If any of you follow me on Facebook (and you should, 'cause let's face it, more happens there than it does here!), then you saw that on Tuesday Wednesday my car died on the freeway as I drove home from work.
While I sat there waiting for Sean to rescue me, I played some Angry Birds, Hungry Shark, Jungle Crash Land, iJewels and tried to not let the plink, plink, plink, plink of the hazard lights drive me insane.
I also was bored enough to take some pictures of cars coming....
And of cars going....
BTW, what the hell is that crap on the windshield?? Looks like a bird had diarrhea!
I was pulled over next to a very exciting canal and mound of dirt with some shrubs behind a wire fence. Don't let the excitement of the photo knock you off your chair....
Oh, look!! It says the battery has no juice and is dead. I guess I should've paid more attention to that before it got all the way to "No juice left and will die on the way home along the freeway".
Some day I'll learn.
Maybe.
The the sun began setting and I was to get colder.
Luckily, Sean soon arrived (after only about 30 minutes) and determined the battery was dead. (Duh! Even with my vast lack of car knowledge, I knew that.) He tried to jump start it and I wanted to get a picture of the Police Cab on life support, but I'm way too much of a wimp to get out in the freezing cold wind to take a picture of Sean trying to revive my dead car.
Which brings me to the weather (and another kinda, sorta related story). Like much of the country, here in Arizona we have experienced extreme (for us at least) cold weather. Now, I know, many other states have had weather that was way more extreme than our 30° temps, but for me, anything below 60° is too cold.
I'm constantly hearing people who know me (including my husband) say I should be used to it growing up in Massachusetts.
The thing is, I was never used to the cold.
I have always hated winter. Oh, I love the beauty of new fallen snow and can fully appreciate it.
From inside a comfortably heated house or car.
But don't expect me to like it. Or "be used to it". That ain't ever gonna happen.
Growing up, we lived next to a river (which I later learned, when I moved away to the "big city" was actually a creek) and every summer we (and when I say "we" I mean everyone but me) would dam it up so we (and here I mean me, once it hit 80°) could swim in it.
This usually happened the second the temperature hit 60°. All the neighborhood kids, and my siblings, were peeling away their jeans and sweatshirts and throwing on shorts, tanks and swim suits.
I was still in my jeans and long sleeved tops. Laying in the sun to warm up.
We also lived about 30 minutes from two very popular New England ski slopes. In all of my 21 years living there, the closest I've come to putting foot on one of those slopes, was the one winter I worked in the upper lodge and had to walk across the bunny trail to get there.
My mother didn't help any, either. She had this insane policy that everyday we needed to go outside for "fresh air". (Now, as a mother myself, I know it was just so she could get us kids out of her hair for an hour and get things done.) During the summer, spring and even fall I really didn't mind. As long as I had a book and a patch of sun to sit in, I was okay with it.
But in the winter? My mother literally had to shove me out the door.
Literally.
My hate for going out in the winter began with getting dressed to go out. I spent an hour getting into a thermal top, long johns, jeans, long sleeve tee, sweatshirt, snow suit, TWO pairs of socks, wool socks over that, fleece lined boots, TWO pairs of mittens, a knit hat (I hated hats. They always messed up my hair and made it really static-y.) and scarf. All that only to freeze after 10 minutes out in the snow and cold.
And it didn't help when my little brother thought it'd be funny to pin me down and hold my face in the snow for as long as possible. How I managed to get away without frost bite is a mystery to me.
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