Tag Archives: MINI Cooper

A Year Ago

August 30, 2015 By in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment
A Year Ago

A year ago, today, my life was turned upside down.

I had just watched my mom get remarried after having been with my dad for 25 years. I was driving over to see my dad around 930pm. His driveway butts up to a busy street on which I had been rear-ended badly not six months earlier, so I drove a half-block past his house to make a left turn onto a side street and then turn around.

I was slowing and downshifting to make the left turn from the center turning lane when I heard loud, screeching tires. I had no idea where they were coming from until I was slammed into head-on.

When I opened my eyes again, I was facing oncoming traffic three lanes over on the other side of the street. My horn was blaring. I had glass and airbag dust in my mouth and nose, and the smell of gunpowder was overwhelming. I had to get out. My driver’s door wouldn’t open and I panicked. I started to roll down the window, ready to crawl out if necessary. Then I took a breath, climbed over my gearshift and got out the passenger side.

I stood by my dear, demolished MINI Cooper and saw a man walking toward me from his vehicle, now stalled in someone’s yard just beyond my car.

He got very close to me and I saw blood running down his face. He asked if I was okay. I said, no. He walked away and got back in his vehicle.

The neighbor whose evening we’d disturbed was now outside; she followed the man back to his car and then came over to see if I was okay.

“Did you smell the alcohol on his breath?” No, I can’t smell anything but gunpowder, still. “I called the ambulance.” Thank you.

She started walking back behind his vehicle and I stopped her. He’s gonna back up! I shouted. Instead, he drove forward through the yard and down the street, away from the accident. Away from me. And this.

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It was then that I realized I was dripping blood onto this woman’s driveway. It was coming from my left hand. I was also spitting it out with the powder and glass that refused to get out of my mouth.

A couple passersby had stopped at this point. I had started to walk the two houses to my dad’s house when I decided against it. I asked one of the men who stopped if I could borrow his mobile phone because mine was somewhere in my car.
I called my dad, do you hear the horn? “What?” Can’t you hear the horn blaring outside? I’ve been in an accident!

I was mad. I was frustrated. I was in shock.

People kept trying to get me to sit down. I had specks of sparkling glass coating my arms, my face, my clothes. I had blood droplets on my jeans. My new jeans. Go figure.

The police, fire engine, and ambulance arrived. I asked a fireman to retrieve my phone, another to turn off my damn horn. I remember thinking to myself to be very polite and call them ‘sir,’ the policemen ‘officer.’

In the ambulance, the paramedic was heartbreakingly gentle as he wiped the glass from my arms and feet with a wet paper towel while I called my mom, just a few hours into her honeymoon. She frantically asked if she should come home and I told her no, I was alright; I’d be alright. She really wanted to come home, but I wouldn’t let her.

After the phone call, the paramedic told me that I had a great attitude, considering.

They took me to the hospital where I had x-rays on my hands, chest, torso, knees, and feet. My chest took the blow from the airbag and seatbelt, my left hand had a laceration on the middle finger from the broken windshield and the heel of my right hand had a contusion from the gear shift and imbedded glass; my knees hit the dashboard and my feet had been depressing the clutch and the brake. My right foot was the worst with horrible swelling, contusions, and two fractured toes. I couldn’t walk.

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I got stitches on my middle finger, which I quickly called Frankenfinger. I got a prescription for pain meds. Then I quickly got a sense of my physical pain and mental trauma.

Getting into dad’s truck wasn’t very fun, but the drive home might have been worse. I wouldn’t let him turn right on red in an intersection. I wanted him to go about 10mph under the speed limit. I gripped the door handle so tight, my knuckles were white. Suddenly, I was afraid to be in a vehicle.

Then it wasn’t just being in a vehicle that scared me. It was not being able to walk. It was my heart stopping when I heard screeching tires or a horn outside my apartment. It was checking the lock on my door three times before bed, knowing I wouldn’t be able to fight back or defend myself if someone were to break in because I was already hurt. It was needing everyone to text me when they made it somewhere, saying ‘drive safe’ like it was a desperate plea, not just a suggestion. I was sure everyone I knew and loved was going to be in a car accident. It was being so angry. So. angry. Seeing my car at the impound was… an experience. Now it was in broad daylight.

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A year later, I still have anxiety: I worry about my boyfriend driving to and from work, I worry about him crossing the street to take the dog out at night. I don’t trust anyone on the road. I never drove on dad’s street again. I still don’t like hearing screeching tires or horns. Every time I come to a light, I have to keep myself from watching the rear-view mirror. I’m constantly ready for evasive maneuvers. I finally had to accept the fact that if I’m meant to die in my car, I’m meant to die in my car. I could have died that night, but I didn’t. I walked away. I lived, and now I’m living. I owe all thanks to God and my MINI, my dear British Chap who sacrificed himself for me.

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I’ve got a new MINI now. I call him Richard. I’m living with my wonderful boyfriend, the man I was lucky enough to live to meet. We moved up to Saint Paul and got the cutest puppy in the world, Olive Adventure. I’m still seeing a chiropractor for my neck and back, my fractured toes still give me trouble every now and then when I run or exercise. I can’t do much on my knees. My chest bones pop occasionally. And I’ve still got my Frankenfinger.

As for the driver, well, he got a bit of punishment after sobering up in jail that night.

I wonder if he’ll think about me today around 930pm.

He’ll be thinking about me soon enough when I start recouping damages.

Richard, My Darling

November 3, 2014 By in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment
Richard, My Darling

After all the fruitless searches (thanks, Peter Gabriel), the frustration with MINI of Alexandria in Virginia (thanks, ‘salesman,’ for calling me back jerking me around and completely blowing me off), and the otherwise mentally-crippling anxiety (thanks, driver-at-fault), I found and bought the perfect MINI Cooper.

In the end, it was the first one I’d bookmarked. Of course.

I came across this blue beauty at MINI of Loveland in Colorado and really liked the look of it… minus the non-black wheels and the lack of sunroof and lack of heated seats. It was almost 100% what I wanted, but I wasn’t going to the whole settling predicament.

I had also found a nigh-perfect one in Virginia that ended up being sold right out from under me as I was speaking to the salesman about transport prices. The funniest thing was when someone from their customer relations department called me:
Guy: “I was wondering if you’d like to come out today or tomorrow to test drive something.”
Me: “Um, I’m in Omaha, Nebraska, so… no?”
Guy: “Oh, okay, (blah blah) Is there a time later this week you’d like to come out and take a look at our inventory?”
Me: “…. No. As I’m in OMAHA, NEBRASKA and I will not be booking a flight to Virginia, where you are, to test drive a vehicle I’ve been driving for the past four years.”
Guy: “Oh, okay, I totally get that. (Me thinking: Do you?) What can we do to earn your business?”
Me: “Well, you would have had my business already, but your salesman sold the car I wanted right out from under me, so I’ll be finding a MINI elsewhere.”
Guy: “Okay, well, please let us know if we can (blah blah blah).”

