Overheating Betty overheats one last time; 11:47am,Thursday, at North Garden

Overheating Betty completed her life of resistance as a car yesterday at North Garden, near Dr. Ho's in Batesville VA.  Driving north on 29, Betty's interior lights magically came on , all of them simultaneously.  As she lit up for her final act of courage, the entire car lost power and rolled to a stop on a slight hill facing the Gulf station at North Garden.  I had my son, Rourke's cell phone which I used to call my daughter and my ex husband-Meanwhile a man who was well meaning, however didn't really have the time to help me offered to help me.  As I was pushing the car up into the parking lot he came towards me and alerted me that I would never be able to push Betty to a parking spot.  He was a man.  I am a woman.  I am woman pushing a car.  I stopped immediately remembering that he knew much more than I did about this situation.  This fellow then told me I must push Betty into the parking lot at the post office behind me.  Of course.  He and I started to push Betty backwards and she took off, racing down the hill at a much quicker speed.  The well meaning man then became annoyed with me shouting, "I thought you were going to steer, pull the break up".  I informed him I could not run as fast the car racing down the chill.  Then Betty smashed into a telephone pole.  The man kept telling me he thought I would jump in the car (like the Dukes of Hazzard -this is all I can imagine).  Then he says to leave my car where it is and not to forget my cell phone (Rourke's cell phone) which was on the roof of Betty throughout the entire incident.

I thanked the man as he left.

I then pushed Betty up the hill, although now about 100 yards farther than when I had originally began pushing her.  I parked Betty in a spot in the parking lot and rolled up her windows and got tangled in the electric seat belt one last time.

I waited for my daughter, Fiona to pick me up and take me to Charlottesville where I was meeting my ex husband for parent teacher conferences for my youngest son, Ammon.

When my children were little, instead playing "cars" they played broken down cars and the tow truck sometimes they played me screaming or crying. They built a liquor store out of legos. As well as playing mommy gets arrested and dragged of by the police at a protest-Through my parenting techniques I have provided much fodder for my children's stories, once they have become adults.

Random Acts of Stupidity

I   am continually  following my own blog on accident.  When you see my "followers" and then see me too many times please realize that this is indeed a Random Act of Stupidity. I have no idea how to fix.  No wonder my cars blow up.

I keep trying to follow my friend Scott Rollins movie trivia blog, however each time I believe that I am doing that I am actually following my own blog, yet again.  I am completely aware that, me following my own blog numerous times, impresses no one,  actually it is a bit embarrassing for me.

I will continue to try, in my Luddite inane way, to follow my friends blogs.  I can only hope that one day I will actually do so-but I am not giving up.  Even if I have followed my own blog 25 times I will continue to try (actually, that may be stretching it a bit, like saying I'm a 140 lbs, it is really not true). Thanks.
Rosie

Overheating Betty Lives up to her Name, Denies Owner Night on the Town

Overheating Betty overheats.  Hence her name, Overheating Betty.

Tonight, my college room mate and friend Elizabeth is going to perform
at Secretly Y'all.  Secretly Y'all is a story telling performance held in a 
very hipsterish bar in Richmond. I have been planning to go see Beth,
as I called her 20 years ago in college, perform a story she wrote about
"Found".    Beth and Secretly Y'all both reside in Richmond Va. , approximately
93 miles from  my house in Afton.  (if you assume goggle maps is correct)
I was about 10 miles from my house when Overheating Betty overheated 
to the extent that as a responsible adult I could not drive 93 approximate
miles.
Ice was also falling from the sky and snow was on the ground, I was 
pushing the remnants of adult behavior by even trying to go to
Richmond for a night on the town.  Overheating Betty saved me from
a partying, college student minded descion to drive to Richmond (93 
approximate miles) where I would inevitably drink wine and then drive back
to Afton on icy roads.  
My apologies to Beth, and my thanks to my little red acura for being the 
surrogate parent I obviously need.

High School

Teenager

(getting out of the car)

Horizontal Projection is a painting of a 1984 Frienza

Hey,

You know some kids,

some hippie types-at my school

say things like

“CARS SUCK”

(pause)

and I’m like, yeah, well granola pants, 

when they paved paradise and put up a parking lot-

I was the first one there-

(pause)

“CARS SUCK”

(pause)

my ass

cars only suck if you don’t have one.

