How I Got My Volkswagon Home With Only Minimal Amounts of Brain Damage

Volkswagon ready. FINALLY!

I head over to DMV where Nothing Good ever happens.

Turns out Rob needs to fill out some forms so I "go home" and "have him sign them".

I made a mistake on the title, and am told that I cannot register the car without a new one. There are no mistakes allowed.

I point out that I cannot get in contact with the original owner to reissue me a new title, as she vanished some time around when we were trying to get her to reimburse us for mechanical problems.

Am told that I cannot register the van. Ever.

I cry.

Nancy, the manager, says, "Just come see me, ok? I'll push it through for you."

Am surprised; crying usually works on men only.

Nancy is a lesbian. Ahhhh, that's it! Will wear low-cut blouse when I'm going back, just in case.

Hey, don't judge me! I do what I need to do.

Clutching hard won temporary license plate, I go home.

Byron, who taught me stick-shift two years ago (all of which I have forgotten) is in town for work. He comes over.

We get in my car and head to mechanic to pick up Volkswagon.

He drives Volkswagon to his friend's house, which is right by mechanic, and I drive my car back home.

Byron calls me. The Volkswagon had made a "noise".
"Thumping." he says. "Scary".

I turn around and seek Byron out, and call Triple A.

We wait. For 2 hours.

Triple A sends incorrect truck.

We wait more.

Correct truck comes, Byron goes late to his friend's house in my car, I ride back with tow truck driver.

Tow truck driver is huge, burly, and was yelling things into his cell phone like, "Hey guy, listen, guy!" and "I don't think so, buddy!" When some one cut him off, he shouted, "Yeah! Well Merry Christmas!"

He told me he is good at three things: driving, reading a map, and fighting. He looks like it. I find out that tow truck drivers really do say "ten-four" on their radios, and am fascinated and delighted to learn this. He offeres to let me say it into his radio, but I demure. We tried to figure out why "ten-four" and not, say, "seven-three". Somewhere in our conversation, I swore and apologized and he goes, "It's ok. I ain't got the prettiest mouth myself".

He was facinating.

If you can't tell, the tow truck driver was the highlight of my day, which says a lot about how bad it was.

Finally I get in the door and feed starving dogs; wonderful friends deliver my husband home. He had taken a cab from the train to Jen's house.

I celebrate the end of the day with beer and sloppy joe.

Mechanic is getting an earful. Twice.