Yeah, no. I also got two calls from an English salesman (I see your strategy, MINI of Alexandria) assuring me that they’re looking all over for a MINI for me and they’re checking the auction list because they have the biggest used inventory in the country la-di-dah. Well, *checks watch* I wonder how long that list is, because, uh, I still haven’t heard back. Stay tuned to see if they ever find me a car!

Anyway. After all that garbage, I went back to the one in Colorado. The day I found it, I sent an email through their website asking some details and got a call from a salesman within the hour. It was late, even; it was like, past 6pm. Dave Parent of MINI of Loveland called me during an ice cream social they were having – yeah, the dealership was having an ice cream social – to tell me about the car and ask me some questions, etc. After that call, I already had an emotional attachment to this place and this car. I kept the tab up on my browser for days.

We talked again, and I told him the only thing kind of holding me up is the fact that it doesn’t have black wheels; by the time I spend the money buying black wheels, it’ll be way over my budget. He goes, “Why don’t I see if another MINI on the lot can swap wheels with it.” I was like, dude, if you can do that, it’ll be my MINI.

So a couple days later, he calls me back and tells me he wasn’t able to swap wheels without it significantly changing the sticker price, which I understood. This was after the MINI of Alexandria ridiculousness and I’d about had it. I told him the only other thing I wanted on that car was a luggage rack. He said, “I’ll put it on myself.”

Within ten minutes or so, I’d told him to do that and have it on by the next evening because I’ll drive down to get it myself. I could have had it transported for about $500, but where’s the adventure in that? Plus, I’m too damn impatient.

The next day (see, impatient), dad and I rented a car and set out for Colorado. This was the first time I’d been behind the wheel of a car since my accident (so, about forty-one days at this point), and I looked like this:
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The drive there went smoothly. There was quite a bit of anxiety to overcome, but luckily it was all interstate. The trees were changing colors and the weather was gorgeous. It was the perfect day for this journey. Then we encountered 5 o’clock traffic upon entering Greeley, which I hated. I was totally exhausted by the time we made it to Loveland.

But, boy, did MINI of Loveland totally rejuvenate me. That place is like a toy store to me. There are so many fun things and beautiful MINIs. The people are all great and enthusiastic. No one could believe I walked away from my accident and even asked to use the photos to show at meetings and to customers. Apparently, I’ve already helped sell a couple cars to people who worry about the small size of the MINI being unsafe. That makes me feel good.

I really wanted to cry right there at the sales desk. I’d just accomplished such a daunting task and overcome so many fears. I knew I was heading toward my freedom. I was heading toward the key to putting this awful experience and time behind me. It was going to be worth it. And my salesman and finance gal couldn’t have made the process any easier once I got there. They stayed past close and helped us into the MINI and directed us to an awesome BBQ place just down the road.

The next day, dad and I got up and had breakfast at the hotel. We were going to pop over to Estes Park to see the hotel from The Shining, but it was so foggy. Instead, we hit the road and took a detour through Wyoming, up to Alliance, Nebraska. I had never been in Wyoming and I had never been as far northwest in Nebraska. The drive through Scotts Bluff actually took my breath away – I couldn’t believe the land formations and valleys and trees. Who knew we had such a diverse landscape! In Alliance, we ate at a cute little diner off of Main Street and then popped over to see Carhenge.

Yes, like Stonehenge.
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I’d never seen it, so it was amazing. Dad and I spent some time geeking out, and then continued on home. Of course, with such a detour, we ended up with part of our drive past sunset. I hadn’t driven in the dark since the accident. Then we encountered some emergency closure of I-80 and had to squeeze into a caravan of semi trucks with trailers on a two-lane highway through a bunch of small towns. We were stop-and-go, and I was constantly worried the truck behind me wouldn’t stop in time, and at one point on the two-lane highway I randomly noticed how close opposite traffic was (I missed the median and four-lane interstate). There were a few times where my heart may have stopped.

We made it home safely and upon backing into my garage, I broke down. I did, not the car. I sat in my car and had a little weep. I stroked the steering wheel and tenderly caressed the dashboard and ran my fingertips over the MINI wings emblem. No joke. I didn’t know when I’d be back in a MINI Cooper. Let alone one so perfect for me. I didn’t know when I’d be driving again. I didn’t know how I’d do driving again. I made myself drive to Loveland, not only for the fun of it, but as a test. One I had no other option but to pass. And no matter how the drive there went, I had to turn around and drive right back. I was so proud of myself. I’d done it. And now I had him. My MINI. My darling. My Richard. Yes, that’s his name: Richard.

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—

It’s been a couple weeks now that I’ve had him. I’ve got my C. Friis rally sticker on the back driver’s-side window, I’ve got the grille badges on: a black, white, and grey Union Jack and then the Sir Alec quote, “I don’t want bloody women driving my car.” Those were the two I’d had on my British Chap; the grille, badges, and my license plate disappeared in the accident. He’s taken me to a friend’s wedding and to Target (oh lawdy, how I had missed going to Target) and to Starbucks. He whips ’round the roundabouts and is just a total stunner. I really couldn’t be happier with him.

Alas, I’m still incredibly anxious while driving. I have been doing my best to keep my eyes fixed ahead and not on the rear view window when I’ve come to a stop and I know someone is coming up behind me. Every car coming opposite is going to swerve at the last minute and hit me, I just know it. Honestly, the only way I’ve been able to get around that is to just resign to the fact that if that’s going to happen, it’s going to happen. And I’ll be hurt again or I could die. And my car will be wrecked again and I’ll have to start all over again.

Everyone says because I’ve been hit twice, statistically it won’t happen again. I almost failed statistics, so I’m not really sure I can grasp that logic. I think, if anything, it’s even more likely to happen again. I feel like a target. The dumb motherfucker who decided drinking and driving was a good idea that night sought me out. and now I feel like a target. Everyone is going to hit me and I don’t trust anyone. That person is going to decide they want that exit and they’re going to side-swipe me at the last minute. That person isn’t going to see me and they’re going to send me into the guard rail. That person is going to drop something and jerk the wheel and hit me head-on.

There was one day, though. One day since I’ve been back from Loveland, I went for a drive. Just to drive. Like I used to. I took Richard to Ponca Hills, my old neighborhood. I took him through the hills and around the bends and past my home that will always be my home. I took him out on I-680 and saw the trees looking like autumn and the sun was shining and I felt like myself again. Just for a moment. I hadn’t felt like me in a long time. I was on my way back.

