I Was Just Trying to Help, Act III

Have you seen a 2008 Toyota Solara convertible?

It's a nice car. A sporty car. A car that is made for driving around and looking fabulous and flirting with the hot guy in the car next to you at the stop light. It is definitely not made for trips to the hardware store. Oh, and it has really nice leather seats, so it is also not made for terrible East Coast winter weather.

In fact, Mom, what are you doing with this car?

The wet-dry vac did not fit in the trunk--not even close. I briefly considered taking the thing out of the box and seeing if the vacuum itself would fit in the trunk, but it was raining so hard that all I wanted was to be someplace--anyplace--that it wasn't raining.

So, I opened the passenger-side door of the car and shoved the box in. It wasn't sliding in easily, but I knew there had to be a way, so I shoved. Hard. And eventually, I managed to get it in enough to close the door. I ran around to the driver's side and jumped in. The rain pounded the car, and I was shaking with cold and blinded by water pouring out of my hair. I figured I must look ridiculous, and I turned to the rear view mirror to get a good look. Which is when I discovered that I'd shoved the box against the mirror and actually pulled it out of the windshield, leaving a hole and two cracks where it had once been mounted.

I mentioned that this is a brand-new car, right?

Remember in Act II where, in a moment of panic, I grabbed a live electrical wire while standing in a pool of water? Some part of my brain must be shriveled and cracked, like the edges of a hard cheese that's been in the fridge too long. Because when I saw that I'd smashed up the windshield of my mom's new car, my first thought was:

"I need to move this box!"

Which I tried to do. Which is how I discovered that the broken part of the windshield had scattered into minuscule shards all over the box, a number of which immediately lodged in my hand. Which began bleeding profusely, all over my mother's brand-new leather seats.

Have you ever tried to drive a convertible, with its teeny back window and multiple blind spots? Have you ever tried to drive one in the blinding rain? With a broken rearview mirror swinging around? And a cracked windshield? And a bleeding hand? I imagine that playing the piano while simultaneously performing surgery is easier, if only because you know that when you're done, you won't be faced with telling your flu-addled mom that after you finish vacuuming 6 inches of water out of her basement, you'll need to borrow her car to find a new windshield and a good leather-cleaner that will remove bloodstains.