I MUST HAVE HIT SNOOZE TUESDAY MORNING TEN TIMES before the alarm finally scared me awake. Which was funny, considering how buried it was, tucked up under the left corner of my pillow and smothered by the weight of my head.

It was the frantic buzz that got me up, and I completed the automatic maneuver of flipping open my phone and answering. This left me with a half a second of feeling rather silly, because seriously? It’s 7AM and I’m sitting here expecting my phone alarm to talk to me.

Timmer Dunn anyone?

So I was rather surprised when Kevin said, “Hey” into the phone. I sat straight up in bed and waited for the rest of what he was going to say. He figured out I was probably still a zombie and so he continued, “I didn’t want to scare you but I’m coming in.”

Coming in.

To my house.

At 7AM, when I look like something the cat dragged in (after said cat plucked me out of three-day-old trash, through a puddle of mud, up a tree and down an ally way first of course). I swore I could hear the birds nesting in the haypile that was my hair.

Or would it be more accurate to call it a “ratsnest”?

I’m usually not critical of myself like this – and I get that we’ll be married and he’s going to see me look like a hobo eventually, but now? Doesn’t that usually come after we say the “I do’s” and the moving in together part and THEN maybe after a few months of jumping out of bed early every morning to brush my teeth, climbing back in bed and making it seem like I wake up minty-fresh, ONLY THEN am I allowed a day or two where I accidentally sleep in and wind up having really terrible morning breath.

This entire thought process hit me in a matter of seconds, which is actually pretty impressive considering that a majority of my brain cells were still comatose.

I had time enough to do one thing before I unlocked the night latch and allowed him in.

Sadly, out of brushing my teeth, washing the streaks of mascara off my face or combing through my tangled knots of hair, getting dressed came first. I walk through the house and open the door, and there he is, holding bagels and wanting a goodmorning kiss. I peck him on the cheek instead and escape to the bathroom to become somewhat human again.

Why was he there?

You could say it was because he’d been up early to drive his mom and brother to the airport. You could say he was craving bagels and the best are by my house. You could even say he’s just being a sweetheart – he’s brought me bagels and done other cute things for no real reason before.

But what it really boils down to is the weather.

It was SnowSleetHailRainPourSheetofIceing this morning. Huge puddles were covering the roads and you couldn’t avoid your windshield getting pummeled by the gallons of water being flipped up by other car tires.

Have you ever met my car Bessy?

Well, Bessy is a little old (a ’92. Shhh. Don’t tell. She’s sensitive about her old age).

Kevin doesn’t trust or like Bessy, but he puts up with her because she “makes do” and because she’s earned me money before – long story. But when it’s bad weather Kevin will show up, bagels in hand and drive me to work. It’s not that I’m ungrateful, it’s that I’m ashamed at the state he usually finds me in. So this is why I blame the weather. If the weather was nice, he could go about washing his car to his hearts content,

And I could go about my mornings in my hobo get-up like it’s nobody’s business.

So weather? Please for the love of all things good and holey, PLEASE be kind.

My self image can’t take any more of the abuse.

And Kevin’s really getting tired of washing his car.

Not really on the last one. I think he singlehandedly keeps them in business.

Goodbye forever, bad weather (I won’t miss you),

- Hobo Mo

THIS POST WILL BE A RANT, IF YOU WILL. A rant because I hate dealing with car problems, what with all the awesome mechanical skills I have you can imagine that troubleshooting is a joy.

So.

My car started making this odd noise a few days (if I put weeks here, would you judge?) ago, and I ignored it just like I do winter – if I don’t wear a coat then winter isn’t really here. Finally today the noise got to me and I went to my favorite spot so I could check things out without anyone bothering me. Turns out my car was extremely low on both oil and power steering fluid. Thankfully my dad bought me power steering fluid a few months ago because he knew I’d need it, and I had a few spare quarts of oil so I popped the trunk and dug out my stash.