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I am on my way back.

Settling Would Be Losing

September 29, 2014 By in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

It’s been a month since the accident.

I still can’t walk properly. I can’t roll through a step like one does when, well, walking. I can’t put 100% weight on my right foot, nor curl my toes all the way, nor put weight on the ball of my foot.  And all of that means that I wouldn’t be able to properly press the accelerator nor brake.

And anyway, my left wrist is still in pain/weak, so I wouldn’t have the best control of the wheel.

I’m close, but I’m not there yet.

In the mean time, I’ve been going through different thoughts regarding a new car.

First, I wanted a used one and then a classic one: come out of this shitty situation with two vehicles I love and say, fuck you, I came out of this better than I went in and you didn’t kill my spirit or love for cars.

Then I realized that dealer trades regarding used vehicles aren’t as easy as with new vehicles, so I’d have to deal with a different MINI dealership. For the sake of ease and time and familiarity, I didn’t want to do that. Plus, a Classic MINI Cooper isn’t going to have the protection and safety that I’ll desperately crave at this point. If I didn’t feel safe driving it, I wouldn’t enjoy driving it, and then it would just sit in the garage. And I didn’t want that.

I reluctantly scrapped that idea.

The 2014/2015 MINI Coopers have this amazingly badass feature of a red start/stop toggle switch a la fighter jets, and as soon as I saw that feature come out, I was in love. So I thought, okay, easy, I’ll just get a 2014 then. Why not?

Upon further review, that’s about the only new feature of the 2014s that I like. I know, I know, blasphemy.

I don’t know. There’s just something about the 2014s and 2015s that don’t even scream MINI to me. They’ve got so many new buttons and features inside and I’d feel like I was in an entirely different car. The window switches and locks are on the doors instead of the center console, the grille is strange, the body of the car has a slope; I don’t know. It just looks and feels too different.

Okay, so I’ll just get a new 2013.

If only it were that simple.

I’ve been to about 200 MINI websites tonight alone – New Inventory, 2013, Manual, S Hardtop. NOT orange or yellow. Not British Racing Green again. How about Ice Blue? Black wheels, please. Moonroof. Plain interior – or at least not some weird plaid cloth upholstery.

As I continue to find nothing (or at least hardly anything), I’m wondering if I shouldn’t just ‘settle’ for a 2014. (Sounds ridiculous). It would be so much easier – every MINI dealer has a ton of new 2014s. Then I take one look at the grille, the body, and the interior and I just can’t.

Maybe if I sat in one, I’d feel differently? But I don’t think so.

It’s just so discouraging. I loathe being in this situation in the first place. I know a few people have been like, “hey, who gets two new cars in a year?” Yeah, okay, if it were my choice to do that, sure. But no. I’ve had two beautiful cars- MY beautiful cars taken away from me. I didn’t choose to be doing this. Again.

I only have a month to get a car back on my insurance policy. Anything I find will be in another state and I’ll have to have it transported here.

The only thing that will keep me from settling will be the fact that I deserve to get everything I want. I can’t let this dumb asshole’s horrible decision to drive drunk keep me from getting a vehicle I’ll be less than perfectly happy with. I was perfectly happy before and I should be that way again.

Sigh. Fuckin’ A.

An Ode to MINI Cooper

September 5, 2014 By in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments
An Ode to MINI Cooper

Dear MINI,

I apologize in advance for my verbosity and the lengthiness of this letter, but I think it’s true that when one is passionate about something, one can go on forever about that something. And this something is really something. Or something.

I grew up a huge fan of The Beatles and also VW Beetles. But then a teenier and unbearably cuter car rolled into view: The MINI Cooper. I was instantly enamored. My seventh grade boyfriend even got me a mini yellow MINI model for my church confirmation. I still have it yet today.

When I turned sixteen, my lovely Grammy gave me her ’96 Chrysler Concorde. It was a fair bit longer than a yacht. My parents used that as part of a trade-in for my younger brother’s first vehicle (still not over it), so I was left carless. As much as I begged and pleaded with my aunt, the designated coinpurse, I was not allowed to get my coveted MINI Cooper as they were “small and unsafe.”

‘Sputtering’ doesn’t begin to cover my reaction to those words. 

I ended up with a Dodge Caliber, which was… not a MINI. But I got a job at a car dealership in town and always kept an eye on the inventory.

One day, a co-worker told me that someone had just traded in a MINI Cooper hardtop to another location. I hadn’t even seen it, but I had it sent up. I’m pretty sure that was that salesman’s easiest, quickest sale to date.

I loved that MINI. It was black and had broad, red stripes up the bonnet, across the roof, and down the boot. I found blue ones online and had the red ones replaced. I bought ridiculously huge fog lamps for the grille and had a push-pull, choke-like knob installed to turn those on and off. I bought an S chrome gas cap to replace the non-S gastank door. It was a beauty, and, oh, it was so mine.

Then, as it happens, I got into (read: obsessed) the BBC show Sherlock. Shortly thereafter, and I don’t even know how I found this (read: I was probably google-searching any and all things Sherlock Holmes), I saw that MINI had a Baker Street Edition. 

Wat?(son)

I had to have it. 

I went straight to the local dealer, MINI of Omaha, met with the most perfect saleswoman and kindred spirit, Kim, and I probably had the Baker Street Edition ordered that same day.

Saying goodbye to my first MINI was tough. I got emotional right there in the parking lot. I knew it would be going to a good home and an excellent driver who would have even more fun with it than I did. I’ve yet to see it around town, but I’m still hoping to someday.

The Baker Street, though, woof. What a beauty. The Rooftop Grey paint, the dapper-cut bonnet stripes, the door sills, the door scuttles, the dash panel, the floor mats, the seat fabric and stitching, oh, God, I’m drooling just thinking about it. Utterly gorgeous. And don’t even get me started on the delivery process, oh, too late:

When one orders a MINI directly from Oxford, one gets to track their baby, and that’s not even my word, online. Like a package. Like a delightful bundle of joy. There is no stone left unturned by MINI. They literally think of everything and everything is bespoke and simply perfection. But yes, you get to watch your baby being ‘born’ and when it’s having its last check-up and when it’s making its way across the pond and when it reaches dry land.. It’s just a wonder to behold. 

Now I’m getting emotional again.

Anyway, that MINI was my pride and joy and I planned on having it until it couldn’t tick over any more miles.

That is, until, that feat was made impossible. 

