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.

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.

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.