This is a story about a young woman and how her temperament was stretched thin and liable to snap. But it didn't. Instead, this woman sought the solace of a blended Mudslide and the company of friends.
We'll get to the drink (yup, it's the forth one of the year -- and only three days after the third) in a moment, but first let's examine the events leading up to this momentous occasion.
A friend from the UK had stayed with me all week, and Friday morning (4:30am to be exact) I was obliged to take him to the Portland Airport to catch his 7:40 flight. He had mentioned on more than one occasion that I didn't dress "feminine enough," and if I wanted people to notice me as a lady instead of "one of the boys" then I should dress up more often. Now I am disinclined to agree with that estimation, but to prove that I indeed knew how to dress like a lady, I told him that I would dress up when I took him to the airport. Ordinarily at 3:30 in the morning the best you could hope for out of me is my old sweatpants and a sweatshirt. My hair wouldn't be combed, I wouldn't wear makeup, and I wouldn't wear contacts. But no, I pulled out the big guns and turned out in a lovely gray day dress, wedge shoes, makeup, straightened hair, and contacts.
And I felt like a chump one hour later.
We left my place at 4:27am (which is odd because I'm never early for anything) and were off to Portland in the hopes of avoiding traffic in the middle of the night/morning. I noticed my lights were a little dim, but thought it was because I'm never driving so early in the morning and I'm just not used to it. We made it to West Linn around 5:30ish heading up the hill to the Lake Oswego exit when I noticed the cruise control not working. I press on the gas again, but this time it only increases a little, then not at all. I curse in my head, but manage to maneuver to the side of the road. We pop the hood just in time to see everything shut down. Not even my hazard lights would blink on.
So there I am, all dressed up and looking like a prissy helpless woman staring dubiously under the hood of my car. I didn't have a clue what to look for. I knew how to check the fluids, and I had a sneaking suspicion that that wasn't the issue.
And then a cop shows up.......I'm curled up in the front seat of my car by then, trying to get ahold of AAA and convince them that I need legit assistance on the side of the road. BUT because I was not the card-holder, I was somehow undeserving of their help. To add insult to injury, he turned his salesman speech on and tried to get me to buy AAA insurance for $100. No moron, I am no interested in spending $100 on a plan when I'm only keeping my car for a couple more months. I need roadside assistance NOW. After his schpeal, I finally convinced him to connect me to the closest tow company and I'll get help myself. Meanwhile, the cop is trying to ascertain the situation and my friend is trying to convince him that it's the alternator that's given out (all in his thick Scottish brogue). The cop sets up some flares for us since the sun was just starting to wake up.
My friend says he needs to call a cab in order to make it to the airport in time (I didn't schedule in break-down-on-the-side-of-the-road time), but the cop informs him that no cab will pick up a guy on the side of the road because it's too dangerous.
Our solution: the cop (who I still don't know his name) would give us a ride to the MacDonald's, call the cab to pick up my friend there, and call the tow company to meet me there as well.
We grab our things and walk back to his car. The lights are spinning, the flares are flaring, and I'm climbing into the backseat of a cop car dressed like an evening escort on the side of the highway.
My first thought was that I have got to get a picture in the back of a squad car. Then I shamefully chastised myself for thinking that at such an inappropriate time. This was no time for me to further this ridiculous stereotype I was obviously cast in as being a prissy girly-girl. And now I don't have a picture to document the epic moment that it was.
The cab and tow company actually came pretty quickly to meet us at MacDonalds. I said goodbye in the parking lot to my friend (and found out his cab fare would be about $60. My tow alone cost me $65). The tow guy didn't even help me into the monstrosity he calls a tow truck, so in a dress and 4-inch heels I manage to gracefully climb into the cab. We drive the mile to my car in complete silence. He hooks up my car, and then we proceed to sit there for another 15 minutes as he tries to decide where to take my car. The man is clearly an idiot. Really, I mean a complete neadrathal. He says he doesn't know any of the shops in town, but the couple that he does know aren't open yet, so I'd have to sit in the parking lot for an hour before they open. At this point I don't even care. He calls a couple places up, continues to spit chewing tobacco into a Rock Star can, and stares out the window as traffic picks up. He says he'd haul it back to Canby for me since that's where he's from and he knows more people down there. Then I come to find out it would cost me $2.50 a mile for him to tow me anywhere; I tell him to just take me to the closest Les Schwab (which he claims will fix anything). He's a liar.
I hiked back up the hill to the Schwab after breakfast (that I couldn't even finish), ended up having them change my battery so I can drive the two blocks to the auto shop that can do something about my alternator. The shop owner, Russ, outlined everything that would need to take place in order to fix my alternator, gave me a price and let me go outside to have another good cry on the phone with my dad. "Bite the bullet," my dad said. So with that proverbial bullet between my teeth, I paid the $373 and got the new alternator put in. Now I just need to figure out how I'm going to sell this piece of equipment in which I have replaced everything except the actual engine. It had better be worth all the money I've already invested....
I drove home two hours later, feeling completely exhausted and defeated, closed all the blinds in my room, and curled under the covers in sweatpants and a t-shirt -- the clothes I should have been wearing when driving to the airport in the first place.
And now the time of truth: to drink or not to drink? After all, it had only been three days since my last.....beverage.
My friend had her 23rd birthday that night at a local bar, and since I slept the majority of the day away, I was collected enough to attend. Chase Bar & Grill was where I had my first blended Mudslide -- and it was the best I've ever had. This, in and of itself, was enough to tempt me toward another drinking session.
In honor of my friend's birthday, and in order to ease my wearied soul, I salved my wounds with the smooth chocolaty taste of Mudslide-y goodness.
I drove home two hours later, feeling completely exhausted and defeated, closed all the blinds in my room, and curled under the covers in sweatpants and a t-shirt -- the clothes I should have been wearing when driving to the airport in the first place.
And now the time of truth: to drink or not to drink? After all, it had only been three days since my last.....beverage.
My friend had her 23rd birthday that night at a local bar, and since I slept the majority of the day away, I was collected enough to attend. Chase Bar & Grill was where I had my first blended Mudslide -- and it was the best I've ever had. This, in and of itself, was enough to tempt me toward another drinking session.
In honor of my friend's birthday, and in order to ease my wearied soul, I salved my wounds with the smooth chocolaty taste of Mudslide-y goodness.
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