One night in February of this year, I was driving to see my dad. His driveway leads out onto a busy street, so it’s sometimes nerve-wracking to park in it. This night, as with every night, I signaled my turn from at least two blocks away. As I was slowing and turning into his driveway, I looked up in my rear view mirror and saw headlights coming quickly right for me. I thought, “they’ll see me, they’ll see me, oh my God, they aren’t going to stop!” and I went to press the accelerator. The last thought I had as I stepped on the gas pedal was, “this’ll be a narrow miss.” 

It wasn’t.

If you’ve never been in a car accident, you won’t know what I’m talking about; and if you’ve seen one on TV or in a film, you still won’t know what I’m talking about; but there is a noise unlike any other. Louder than I can explain. I can still hear it if I think about it. 

A suburban rear-ended me going about 45mph which swiftly sent me skidding in the snow and T-boning into a utility pole in my dad’s yard. 

In my daze, I tried to open my door and it wouldn’t open. I then panicked a bit and shoved into it a few times. All of a sudden, it was like someone had reached in and lifted me over my gearshift, across the passenger seat, and out the door. To this day, I don’t remember how I got out so easily that way. 

I walked around to the driver’s side of my MINI and my heart absolutely broke. I couldn’t even feel any pain other than that, between the adrenaline, the shock, and the anger. When the driver of the suburban got out, a teenage girl, I yelled at her. “I am so fucking pissed off at you!” 

My MINI, my baby, which I was supposed to have forever, was gone. But I was alive. And I was alive because of my MINI. The curtain airbags kept my head from crashing right into the window, the seatbelt kept me from going anywhere. I was able to walk away. I sustained a bruised and very sore right side, a stiff neck, and anxiety. The MINI sustained quite a bit more.

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You can see how deeply the pole lodged. It still hurts to look at these.

It took a long time to get over, and I’m not particularly over it. It was a loss. It was also a loss of some of my confidence in driving. I’ve always loved driving. I go for drives to calm down or just for fun. After this accident, any time I would pull up to a stoplight or stopsign or anywhere someone would have to stop behind me, my eyes would be glued to my rear view mirror, pleading with everything I had that the person would see me and stop. Even in broad daylight. There were a few times I actually began to take evasive action and pull to the side because I thought, for sure, this person isn’t going to stop. 

Now, with insurance and the rental car and having a job, I knew I couldn’t wait the month or so to replace my baby with another Baker Street, so I had to go for something else. Which was also very difficult. Part of me wanted desperately to just have it back. Go back to the way things were. Start fresh. But then part of me knew it wouldn’t be the same, even if it was physically the same down to the last V on the dash.

I’d only had her for a year. And in that year, she was kept in a garage for three months while I was living in London. I hated that I’d missed out on those three months of driving her. She was truly my dream car.

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When the Clubman came out years ago, I’d always loved the idea of the barn doors. They were adorable and fun, not to mention totally handy and perfect for when you’ve got your shopping and can’t manage a hatch. 

The Clubman came to mind when I had to look for a new car. And because I couldn’t possibly drive anything else, obviously, I was back at MINI of Omaha.

I also thought, sort of as an homage, I’d get it in British Racing Green. I’d actually painted my nails that color as I was in mourning. I warned you: passionate.

MINI of Omaha found me a 2014 British Racing Green Clubman, manual (because how could I do anything else), brand new, with leatherette heated seats, a panoramic moon roof; pretty much everything I wanted besides the black wheels and bonnet stripes. Which was fine, I could take care of those things later.

They got it in for me and it was beautiful. It was hard after the Baker Street, but I grew to love my new MINI, of course. Especially when I went in to order bonnet stripes and I noticed that I could get Baker Street Edition bonnet stripes… Ohhhh, boy. I couldn’t contain my excitement at the parts counter. And when they were installed? Wow. It was perfect. The perfect combination. 

I had a Black Jack rear view mirror cover and a Black Jack grille badge to match. I also installed another grille badge that had a quote from Sir Alec himself, “I don’t want bloody women driving my cars.” It was all coming together to be my little British Chappy.

Then this past Saturday, 30th of August, just hours after my mom’s wedding, I was driving to dad’s – this may sound familiar – and as I neared his driveway, I noticed that his friend had parked a bit crooked and if I parked behind him, I’d have to let him out eventually. For the sake of ease and laziness, I decided parking on the side street would be best. 

There was not another side street to the west until further south, so I moved over to get into the center turning lane to take a turn eastward. As I was slowing, downshifting, and moving into the center turn lane, no sooner had I done so that I heard loud, drawn-out screeching of tires. I couldn’t see anything, so I had no idea what was coming until it hit me head-on.

The impact was hard and loud, but luckily I had no time to react, otherwise I would have tensed up. When I came to a stop, I was facing the opposite direction on the opposite side of the street. My horn was blaring, the airbag had gone off and the windshield had shattered. I had glass and airbag residue in my mouth. I tried to open my driver’s door and it wouldn’t open. In my panic, I rolled down the window and was prepared to climb out. Thankfully, I didn’t even attempt it, and I crawled across the gearshift and passenger seat to get out that way. Even in my state, thinking, “this is harder than last time.”

I walked around the back of the car because the horn was just so loud. I couldn’t even look back at it. My left hand was bleeding and I could hardly walk, but I almost started to walk the couple houses to my dad’s before I thought better of it. Luckily, there were, what seemed like, about six witnesses who took care of calling the police and getting the driver’s license plate number and letting me phone my dad. I remember asking, “do you hear the horn? I was in an accident.” He half-shouted, what?! and I was so upset and furious that I wasn’t thinking clearly. I shouted back, “CAN’T YOU HEAR THE HORN? Just come down the street toward the horn!”

For the sake of things to come, I won’t go any further with the details, but I will repeat what the responding officer told me: When the tow truck came to pick up my car as I was taken to the hospital, the tow truck driver thought he was picking up a fatality. That told me exactly how bad it looked.

I mean, I knew it was bad. It was a head-on collision with a drunk driver. I couldn’t put weight on my right foot, I had a laceration requiring stitches on my left middle finger and couldn’t use my left arm – it took the airbag in less than a stride and my chest took the rest of it – I had cuts and glass all over me. Amazingly, the x-rays were negative for breaks in my foot, hand, and chest; I had no breaks anywhere else. I am, however, mottled with bruises and contusions, and in pain just about everywhere. 

But I’m alive.

I didn’t actually see photos of my car until the next day. Then not in person until I had to go to the impound lot to get my personal items.

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My British Chap saved my life. MINI saved my life again.

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So, in ready conclusion, it is with my whole heart that I say: Thank you, MINI. I would not be here today if it weren’t for your brilliant engineering and attention to safety. There was a reason I was inexorably drawn to your little cars, what, with their bulldog stance and protective snarl. You better believe that as soon as I can physically and psychologically get behind the wheel again, I will be back, yet again, at MINI of Omaha. How could I possibly drive anything else.

