Preschools and Chevys and the problems they create for me

I’ve been looking back at some of my recent posts, and MAN!  The cheese!  I need to spread out those mushy feel good posts a bit more because I’m annoying myself.

It could just be that I’m feeling a little crabby because I’ve been up since 5:15 this morning.   I had to drive (AT 5:15 THIS MORNING) to my children’s preschool to pick up a number for my place in line to register Ella at 9 AM for next school year.   Supposedly people were in line by 4:45, so by my getting there “late”, I was number 37.  I was still able to get Ella into the class I wanted, and I don’t have suggestions for a better way to do this, so complaining seems a bit douchey, but STILL.  Preschool and all the hoopla and stress surrounding it is absurd.    I don’t know how you people who live in big cities and have to put your kids on waiting lists at schools while you’re pregnant deal with this!

I don’t really know how to segue into a new topic, so how about this:  Hey!  Let’s talk about something else!  Did I tell you that I wrecked my husband’s beloved truck?  The one we bought a little over a year ago, used with only 8,000 miles on it, pristine condition, for a great price?  The truck that still has a slight new car smell?   The truck that he’s so proud of and loves A LOT? His Chevy Avalanche?

That’s the one!

Before I tell you how it happened, I’d like to point out that the last time I had an accident was when I was sixteen.  It was right after school, I was rocking out in my 1987 Chevy Nova and people standing at the exit of the school were handing out flyers for either 1) my salvation through Jesus or 2) a rave.  I don’t remember which, it doesn’t matter, except that I was reading the flyer, head down, not at all watching the road in front of me when suddenly  there was a school bus, a short one, stopped in front of me.  I didn’t exactly smash into the short bus because I slammed on my breaks, but I did tap it, leaving a cracked blinker and a small dent in the front fender.

Nineteen years between accidents is pretty impressive, right?   Perhaps impressive isn’t the right word.

So the night before I was leaving for Blissdom, I had to drive my mother in law to the kid’s school to show her the drop off procedures.   I pulled up a little too far to point out through the window where she would go to pick them up, and since it was late and the parking lot was deserted, I made the very dumb decision to just back up without looking.  That’s when a brick pillar jumped out and hit the beloved Chevy Avalanche, leaving a cracked blinker and dents (plural) in the rear fender.

As of right now, we are waiting on some parts to arrive at the body shop so that it can be fixed.  I can’t even bear to look at the truck, I feel absolutely terrible about the pillar jumping out and hitting me.  I can’t even look at other Chevy Avalanches in all their unblemished glory.  Until it’s fixed, I don’t think this nervous tummy feeling is going to go away.

Themes I detected while writing this:  That preschool is causing me all sorts of problems and maybe I shouldn’t be allowed to drive Chevys.