So there I am, parked next to this field minding my own business, with my head holding up the hood since the hydraulics won’t work, trying to unscrew this cap that is literally frozen on, when a guy in a maroon car started heading over my way. Please don’t be coming over here. . .but he kept coming. No seriously dude. . .leave me alone. And he pulled closer and parked. He gets out, stares at me for a minute and then right when I start thinking he’s going to offer his services he plops down on the back of his trunk, whips out a cigarette and watches me work like fixing my car is a freaking concert and he’s got front row seats.

I’m just standing there shivering and trying not to get my clothes dirty while silently FUMING that this guy had the gall to come that close and not offer help. Not that I wanted or needed it, but I didn’t want or need an audience either. And I knew I shouldn’t park in my favorite spot, but I didn’t want the whole office seeing me under the car with a big sign on my forehead stating “Aubrey is a retard”.

As if they don’t know that already.

In summary: Don’t watch me do things, it makes me angry. Thank goodness for the local Big Lots, who’s generous supply of cheap stuff increased my mood tremendously.

I ANNOUNCED A FEW FRIDAY’S AGO THAT I’D BE GONE ALL WEEKEND. Unplugged. No Internet, cell phone service or cable TV for me, as I was going camping with Ashley and her crew. Being the independent person I am, I just had to drive my own car. Ya know, to listen to my own music and such.

My reasoning makes no sense.

I guess you could say my car is my security blanket that I take everywhere. It’s now so full of stuff that it doesn’t make sense not to take it somewhere. I practically live in the thing – what with all the clothes, high heels, gum wrappers and water bottles that can be found within it’s doors.

So I packed up after work, threw everything in plastic bags (yes Ash, since you asked I do own a proper bag. I just chose not to use it) and followed them up through the beautiful canyons. The air was crisp, I could literally taste fall in the air and I was loving the scenic overview created by the rise and fall of the mountains. I was a tad worried, it was my first time driving those particular canyons, but I drive in rush hour traffic every day. It can’t be worse than that.

We stopped to eat at our favorite spot (thanks again for dinner Ash and Niel). The plate of food that arrived in front of me was about three times more than I could eat, and I gladly dived in. By the time we were ready to head up our last canyon, it was dark. My only concern was deer, which thankfully we didn’t see any that night.

I was a tad bit concerned about the road. Yes, I’ll admit it. The road that leads directly up to their cabin gives me the willies, but I was determined that my car go with me. Besides, it hadn’t rained so the road was dry, I’d be fine.

We finally hit the point where we traded paved road for gravel and dirt, and my hands started to sweat. I have a fear of hills like you would not believe. I have nightmares of being stuck on hills that I can’t climb down. You laugh now, but just wait till you ride in my car with me when I’m bawling because I don’t want to drive up that hill, no way, you can’t make me. My fear is so big, that a few winters back when Ashley took me to Yellowstone to go snowmobiling, we went down a large hill with me driving, and all I could think about the remainder of the trip was “Dear god, I’m going to have to go back up that hill again.” I bawled, begged and pleaded with Ashley for her to drive, I’ll just walk up the hill, and if that’s not possible, if it’s too steep I’ll just stay down here but PLEASE do not make me go back up.

We went back up, and apparently I lived. But I guess my fear stems from an experience even before that; the time I was on a hill on a four wheeler with my other sisters ex-husband and we rolled. That could definitely be the moment I declared such a vile hatred for anything above a 0% grade.

So there I am, following Ash and Niel up this mountain and I’m thinking “I can do this, I can do this, I WILL do this, I have to do this, I don’t want to do this, I’m doing this, ” ad nauseum the entire way. Ash told me to “gun it” if I felt that I was loosing traction, and the first bend around a corner didn’t disappoint. I jumped the clutch, gunned it and swerved like I was a pro driver in the Dukes of Hazard movie. I was successful.