Sincerely and loyally yours,

Christina Friis, MINI Owner.

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Rollercoaster

September 1, 2014 By in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

I’m very much looking forward to writing about mom’s wedding on Saturday.
It was a wonderful day and I was in a sated mood.
That is, until, I drove to dad’s around 9pm and was struck head-on by a drunk driver.
When I can use two hands to type, I’ll write about that, too. (I had a deep laceration on my left middle finger which required stitches, so I don’t have the best mobility at the moment).

In the mean time, for the love of God, PLEASE don’t fucking drink and drive. Too many people die as a result and I, very easily, could have been one of them.

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Wedding Dress Shopping with Mom, Part II

June 28, 2014 By in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

It seems that mom and I both suffer from “what-if-there’s-something-better-out-there,” which led to Round Two of the dress hunt. Now, she still has that first dress that looked the best, fit her the best, fits the wedding the best, flatters her figure the best, and, I think, makes her the most youthful. Nevertheless, she compiled a list of about eight more places to try. This time, we also didn’t have all goddamn day.

I dropped my MINI off at the body shop to get my BAKER STREET BONNET STRIPES applied. I’m sorry, did I shout? I’ll repeat myself more quietly then: Baker Street bonnet stripes. The same bonnet stripes I had on my Baker Street Edition MINI Cooper. The one that got totaled and so savagely taken away from me. Yeah, that one. Yeah, those stripes. On my British Racing Green Clubman. Sigh. When I was answered in the affirmative after asking whether I could order those, I about cried at the parts counter. I also needed a door ding taken care of – I’d gotten that while parked at my old apartment place, go figure, while I still had the In-Transits on, go figure. Fucking pissed me off.

Anyway, I dropped my car off and mom picked me up for our second dress adventure. We decided to stop at Regency first, as it’s right across the street from MINI. To be honest, I’m not quite sure why we went into Regency Court, as there is only one bridal boutique and it only has wedding gowns. There was a place called Tilly’s (I think) that had a whole bunch of matronly evening gowns and a few matronly women working there. No one greeted us, even when I smiled and waved at one of them, it took about fifteen minutes for anyone to come over to us, and at that point, I was already inching out the door. You know what, for having such boring, gawdy, and downright hideous clothing, you sure are pretentious old bats.

Whatever. I had to look at something beautiful after that, so I dragged mom into the bridal boutique. I gushed over the gowns while mom talked to the woman at the counter. She asked who was getting married and we told her. I continued to gush over the gowns as I said, well, having even a potential boyfriend at this point would at least warrant me being in here. I’m not sure how it started, but all of a sudden, I was catching every other word this woman was saying: “My son…. single… says all his friends are married… he wants to get married so badly… wants kids… wants a house… wants a dog… he’s 34… civil engineer…” With each descriptor, I felt my ovaries contract. “Is 26 too young for him?” I asked, hopefully. “Oh, I’m sure not!” She replied cheerfully. Mom, doing her duty, said jokingly, “Maybe you should leave your number, Nina” “hahaha” we all laughed.

But seriously. My ring finger was burning.

After maybe one additional comment about how PERHAPS THERE SHOULD BE SOME ACTUAL MATCHMAKING IN PROGRESS, we kind of just went about the conversation and then eventually left.

I almost asked if her son had an English accent, because that’s my biggest requirement, obviously. I’m sure he doesn’t, so I can’t be too disappointed. But that doesn’t stop me from wondering why this mother didn’t feel me out for her son. I mean, isn’t that what mothers do? She seems like the good-naturedly-meddling type. So meddle already.

But maybe there’s something about me she didn’t like. I was charming, made her laugh; sure, I might have been looking at wedding dresses when I don’t even have a boyfriend, but it sounds like this dude is ready to tie the knot.

Then again, she did say something odd. She said something about telling him, “well, maybe you’re not husband material” or some shit. Slightly strange, even in jest, to mention.

I don’t know.

It was an emotional moment.

Then we had more emotional moments at a couple bridal shops – their 10s are more like 6s, so of course that made mom feel like shit. “I’d just have to cut the tag out.” Finally, I got her into a taffeta number that cinched up in the back (I’d just watched Pride & Prejudice, so I was in the mood to sew up a corset). It fit her like a glove, as it would, and if it wasn’t so hot/dressy, I’d have gone with that one for her.

The fact remained that the very first dress, the dress I bought her, was the one.

Trust your instincts.

Perhaps the same should be acknowledged regarding the non-meddling mother.

Healing

February 17, 2014 By in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

I met with the appraiser on Friday and he told me my MINI was totaled. I had expected that, of course. He was really nice and actually knows the bodyshop guy who’s taken care of my car before. He said he was going to put a rush on the review and I should be hearing something within a few days. Then I can have my car towed away.

I said to dad how pissed off I was about the car. He tried, in his way, to tell me not to be so upset about material things because they’re fleeting in this life. I completely understand that, and I wouldn’t have given a shit if my couches burnt to the ground or if my desk cracked in two. Well, okay, I’d give a shit because it would be an annoyance and I’d have to replace them; however, my MINI is a bit different. In any case, I had hurt feelings.

On the way home, as I approached my exit, I realized I didn’t want to stop. So, I kept on. I continued on Highway 6, onto 275 West, through Fremont, and onto Highway 30. I drove until I hit Columbus, Nebraska – about an hour and fifteen minutes away. I stopped at a laundromat/convenience store called Dickie Doodles and got an iced coffee, took photos of a 1959-ish Stageway Airport Limo, and, much calmer, headed home the same way I came.

The drive was so incredibly needed, I don’t even know how to express it. I had my music up, I sang poorly, I shed a few tears, and by the time I got to Columbus, I had exhausted all the negative energy I’d unknowingly kept pent up. Driving has always been a comfort to me, so there was nothing smarter for me to do after the accident.

I was even shocked at my calmness on two occasions during the trip: Once, I was trying to pass a semi with attached trailer going a few under the speed limit, and for the life of me, I couldn’t see around it. Finally, I thought I had a clear, so I kicked the alright-so-far Mazda 2 into passing gear and got about halfway past the trailer when I realized there was no way in hell I’d make it before this oncoming car smashed into me. I had to abort the mission and regrettably get back behind the semi. No problem.

The next instance was on my way home from Columbus, Highway 30 splits into a four-lane just outside of town. I was behind a car who was staying right as the split happened, so I stayed left as to stay in the passing lane. Up ahead I see a pickup coming toward me in my lane. Yeah, in oncoming traffic, and yeah, right for me. I simply moved over into the ‘slow lane’ and watched the truck go by, apparently completely unaware that it was driving on the wrong side of the road.

