One week ago, we were living the American family dream of a two-driver, two-car household. Today, we still have two drivers, with zero cars.
The beloved Big-Ass Van went in for a routine check-up on Tuesday, and was referred immediately to the dealer’s intensive care unit for diagnosis and treatment. Of course, with vehicles, this process is less science and more witch-doctoring. A team of bone-shaking, German-chanting mechanics has, after many days of dismantling, determined that BAV needs five of her six fuel injectors replaced if she is to be expected to live long enough to ferry us cross-country and back beginning THIS WEEK. She remains in pieces and on life-support through the weekend.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, the car gods decided to keep messing with us. At the very moment I was telephoning the BAV’s diagnosis and plan of treatment to Greatest Husband (who was up until that moment very happily messing about in his vegetable garden) our call was interrupted by an inattentive 18 year old smashing his dad’s SUV into GH’s beloved Subaru Outback parked innocently in front of the house.
and Ouch! Pushed that little tank right up onto the curb. Not certain yet, but it’s probably a total loss.
Feeling a bit like we have the mark of Cain upon us.