When my dad died my mom handed 

over the keys to his car.

Shit, she was so glad to be free 

of driving my ass around.

(pause)

We were having a discussion in my

civics class, when this dude, Marcus pipes 

up and says “A car is the utterly

fraudulent emblem of personal liberation”

(Silence)

I almost said to him, right there in class,

“well then Mr. Pretentious Granola Pants,

maybe YOU shouldn’t be stopping by MY

car in the morning for bong hits.”  Can’t

take too many bong hits riding his bike to 

school,  but he doesn’t have to worry,

cause my car is always there, ready for visitors.

I won’t give him any shit about it.  

You know, his mom, she works up at 

Kmart, I’ve seen her get off the bus.

Marcus’s bike will bring him right 

up to my car, and we’ll smoke a little weed

-a little morning weed before class-

because-

MY CAR ROCKS

Projection of Smoke Billowing

out of the Car 

Overheating Betty

My red acura runs hot.  Just like me, it is always over heating.  Midlife is challenging for both cars and women.  I was on my way to town, town in my world is Charlottesville, a good 35 minutes away. I was going to Charlottesville to make some money to support my car habit by watering plants. 

About 15 minutes into the drive, I noticed the needle on the temperature gauge tickling the section on the dial that is red.  I pulled over to the right hand shoulder of Interstate 64 East, it is like a second home to me, the right hand shoulder of Interstate 64. A second home that I am forced to visit even though I know the only thing that will be enjoyable about that home is that some time I will get to leave.  Like a Haunted House or a Saw movie.

I am armed with an array of chemicals and oils in my hatchback.  I empty one partially filled container of anti-freeze into my radiator.  I jump back in the car, wrestle the automatic seat belt and start the machine up again.  Within moments the dial springs back in to the red zone.  No lights come on, I take this as a sign that I can make it to the restaurant I am working at.  I am fairly sure that none of the internal lights on the acura work, but in moments of need I often pretend that they do work, and that the absence of an orange light, warning me that the car is going to explode is a good thing. 

Fascinatingly I make it to the Downtown Mall, where I park illegally and go water my fruit trees.  Upon my return to the car, knowing that I have to make it back to Nelson County, I have the where with all to check my oil.  Low.  Big Surprise.  Perhaps in another persons life it would be a surprise, for me and my acura this ground we have covered.  I look in my purse for some cash to buy some oil. I know when I open my purse that there is no cash inside of it, but somewhere inside of me there is always the hope that the story of the BORROWERS is true, and that the little folks have put the money back where it belongs.No Cash.  Screw them and their selfish little ways.  

When my 16 year old daughter opened a bank account, she needed a responsible adult to be on the account with her.  I am on Fionas bank account,  I am able to check her balance. I have access to a debit card.   I use the debit card to steal money from her checking account.  I drive Overheating Betty (the nickname for the acura at that moment) to the 5th street Food Lion and buy 3 containers of oil with Fionas debit card.  I do not know how much oil is in each container, but three, just intuitively seemed like the right amount.  Soon I am back on Interstate 64 heading west, even sooner I choose to drive on the parallel road, route 250 because my car looks and acts as though it is powered by jet fuel.  The amount of smoke thrusting from my non-existent exhaust system is impressive.  I had a Honda that burned up once, and Overheating Betty's impression was lifelike, even without all the fire.  Each time I pressed my foot to gas pedal a mountain of smoke would rumble out from under the car and fill the air for blocks behind me.

Just get me home, is my mantra.  It has worked for me more times than logic could account for.Cosmically, it works for me, Carma. Just get me home.  I use imagery to plot out each turn and bump in the road focusing clearly and directly on the most important goal-Home.  Me.  Getting there.  It works, with shame and concentration Overheating Betty pulls onto Shannon Farm and gets me up the hill, past the orchard, and to the bare area in the woods in front of my house, which has a yard filled crap and pink doors. I  hear the dogs inside , the are barking and jumping and I imagine them peeing all over themselves.  Ah,   Nirvana.