I wondered, then, if there is a hit out for me. First the accident, now this pickup. I’ll gladly stay off the highways for a while, if that’s the case.

Now that I’m mostly past the grief and anger part of post-accident recovery, I have come to a few conclusions:

My beloved 2013 MINI Cooper Hardtop Baker Street Limited Edition is lost. Unrecoverable. More importantly, irreplaceable. Sure, I could look for one in the US or even order another from Oxford, but I decided that I don’t want to do any of that. It was my perfect little gem of a car and one just like it won’t make me feel quite like this one did. Does, when I think of it. I went ’round dad’s Saturday to clean out the poor girl and after dad apologized, in his way, for hurting my feelings (he handed me ceramic owl salt and pepper shakers, saying, “I don’t give two hoots about your car, but I do give two hoots about you”), I told him that as extreme as this may sound, I liken getting a replica of my car to getting another Border Collie after we had to put Frisbee to sleep. There will never be another Frisbee no matter how many dogs I own in my lifetime, similar to how there will never be another Baker Street.

Like I said, it may sound extreme, but that should put into perspective how much that car meant means to me. It was one of a kind, to me; a one-off. So it’ll be my Only One.

Dad understood after that.

Because I feel that way and because I have come to the conclusion that not only would it be difficult to replace it, but that I don’t want to replace it, I’m going to get something different entirely.

Well, still a MINI, of course; how could I possibly own anything else?

But, I’m thinking a MINI Clubman. I know I was mostly alone in that I loved the barn doors, but I’m used to being the solitary member of many clubs (ahem, John Watson’s Mournstache in Sherlock Season Three). It’s different enough, it’s still MINI-sized, but has more cargo space, and it has some fantastic customizations (which are paramount, in my opinion). So when the time comes, a Clubman it is.

—

In other news, I may have found the house. I know I’ve gone on about whether or not I should buy a house when I hope to be moving soon, but who the hell knows when that’ll be. Plus, if I do end up having to move shortly after buying this house, it’s a good enough re-sale/rental opportunity, that it would almost be stupid not to buy it. I’m tired of renting, it’s getting pointless to rent, and my neighbors are annoying AF. Not much cop, this renting lark.

This house is seriously perfect for me. I know the owner, she designed it and built it herself five years ago, she turned the third bedroom upstairs into a closet – hello; and it’s seriously two minutes from my apartment, so it would be the easiest move ever.

Mom, dad, and Conor are going to come look at it tomorrow. Conor might love it enough that he’d rent it if I had to move. I think I need to do this. It’ll be a tax write-off, it’ll build equity; I’m not sure why I’m trying to convince anyone because I’m completely convinced, anyway.

I have a feeling I’m going to get into this house and then get a job offer simply because I love the house. I wouldn’t complain. Much.

Fan Mail

February 14, 2014 By in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , Leave a comment

Just got my mail for the day and noticed I had a few letters – typically credit card promotions – but the one on top was from a local law firm. Being slightly para, I thought, oh God, what’s all this about. As I’m opening that letter, I notice the two letters behind it are also from law firms. FFS, what’s all this about?

The first one said, “We understand that you were recently involved in a car accident…” Oh my God. Opened the other two and they basically said the same thing. Urging me to seek legal counsel and all that. Seriously, colleges weren’t even this interested in me. 

Thanks, but… Ummmmmmm, nope.

Two of the three (which, by default, would make me disregard the odd one) sent me a copy of the accident report. Interesting.

The responding officer estimated the girl’s vehicle damage to $2000, which is probably about right. I notice he filled in the little bubble next to “TOTALED” in my car’s information. Well, I would say so. On the flip side of the page, he estimated the light pole’s damage to $1000. What-the hell-ever. That thing was sturdy AF.

I also learned that her airbag did not deploy, which is kind of ludicrous, to be honest. She may have hit me with the passenger side of her front bumper, but that was a good enough speed for hers to have deployed. We both had our seatbelts on, thank God. 

Then there’s a cute little diagram of the accident. My MINI looks like a matchbox compared to her Expedition, or whatever it was. 

—

Anyway, I got a call from the appraiser tonight. I’m going to meet him between 11 and 1130am. I wonder if I can get it towed to MINI of Omaha afterward. Ugh, that means I need to clean out all of my crap. Well, all the crap I can get to since the hatch is bent and the door’s stuck. 

Got super, embarrassingly emotional earlier, thinking about my plucky little Brit. Don’t worry, I left all of that for my journal. If only Richard Hammond was around for a chat about personifying and forming an emotional attachment with our cars. I had another look ’round the MINI website and saw that I could still order (or even find) another Baker Street edition. I’d love to have my car back, I really would. It kills me to think that I’m done with it. At the same time, I wonder if I should just let it be my one-of-a-kind, my one-off beauty and get a different MINI. 

A convertible would be fun, I love the barn doors on the Clubman; I know they have other limited editions like Hyde Park or Bond Street which are pretty beautiful… But I don’t know. Even a hardtop in British Racing Green sounds alright. I’ve got my nails painted in that color at the moment – it’s my black arm band, my sign of mourning. *sniffle* 

Erm… Yeah. Not sure what I’ll do yet. Guess it’ll somewhat depend on what the appraiser comes up with and what the girl’s insurance will do. Nevertheless, I’m going to find a MINI that makes me happy. 

—

Feeling a lot better today. A lot less stiff and sore. Still bruised and feeling like I’ve been strangled or had my neck stepped on. Still emotional. Still able to hear the sound of the crash plain as day. Only when I set out to think about it, so I don’t. Hurts to yawn or shiver (neck muscles sore/tendons twitch) describing that made me gag, can’t whip bangs out of my eyes (for the same reasons), hurts to laugh (abs, chest, ribs sore), bruises are annoying. Don’t really need Tylenol or anything. Not sleeping well/much. Haven’t gotten to the bottom of that one yet. Probably because I’ve had to be up for phone calls the past day or two and then I can’t very well get comfortable, having to avoid laying on bruises and whatnot. 

Wishing I had an on-board camera so I could see the crash from the inside (well, and the outside) in slow motion. The glass from my back windshield flying up to the front would be artistic and I’m sure I made some wicked microexpressions. I mean, did I say anything past ‘fuck!’? Did I scream? How did I get out of the bloody car? You know, the important questions. I need answers. If this had happened in London, I could ask Mycroft Holmes for the CCTV footage.

