“It’s a sign: your car is trying to kill you.”

So said my friend Kas after a leeetle problem on Tuesday.

Pshah, Kas, was my first thought. “My car looooves me. And I love it. We’re soul mates. It’s as messy as I am…..er…whatever.” Ok, so I have drastically inordinate emotional attachments to inanimate objects. But still—there’s a mutual affection there. I am sure of it. Or I was. Until Tuesday.

“No way. That thing is ridiculous,” was his response..

Accompanied by Kas I dashed home on that fateful day to check on Tweak who is no longer the Christmas-tree-ornament-sized pet but has become a rambunctious, heavy-weight champion in the form of a now two-pound pup. He has a bit of separation anxiety—if I am away for too long, he freaks the frick OUT and decides to do back flips from the shoe boxes in the hallway which can't be healthy for his size. And despite his name, I am not going to give him a whiff of meth in any form.

After calming Tweak down, we jumped back into Honda and sped off on the freeway.
We were clipping along at a 70mph pace when the hood quivered slightly.

“You know they make hoods on cars with a space so that if it were ever to flip up for some reason you could still see through enough to get to the side of the road….” I said to Kas who didn’t know that and nodded with appropriate interest.

“That’s so inter----“ he started to say.

SMuuuuuAAAAAAAAAAAAACK.

HOLY MUTHER LOVING FR---

I couldn’t even complete my profanity-laced thought because the hood of my car was bonded to the spider veins of glass holding the windshield together.

As I tried to get over on the freeway I noticed my rear view mirror was gone.

“Oh geez..” Kas said as he picked the rear view mirror up off of the ground. The hood apparently bent over the roof of the car and cracked the mirror mount clean off of the ceiling.

“It’s fine, it’s fine, I can see…” I said as I yanked the car to a precarious position on the side of the freeway. We both laughed as we climbed out of the passenger side door.

Once we surveyed the strange sight, we pulled the V-shaped hood off of the windshield, smashed down the hood and tied it with a black plastic trash bag (cars swooping around us in the process).

“This is just ridiculous. Freaking hilarious. I’m glad you were with me because no one would believe me otherwise,” I laughed, flipping on some hick bluegrass music to accompany the completely thrashed look of my car.

“No one would believe you? LOOK AT YOUR CAR, WOMAN!”

It’s true--- Honda's shattered look can't be missed. She is good for a laugh-- but maybe she is trying to kill me...and I'm kinda offended.

And acting on that slighted feeling, I bought another car from an old man I found at a juvenile detention center.

That story later….