Bad Shit Happens Like Clockwork (in a New York Accent)

Bad Shit Happens Like Clockwork

In a New York accent

Bad Shit happens like clockwork-

Our car, my families car is out 

of commission, 

so to speak, actually the girl 

who rents a room from us,

the bipolar one, she totaled our

car. One night, in the middle 

of the night, she’s out with her

boyfriend, when-WHAM-

she smashes into the guard rail 

on some lonely deserted

road in Long Island or someplace. 

She gave us her car,

just like that, it is a piece of crap, but hey it drives-and

we didn’t care so much, I mean we like her, we

have a car when we need it-

like today, we needed it, to get here, to get this funeral.

We all pile into this little Chevet or whatever it is, 

my three babies, my husband and me-the car

is so small we are crammed in like Pickles in a

jar at the roller skating rink on Sunday afternoon.

We are heading out of the city on Rhode Island Ave

when - BLAM - a car hit us from behind. 

All the windows of the rolling death trap we are in

shatter-I’m in the back seat, a car seat on either side,

my daughter, she’s up front with my husband and

we are all covered in little tiny shards of

glass.  My husband throws open the door into

the oncoming traffic of Rhode Island Ave-the kids

and I are silent and in shock-my husband yells “What

the Fuck were you thinking” as he jumps out of the 

drivers seat into the oncoming traffic.  I am trying to

pick the glass off my boys.

I turn to get a look at the son of a bitch that plowed

into us, he is out of his truck, apologizing and using

all kinds of hand gestures to talk to my husband-he 

was saying he was sorry, but I don’t think he knew

how to say anything else in English, he was just waving

his hands and talking but I have no idea what he was saying-

You know my husband, he’s a pain in the 

ass sometimes, but he’s really just a big old softy,

he felt terrible for yelling Fuck at that guy so he 

starts apologizing and waving his hands around too.

There is so much glass in the car, tiny little pieces

in all of our clothes, and my little one he’s only 3 

so it was hard for him to try and sit still while I cut up

my hands trying to get the glass off of him.

All three of them had recovered from the impact 

and now were traumatized and screaming their

heads off.

Cars are flying past us-My husband and the mexican 

guy that hit us are deep in conversation,sharing 

a moment and bonding over the tragedy that has 

befallen us.  What needs to happen is that we need to

get the car out of the road and the kids away from 

all that glass, but no, My husband still feels so bad about

yelling Fuck that he continues to apologize to the Mexican,

I’m thinking that there isn’t time for them roast a goat over the fire

because we still have to get here-to the funeral.

The bad driver explains to my husband that he doesn’t 

have insurance, he has no idea what a bleeding heart 

my husband is...My husband LOVES Mexicans, the more

illegal the better-he assures this guy he won’t call the police 

or the insurance company or the INS or whatever the

hell they call  them these days.  I’m worried that if

my babies continue screaming I might shove some

glass in their throats just to make them be quiet and 

now we are all freezing, because with out car windows

it is God Damn Cold.

My husband comes back to the car smiling,

that is because he has been standing in traffic bonding,

instead of sitting in a freezing cold car with

screaming babies covered in glass-

“It’s alright” he says.

(Pause)

“He has four cars at his house, he said we

can have anyone we want”

So-here we are.  We made it.  We borrowed

a car from my son’s preschool teacher

We just left that piece of shit Chevet in front of an

oral surgeons office on Rhode Island Ave.

Before we left, that little Mexican guy started 

waving at us- he and my husband spoke with hand gestures - 

 Thanks to him, we remembered to take the license plates off.

My Current Pile of Metal and Shame

(Sing some of that “get’um up, round up song)

When I arrive places, people turn to see the herd of cattle passing.  Instead a small, dented, red, two door, Acura filled with a cloud of fog appears.
To escape the small red fog machine of shame I have to role down the window of the car and grab the outside handle of the door.  My windows are electric, when I turn the car off the automatic seat belt glides forward.  I turn to open the door
“Shit”
the handle is broken.  I put the key back in the ignition and turn it.
Out of nowhere, the seat belt flies back at me.
My arm has moved forward to flip the automatic window switch is all tangled in the fabric of the seat belt which struggles to move back to its position above my head despite my arm obstructing it while I reach out the opening window , grasp the handle and open the door.  While the door is open I have to again make my way to the switch which operates my window so that I can put it up, then turn the key and try to remember not exit the car while the automatic seat belt  glides , mindlessly, back into the position towards the steering wheel.