It’s Been A Funny Sort of Day

February 12, 2014 By in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

The day started off well enough. Woke up, had some breakfast, decided to get a facial and luckily, got an appointment within the hour. The facial was amazing, totally relaxing. Then I got home and just couldn’t get comfortable. Come to think about it, I couldn’t get comfortable in bed the night before. Just a sense of uncomfortability. Yep. Just made that one up.

Not wanting my evening to continue that way, I thought I’d invite dad over to watch The Fifth Estate – he needed a dose of Cumberbatch. He gave me some flack about always having to come out to my place and why don’t I come over there so he can fix me some smoked bbq ribs. Fine, whatever. 

I finished watching Dallas Buyer’s Club and got ready to go. Didn’t do my hair or makeup ’cause I didn’t care. For some reason, I just really didn’t want to go.

On the drive there – which is a straight shot east down Dodge and then a straight shot south on 120th – I had a stomach ache and just an all over unsettling feeling. Crossing Center Street, just a few blocks from dad’s house, I noticed a black car weaving in and out of traffic ahead of me and thought, that asshole’s going to hit someone. 

Dad’s driveway leads to 120th, just past a side street, so it’s always a bit of ‘I hope the person behind me sees that I’m turning but just in case I’ll do it as quickly as I can.’ 

I always check my rear view mirror as soon as I put my right blinker on – checking to see if there’s someone behind me and hoping they’ll just merge into the left lane to avoid slowing down (because it’s super annoying when someone turning holds up traffic). Then right before I turn into the driveway, I check my mirror again – checking to see if the person behind me is slowing down.

This time I noticed the person behind me was not slowing down. At the last second, I might have shouted ‘fuck’ and tried to again press on the accelerator so I could more quickly get into dad’s driveway. I thought, shit, with the snow, I’m definitely going to slide well into dad’s yard. 

Instead, I felt and heard a bam! behind me and then heard and felt another bam! on my left side. It’s not a biff and it’s not a crack, it’s just the loudest sound I’ve ever heard. I smelled the gunpowder from the side airbags deploying and I fumbled with my seatbelt release. Then I tried to open my door and couldn’t. I checked to see if it was unlocked, it was, and I tried again. It wouldn’t budge. I had a two-second panic and then somehow managed to grab my phone and get across the shifter and passenger seat and out the passenger side. I don’t really remember having any issue doing those things, so I can only imagine that I disapparated out of my car and on to the pavement.

I stood up slowly, making sure I was in tact. I looked up to see the white Ford Explorer/Expedition, one of the two, parked ten or so yards from where I was. The driver wasn’t out of the vehicle yet and I started over there. Then I thought, no, of course the driver is okay – they have a fucking SUV and they just slammed a MINI Cooper into a goddamn pole. I shakily opened up my iPhone camera and took pictures of the damage. Finally, the girl got out of the SUV and I turned to say, ‘I am so fucking pissed off at you right now.’ My car was destroyed. My darling MINI. Never mind the bodily harm I sustained.

She was very young and apologetic. I dialed 911 and my MINI, bless its heart, tried to put the call through its speakers via Bluetooth. Took me a few tries to change the audio source before the dispatcher picked up. I described the scene, asked the girl if she was hurt, she said no, thankfully, so we didn’t need medical. 

Oh, my car. The pole hit parallel, and flush, to the edge of my driver’s door. If I would have hit a few inches into the door, I am sure that my window would have shattered and I could have hit my head on the pole and my arm would have been crushed. The back window and windshield did shatter. I noticed later that there were large chunks of glass in my driver’s side floorboards. None in my hair or coat, amazingly. The – well, here are the initial photos, anyway: Image

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After taking the photos, I grabbed my brand new purse and noticed what was left of my Starbucks had gotten all over it. Now that I had something else to focus my anger on, I went inside dad’s house while he tried to convince the girl to come in (it was cold as fuck). I put my purse down on dad’s couch and ripped off my Gryffindor scarf to try to clean it off. Being leather/vinyl, and me being over-determined, it cleaned very easily. 

She finally came inside and I remember hearing her say, “no, she’s an adult” – referring to me. I think anyone who knows me would not refer to me as an adult. I don’t even refer to myself as an adult. I still see the same 18 year old when I look in the mirror. Never mind that being seven years ago. Ahem. Thinking that was silly, I heard dad then tell her to take a breath and calm down. This is also when I learned her name. Apparently, during my purse focus, my dad, bless him, had been a human being and asked her name. I looked up and found a trembling kid standing in the doorway. I went up to her and gave her a hug.

The cop showed up, we got everyone sat down. Dad did his thing and offered her food, water, pop, whatever. He offered me a beer, knowing the girl wasn’t old enough to drink. I figured that should wait until after the cop leaves. He asked us some questions, got our information, and filled out the report. He was very nice and what stuck out to me was the entirely patient way he ‘uh-huh’d us when we both started our phone numbers with the area code.

After that, I got very frustrated. I tried my best to engage her in conversation and joke around with her, I can’t imagine how scared and traumatized she was. Dad was doing his best to embarrass me and joke around with her to make her feel better. The girl said her mother is an ER doctor/nurse and, as her mother should be proud of her for, she urged me to get checked out even though I refused. When the cop was finished with the report, I told him I’d like to have a quick check after all. At that point, the adrenaline was starting to wear off and I was really starting to feel it in my arm. I knew nothing was broken, and I didn’t think doctors would be able to do much for me besides prescribe me – at the time, incredibly desired – pain meds. 

He said he could just have the squad check me out in the ambulance and I could refuse transport. Having never been to a hospital for an emergency or even anything other than a physical, it wasn’t the place I wanted to spend my night. The cop assured me that he’d call a fire truck, too, because he was sure the guys would relish the opportunity to do something. I said, yes, anything with lights and sirens, channeling my inner Ed from Shaun of the Dead. I asked the cop if the firemen would be calendar firemen or just firemen firemen, channeling my inner cougar of a mom. He said he couldn’t guarantee – sometimes they are, sometimes they aren’t.

I got my wish: soon there was an Omaha Fire Department fire engine and an ambulance outside the house with their lights on. A very cute fireman got out of the engine and started up toward the door. I made sure to be the one answering the door, even in my no-hair/no-makeup done state, and tried to ramp up my charm. The cute one asked my name and then stepped toward me. He reached out and took my wrist, very Sherlock-like. I looked up at him and said, it’s elevated. Wit and charm, that’s what I’ve got.

It was elevated. A few other firemen and paramedics had stepped inside now and were all looking me over from head to toe. I wish it was because I was hot and not because they were doing their jobs, looking for sticky-out bones and blood. 

