This Saturday, I finally got around to making the trek up to Wisconsin to my old bank so I could finish up the paperwork regarding my check forgery issue. Up until now, I haven’t really needed to switch to a Chicago-based bank, but I guess it’s time to cut the cord. In any case, the process went smoothly, and I was once again able to laugh with my bankers as we talked about how completely stupid a certain public storage company was to alter my check, steal $405 out of my account, and then try to blame it on the bank teller.
Since I was in the neighborhood, I decided to swing by my parents’ house to have lunch with them. I haven’t seen them in a while, and apparently they’re in the process of re-working their wills, so it’s in my best interest to stay top-of-mind. Not that I have anything to worry about, mind you. My mother won’t come right out and say it, but she’s given me plenty of clues throughout the years to let me know that I was the only child they actually planned for. But you can never be too careful about these kinds of things, so I stopped by for egg salad sandwiches and Doritos.
I told my parents all about my job, and how I still love it, and how I just got my insurance payment for my robbery, and how I should be getting reimbursed for the check forgery deal soon. And then I mentioned to my mother that with this black cloud I’ve been under lately, I have this nagging fear that I’m going to come out one morning to find my car stolen. We kind of laughed, but not really.
I hugged my dad goodbye as he drove off to meet some friends, and then my mom and I cracked open a bottle of wine, because really, what else goes with egg salad and Doritos at 11:30am? About two minutes later, I heard a timid knock at the back door. I opened it up and it was my dad who said, “Jen, I just backed into your car, and smashed the front end up real good.”
“Ha ha. Good one. I’ll admit, though – you’re getting better at not smirking.”
Because that’s the kind of thing my dad says to me almost every time I go over to their house. We play these kinds of games. It’s what we do. But the boy really saw a wolf this time.
“No, I’m serious. I smashed your car.”
I looked out the garage door and saw that my little Honda Civic looked a little skinnier than normal. And that’s because the passenger side was smashed in about 6 inches. My dad’s Jetta, on the other hand, looked as fat as always. Just had a little green paint on the bumper.
“Oh crap. You’re not kidding.”
One giant crowbar and some elbow grease later, my dad was able to pry my front quarter panel out enough so that my tire could actually turn. Fortunately I don’t have many passengers, though, since the passenger door only opens about 5 inches.
So now I’ll just wait to hear from my mom’s insurance company so I can get my car fixed. And while I’m not really one to believe in insurance fraud, I need a little pick-me-up, so I’m totally telling the insurance company that I originally had purple flames detailed on the car.
“No, no. I realize that you can’t see them on either side of the car. But I’m telling you, he hit the car so hard that they flew off of both sides. Seriously. Who would lie about something like purple flames on a Honda Civic? So yes, I’ll need those painted back on.”
“Yes. And for some reason, all my chrome spinning hub caps? They fell off, too.”
“I don’t know, I think they flew into the woods. Anyway, I’ll need some of those.”
“Mmm hmm. Yes. Right. And I told you that the horn isn’t working either, right?”
“Yeah. It used to play, Tequila.”
“Good. Thanks so much!”
And best of all, as I just told my brother yesterday when he emailed me to razz me about my car: unconditional love + guilt = permanent favorite child status. Now who’s inheriting the house, sucka?!
Universe wants to hand me some lemons? Just made me some purple flame lemonade, baby!

Filed under: General on March 15th, 2005