in going out to Hwy 40 and dealing with my car. See, by now, the storm had gotten worse. It was practically whiteout conditions. He tried all kinds of manoeuvres to get out of it, but his boss wouldn’t let him wiggle out. Turns out it was a simple thing to pull me back onto the side of the road. No winching (or whining) required. All he did was pull me straight out. After alla that, it took, like, 10 seconds to right the situation. We had a look at the front of the car now that it was clear of the snow and it appeared that there was no major damage. I could hardly believe it. Standing there in a whiteout–my hair wet, my jeans frozen solid from knees to feet–feeling grateful that it appeared that I hadn’t totally fucked up my beloved little Tib.

The drive home was tense. I think it was a physical memory that stressed me out–my body remembered what it felt like to lose control and slide off the road and I couldn’t shake it. I crept home well below the speed limit. Then spent some time cleaning off the front of the car and it still looks okay. Me, I’m still a little shaken and exhausted, but when I finish writing this I’m going to have a quiet night with a movie in front of the fire.

And if the weather’s crappy again tomorrow, I’m working from home.