They walked me out to the ambulance and I took a seat. One paramedic put that little clothespin on my finger while another asked me questions for a sheet: name, age, address, etc. A fireman stepped on and asked, did you need her pulse? as the paramedic who administered the clothespin was putting on a blood pressure cuff. So then I had the one guy holding his fingers to my left wrist, while the other was taking my blood pressure on the right arm. I don’t even remember it going stiff – the cuff, ahem – I was too busy correcting the spelling of my last name to the one filling out the sheet. The fireman taking my pulse said, yeah, F-R-I-I-S. Thanks, buddy.

It was a whirlwind of not-much-happening and soon they were telling me I’d be sore as fuck, my words, tomorrow and to use an ice pack, do I have an ice pack? No. So I got one. One helped me down off the rig and then I was walking back into dad’s house. I noticed the girl was gone. Her brother’s fiancée had come to see her since her mom was working. 

The cop, however, was still there. He gave me my license/reg/ins back and handed me a sheet with the girl’s information on it (for insurance). Dad further embarrassed me, so I told the cop to learn from this situation and not embarrass his daughters. I asked if I could leave my beaten MINI on dad’s property, since it’s private and off the road. He offered to put crime scene tape around it and I pleaded with him to please do so. (He didn’t, much to my dismay). He said he’ll probably be inundated with calls about the busted car in someone’s yard and I told him to tell the callers you’re just ignoring it until it goes away. (Doubt he did that, much to my dismay).

I shook his hand and he left.

The food I’d come over for in the first place no longer sounded appetizing. Dad made sure I was still okay and we hung out while I called insurance. It was literally the last thing I wanted to fuck with after all of that, but I knew I’d feel better having gotten it out of the way. The rep asked me if there was any damage to the pole. I wanted to laugh in her face. Like, drive to wherever her office is, ask for her to come to the waiting room, and then literally laugh in her face. I just said, um, I don’t know, I didn’t check.

After that, dad said I could take his truck since he wasn’t going to be working the next day. When I was ready, he went out and started it and helped me clean out some things from my car. After that, he called my mom to see if she’d come sit with me for a while. She would. We thanked God that I was still alive and I was ready to go home. 

Pulling out onto 120th Street wasn’t really something I wanted to do. I realized about four blocks away from dad’s that I was going about 25mph. I looked up into his rear view mirror and saw headlights approaching. I looked away and sped up toward home. 

—

Couldn’t get to sleep until after 3am. Thought I’d be exhausted, but I wasn’t. I was out of breath, talking too much, another adrenaline spike. Mom suggested that I eat some protein, so I had five sunny-side-up eggs. Dad’s urban chicken eggs. They were fantastic. 

I thought back over how I reacted to the crash and felt bad about what I’d said to the girl. I was angry and in shock and I could tell she was completely upset, and I yelled at her before I asked her if she was okay. I found her number on the accident report and texted her an apology. She said not to worry about it and she’s glad I’m okay. I told her I’m glad we’re both okay – it could have been so much worse.

I woke up early today, knowing I’d be getting a call from the insurance agent assigned to my claim. Sitting up in bed was tough. All of a sudden, it felt like I’d done a massive workout the day before. My legs were achy and stiff, my abs ached, my neck was sore and stiff, my left arm was sore and I could tell the bruises were worse before looking at them. It was like I ran a marathon and then fell down a flight of stairs to cross the finish line.

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Getting darker…

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Not entirely sure how I even got this on the inside of my elbow – smashed against my ribs, most likely.

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From the door/airbag, I reckon.

Besides a constant physical reminder, every time I think about my car, I get choked up. I know it sounds silly, but I truly love my car. It was brand-fucking-new, ordered and sent from Oxford just for me; limited edition Baker Street edition with special interior design and exterior color/bonnet stripes; sat for three months while I was in London; never, ever had a problem with it; I looked at the odometer on my way to dad’s, actually, and it read 8800 miles. It’s just a year old. I’ve had it a year. It’s fucking stunning and it’s perfect and it’s me and now it’s demolished. 

I don’t know the totaling process, but even if it’s not totaled, I can’t imagine it would be safe to drive after repair. Not with the extent of the damage. I tortured myself last night by going on the MINI website to see if they even had my car anymore. Didn’t see it on the website. Well, it’s limited edition, so I guess I should have expected as much. I don’t know. I’ll see if MINI of Omaha can find one for me. Somewhere. Anywhere. If not.. oh. I didn’t want to have to get another MINI. I wanted this one to get me through 300,000 miles. 

My heart’s broken. My bones are fine, but my heart’s broken. Just like my dear car. 

—

Before I get any more emotional… I went to dad’s today so that I could get into a rental car. The crash, cloaked in soft snow and darkness last night, looks even more awful in the garish light of day.

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The incredible side-airbags.

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Impressed with the mostly-clean glass break.

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Well, no wonder I couldn’t get my driver’s side door open. I think even an inch more to the front would have shattered my glass.

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Pulled apart at the seams, it seems.

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Did that pole take a fucking welding class beforehand?

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How far the pole got. And an excuse to showcase my fantastic gloves.

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Bits and pieces.

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Standing at the car, looking into the yard. Can see bits of glass as well.

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Oh hey, my back window’s tint. Including some of the glass. (and those fabulous gloves, again).

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Wonky.

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Gosh, you know, I’ve got two trashbags full of clothes for the Goodwill in there.

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The cop gave me the red bit that goes in the silver bit. As a souvenir >.>

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I see my donut is alright.

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Well, shit, snow got in there.

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I’ll have you notice, that key is to the TARDIS. Might need to drive that for a while, to be honest.

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Well-parked.

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What does that face say to you?

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Thank you, you wonderful, marvelous, magnificent, superb, glorious, sublime, lovely, delightful, fantastic, tremendous, stupendous, sensational, incredibly, brilliant little bull dog of a car. And thank you to the Oxford American Writer’s Thesaurus. 

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The appraiser will be around in the next couple days. Then it’ll have to be towed to MINI of Omaha. Then I’ll have to figure out the next step. As I grudgingly think about my next car, there’s no doubt at all: MINI Cooper. 

As completely shitty as this situation is, not just for me, but for the girl who hit me, I’m totally thankful for a great number of things: each of us was able to walk away, we were literally at my dad’s house so we had shelter from the cold, we also had my dad – ever the host – offering us food and drink, we had time to calm down and even laugh a bit. I would hate to think what it would have been like for her, well, for either of us, really, to have had this happen A: with someone less than apologetic/cooperative/etc, and B: out on the road where it wasn’t safe to sit/stand/otherwise. Again, as completely shitty as it was, it really was as good as it could be. Because we’re both okay, and cars/bumpers can be replaced, this is just more of an inconvenience than anything else.