The first car I ever had was a pink Volkswagen bug, at least the parts that were not rusted through were pink. It had no working gauges, no heat, no radio, and you could see the highway rushing by beneath the floorboard – sadly, it was the best car I’ve ever had. One day I had my books sitting on the floor of the passenger side when the floorboard completely collapsed and my biology book was sent flying down Interstate 70 at 65 mph. My dad fixed it with a two by four and some spackle. My dad believed that anything could be fixed with the right amount of spackle. Or a staple gun. My brother and sister used to play doctor with my dolls which involved removing their scalps with a Ginsu knife. At that point, my resourceful dad would perform reconstructive surgery which would involve duct tape and/or a high powered staple gun. None of the other kids ever wanted to play with me and my freaky little dolls. Ah, crap, where was I? Ah yes, fire. So I continued to drive the little bug until The Accident. Basically I was hit by a motorcycle, a truck, and a large wall of concrete, in no particular order. Of course, my little bug immediately caught on fire. Lucky for me I hit my head hard enough not to be too upset about any of this, more like, “oooh, my car’s on fire, I should probably do something, like maybe get out.” I tried my door, but of course it was wedged against the concrete median so that wasn’t happening. Then I tried the passenger door, but motorcycle dude’s bike was wedged into that door. I thought about rolling down the window and leaving, but it just seemed like so much effort to crawl out once I had actually rolled it down that taking a nice nap in the warm car was more appealing. Obviously I didn’t die, duh, since I am here telling this fascinating story. Someone pulled me out and someone else gave me a maxi pad to put on my head wound, the super absorbent kind with wings so I could sit and watch my little car burn and burn until all that was left except a bug shaped husk.
My next fire experience is a few years later. After returning from an all day beach excursion with friends, turns out my apartment had burned down. The whole thing, gone, burned to the ground. By the time we got there, the fire was long over, all that was left was a pile of black smoldering debris. I had lived on the third floor, but alas, the third floor was no more. I thought, hey, no big deal, I’m resilient. I stayed with a friend and was coping pretty well until about a week later when I wanted to wear my pink t-shirt and of course, it was just a pile of ash now, along with everything else. After several drinks, I decided that I needed something, anything from my old apartment, and then everything would be okay, I could go on with my life and be happy, I just needed ONE thing. I convinced my less than sober friend Kristi to go with me. We forgot to bring a flashlight, and it was around 1:00 in the morning, so navigation was a bit compromised. Still, I was determined. I was about ready to start crying because there wasn’t anything left, it was all gone, when I saw this spatula gleaming in the moonlight. It was the most beautiful spatula I had ever seen in my life. It’s doubtful it was even my spatula, as my cooking skills are questionable at best. Chips and dips are what I volunteer to bring to parties. Anyhow, the spatula became very important to me and I knew that I MUST have it. I stepped on a board to grab it, and as my fingers closed around the handle, the board gave way and my foot slipped through, tearing an 8 inch gash in my calf. So then it was off to the emergency room, me holding my spatula and bleeding, but oh so happy, I felt like the Spatula Queen of the Universe. It was a pretty busy night at the emergency room, so I was left waiting alone while Kristi went off to most likely pass out in a bathroom. Ryan showed up and started yelling at me about how irresponsible I was, how stupid, blah, blah, blah, dickhead. I stood up to tell him to shut up, but apparently my blood had been pumping out onto the floor, so I slipped, fell on my ass, and bit down on my tongue. Hard. I had two options, start crying or start laughing. I went with option two. There I was, sitting on the floor in a pool of my own blood, clutching a spatula, and alternately laughing and choking on my own blood, wondering if I had just bitten off my own tongue. It was a pretty picture, let me tell you. Finally a doctor noticed me, this crazy bloody spatula chick on the floor and I received some medical attention. I only kind of freaked out when someone tried to take away the beloved spatula, but other than that I eventually calmed down. Okay, okay, I calmed down after they gave me a tranquilizer, but whatever. Bygones. I still have that beautiful spatula by the way.
2002-06-05 at 2:02 p.m.