Pause for a Moment

Sometimes you have to pause for a moment and put yourself in someone else's shoes. Consider that for a minute, and then go read this post by Ginny. As you are reading it, imagine yourself in Amy's shoes.

Imagine it.

And do what you think is right.

Doug Shields' email: doug.shields@city.pittsburgh.pa.us

Doug Shields' phone number: 412.255.8965

To Be Continued. Promise.

One of the very unfortunate side effects of my car getting smashed was that I was forced to drive Mr. Husband's SUV for a few days. Somewhere between the insurance companies figuring out what the police officer at the accident had already declared and me getting a rental were a few days of a crippled Audrey in our driveway and no rental coverage. Rather than battling over the issue, I put my life at risk.

I mean that literally.

I was fully aware that Mr. Husband's 1998 Honda Passport was a POS (to put it mildly), but he has spent so much time complaining about it that I long ago stopped paying attention. It was like there was a filter between my ears and brain that refused to let anything negative about the Honda get through. A survival instinct, if you will. I mean, I knew that the key sometimes got stuck in the ignition for weeks on end. I knew the only way the thing would start was if you turned the key half way, waited for the power locks to go down, and then tried starting it. I knew that it sometimes randomly revved itself.

I didn't know it liked to randomly stall in the middle of the road.

While I was in the middle of absolutely nowhere.

Seriously. (Also, THANK GOODNESS. Middle of nowhere > Busy highway when it comes to breaking down. I think. Mostly. Kinda.)

The first day of the Epic Sacrifice I plopped Alexis in the back of the Passport and started navigating to her preschool. I happened to select one of my more rural paths between Point A and Point B. Just as we hit the absolute center of Nowheresville USA, the Passport decided it was time to take a nap. A loooooong nap. In the middle of the road.

I tried to start it back up again and again.

Nothing.

I figured I would wait a minute before turning the key again. While I waited, I started to think through a Plan B. I could call Mr. Husband, but he was over an hour away and would not be amused. I could call roadside assistance, but you kinda sorta need to know which road you are on in order for them to find you. I figured I had a little time on my hands, so I grabbed my phone and pulled up Google Maps.

It said my current location was BFE. And, if you don't know that that stands for, it can roughly be translated as "In the middle of a field filled with horse poop and dandelions and you have GOT to be kidding if you think anybody is going to find you there."

Alexis and I sat in the Honda for ten minutes, me alternating between trying to figure out Plan B and me trying to start the vehicle. I considered walking to the nearest intersection to check the street sign, but realized that would require a good 3-mile walk. At 7:30am. With a cranky 4-year old.

No thank you, especially since Pennsylvania does this really fun thing where it considers labeling streets/roads to be an optional activity. I think maybe you have to request a street sign from the troll under the bridge, but first you have to figure out which bridge he is under, but you can't because none of the bridges are labeled. And if you call and ask for directions, the Powers that Be will tell you, "The yellow bridge."

They're all yellow.

Anyway, ten minutes passed and the Honda finally started, and then went on to act like nothing had ever happened. As in, it suddenly decided to run better than it had run for years. Literally.

It took me 4.2 seconds to call Mr. Husband and tell him to get rid of the dumb thing before I drove it off a cliff.

EPIC ERROR.

Never tell your husband that he needs to start car shopping. Ever. Never ever ever. Unless, of course, you enjoy hearing about cars 24 hours per day, 7 days per week for a month. And I don't.

Regardless, it's gone now (along with my sanity), but that's a whole other story.

I May Not Need to Eat Again for at Least a Week

Mr. Husband and I had the extreme fortune of spending this evening at Pittsburgh Magazine's Best Restaurants Party. Let me just say, OH! EM! GEE! I may never recover from the awesome.

Imagine, if you will, a party all about food. Beautiful, wondrous food. Once you cough up your ticket, you are released into a room filled with all-you-can-eat magic. It was like going to Ponderosa and eating all that you want, except that instead of green beans that are so old and mushy your great-grandma doesn't need to put her teeth in to jaw them suckers, there are handmade marshmallows in five fabulous flavors that you GET TO DIP IN CHOCOLATE. (If ever five words deserved all caps, those are the words. Trust me.) Instead of cafeteria style pizza made with Bisquick and ketchup, there is The Very Best Pizza You've Ever Eaten In Your Whole Life. (All hail Mineo's, yo.) Instead of a glow-in-the-dark orange-tinted "ice cream" glopping out of a machine that roars when you look at it, there is this carrot cake that can only be described as Heaven On Earth.

All you can eat, but SPECTACULAR.

And don't even get me started about all the beer and wine and sangria and vodka and margaritas. Oh, never mind, go ahead and get me started. Because Beer! and Wine! and Sangria! and Vodka! and Margaritas! Mmmhmmm.

The second Mr. Husband and I walked through the door, his eyes started darting to and fro. While I am a cautious eater, he is a Destroyer. All night long, I wished I had a leash for him because he was like a ninja, darting off to grab more food and drink at a table over there, but then magically reappearing over here. One second he was eating some sort of tuna taco thingy over yonder, the next he was trying to make me look at the cow tongue or whatever he was inhaling.

It was dizzying.

Fortunately, there is a cure for a case of the Husband is Spinning Around the Room Like a Tasmanian Devil Dizzies. That cure is called chocolate chip cheesecake.

I officially believe all things Pittsburgh Magazine are made of unicorns and glitter and rainbows and funnel cakes.

Actually, that was the only thing missing from the party. Funnel cake.

Well, that, and a leash for the husband.