Mini-van me and the popped tire adventure.

Last night, I watched Survivor and Grey's Anatomy and ate dinner over at my mother's house -- which has become a nice little ritual for us. After the shows wrapped up, and the obligatory gossip and plotline dissection died down, I hopped into my car and headed home, exhausted.

But in standard form, my night didn't end - smoothly and without a fuss - there. On my way home, because I'm clearly a novice trick-driver, I somehow grazed a curb at 40 miles per hour, blew my front right tire completely out, and skidded to a stop on the side of the road, half in the grass, and half on the street.

No injuries, not phone poles in the way, no biggie, thank goodness. (Well, no biggie except my car couldn't go, it was 11 p.m. and all I wanted was to be home in bed, and it was dark and scary out...)

Long story short, my mom had to come pick me up and take me back to her place, where the plan was for me to use my brother's car to get home and to work today (she would use her van to get to her work at 7 a.m.). We determined we could get my tire fixed while I was at work -- thank you, Les Schwab remote service. It was a foolproof recovery plan for my tire disaster. We were so smart and resourceful. We complimented ourselves and talked about how we'd look back on me sucking at driving and this whole incident and laugh.

Until, mid-chuckle, her "check engine" light came on.

Not good. (also, cue my mom emitting a blue-streak worth of curse words).

Two cars down. Our plan had been foiled.

When we finally arrived back at her house, we got me situated in my brother's car, with my mom planning to drive the van to her work, essentially being "pretty sure" the engine light was no big deal. She handed me the keys to my brother's car, I turned the right one in the ignition, and...

silence.

Nothing. Not even a starter "click".

Three cars down. Goddamn my luck. Goddamn it to hell.

So this morning, my mom got up at 6 a.m. and drove my old truck (the one I drove in high school, which was a beater even then -- a dented white '76 Chevy pickup) to work in her cute little sweatervest and pearls, while I climbed in her enormous "mini" van and tooled off to work, "Check engine" light blazing.

I was just the cat's meow pulling into the parking garage this morning, let me tell you. First, I was nervous the thing was going to break down the whole way to work, and second, this van is the size of a small, number 1 safety-rated, side-airbags-having, automatic slider door and foot runner-boasting metal planet. Getting it into the garage without scraping along the ceiling and both walls simultaneously was nervewracking, to say the least.

But my buddy "Les" is working on my car tire as we speak (I'm trying not to consider what it will inevitably cost me) and garage parking without my little permit tags isn't likely to cost me any more than $100 bucks today for the planet-van, so that's nice. (sarcasm, sarcasm, sarcasm). The only good news I can think of is that it's lunchtime and the mexican restaraunt across the street serves very cold beer, very fast... now I just have to calculate how many I can drink in 30 minutes so as to determine how long I need to sell my body on the street to pay for it (in addition to covering my tow bill, new tire, parking, and rent next month).

I'd better get to it.