January 26th, 2005

(no subject)

That gorgeous cop from Ticonderoga decided that it would be fun to schedule me for a court date on my dad's 49th birthday. This situation, of course, forced me to do a number of inconvenient things. I would first have to leave work early, then drive an hour and a half to Ti, get fined a ridiculously unnecessary amount of money for speeding on roads that nobody ever travels in the first place, and then I would have to drive back on those same roads that were all now covered in the inevitable January snow. As I was on my way down, I knew something bad was going to happen. I knew it was only going to lead to trouble when I promised myself I wouldn't just wuss out and spend the night at a friend's house in Ti. I was determined to get home for my dad's birthday, and ceremonial lobster dinner.

Sure enough, halfway into the trip, I had a ditch up and ass and snow up to my passenger side window. Oh joy.

Apparently, 35 MPH wasn't slow enough for the random bouts of road covered in six inches of snow, and my car fell victim to the lonely and untouched snow that filled the ditch on the side of the road. Luckily, winter in Vermont puts a whole new meaning to the word "crash," as going off the road into two feet of snow is more so like jumping into bed than getting in a car accident. I could feel the puffy snow pillowing my car as it enveloped every last crack and seam of my vehicle and swallowed it into an inescapable abyss of powder.

Five seconds of trying to maneuver myself from the snow proved immediately to be impossible, but luckily within the next five minutes, two cars had already pulled over to help me. One of the men was obviously a product of his trailor home and his dark purple Dodge Neon. He strapped on his hat and gloves and started pushing with his cigarette butt still hanging from his mouth while snow flew up from my wheels in every direction. The other man was in his fifties, and he pushed while his wife asked in whole-hearted concern if I was alright, like a fifty-year-old woman normally does. Even with two men pushing and the smell of burning filling the inside of my car, the mission still proved to be impossible.

And then came the 18-wheeler.

Being someone who is obviously fascinated with bulldozers and 18-wheelers and mack trucks of the sort, you can imagine my excitement when the driver of the massive truck hopped down from his beast and told us that he had a rope conveniently stored in the side compartment of his carrier. As the man pulled his truck further down the road to prepare, the other two men strapped the rope to the back of my car, biting their teeth in the negative fifteen degrees and the wind fiercly blowing snow onto their red cheeks.

I clapped my hands and bounced about in absolute giddiness as the 18-wheeler began to pull my tiny car from its stuck position. It was almost as good as buying my own bulldozer and driving it down the most crowded street in Burlington. Knowing that my microscopic little Acura coupe was attached at mercy to the back of this tremendous truck was beyond exciting to me, and almost made flying off the road completely worth it.