We hit the next bend and my heart had started to calm down. From memory, I thought I was past the worst part, the worst corner. Turns out I was wrong, because the very next corner was pure powder, a solid three inches of soft dirt and my car couldn’t get a hold. There I am, my hands sweating on the steering wheel, my heart in my chest, literally leaning forward as if that would help, and praying out loud “Oh dear God Jesus almighty don’t let me fall off the face of this mountain. I’m sorry for my sins. Oh jeez, don’t let me die,” and at this point Ollie decides that he’s scared and he jumps on my lap, and my car is slipping back, back back back towards the dark unknown and I’m praying like I’m at the gates of hell begging for redemption.

My hands are sweaty just thinking about this.

Finally, my wheels grabbed and locked, and Bessy the Car began the agonizing assent into the pines. She climbed slowly, like an old woman struggling to get up a set of stairs, and the only thing I could think to do was keep my gas petal pressed to the floor and my upper body leaning forward.

Why do we do that? Why do we lean on roller coaster rides, and going up hills, and going down hills? It doesn’t help the vehicle in any way. I don’t understand it.

Ashley and Niel disappeared around a bend up ahead and all I could see was  dust drifting down in my headlights. I had to admit, it was kind of pretty. We made it to the top and I spat words like a sailor, but you know what? It was worth it. It was worth going camping to eat with those I love, to camp with friends and sing Miley Cyrus’ “Party in the USA” song over and over with Megan. (Did I just admit that? Yea. I did.) It was worth actually being able to see stars, and remember that the world is bigger than what it seems.

It was worth it to wake up and hear Aspen say, “Hi Aubrey!” and see her literally glowing in her glow-in-the-dark skeleton pajamas.

It was worth it to push her in the swing and watch her little face scruntch up with glee.

It was worth it to have a spur of the moment rides on the fourwheeler with Ash.

And it was worth it to see Sir Ollie become King of the Mountain.

So would I go again? Definitely. Just next time Ash? I’ll let you do the driving.

I HAVE MY OWN SPOT that I’ve proclaimed to be mine during the lunch hour. It is only about a half block away from my work, under the shade of a huge row of trees that border a horse pasture. I like it there. It’s busy enough to keep me interested if I’m bored, and quiet enough to give me peace if I want to spend the hour reading, or as I frequently tend to do – sleeping.

But lately, my favorite of all favorites of retreats has been imposed upon by – for lack of a better word – weirdos.

And I don’t mean that to be rude. I sincerely believe that the people who truly know these people may not find them weird at all. However, I only witnessed their odd behaviours so I don’t have anything else to base my assumptions on. For all I know they’re managers of their workplace, they go home to help their wives cook and clean while also helping the kids with homework and sports. But to me? To me they are weirdos.

The first odd occurrence was two weeks ago. I was sitting in my car with the AC on and the windows up. It was hot, too hot to turn the car off but not hot enough to force me back to the chilly temperature of my office. I was bored, flipping radio channels while stuffing my face with food. I’m sure it wasn’t a pretty sight. I glanced into the mirror to check for any messes and I notice two guys heading in the direction of the office buildings. One was slowly pedaling a bike, but nothing was odd with that.  Still not wanting any distractions or to draw attention to myself, I picked up a book and pretended to read.

A loud knock on the glass shattered my hopes of being left alone.

“Are you okay!?” Biker Dude asked me. I found this question odd. “Are you okay?” typically refers to someone being in distress, calling for help, sending out an SOS. Clearly, sitting in the cool safety of my car, reading, while fully alert did not constitute as that kind of a situation.

“Uh. Yea?” Of course my brain is saying fifty other things and the only retort I can come up with is “Uh. Yea.” Man, am I a good talker.

“Okay just checking,” he said as he did a full turn around on his bike. I guess he thought about leaving and changed his mind, because not two seconds later HE WAS BACK.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he begged, as if I were some damsel in distress that only needed saving. As if. Who is this guy?! I gave him a pointed look loaded with unspoken words and he sped off. Not ten feet from my car, Biker Guy boasts loudly to his ever-silent pedestrian friend, “Hey dude! Check out that hot chick!”

That was the point that I took my leave. I was ruffled but figured that it wasn’t an every day occurance. So I posted about it online:

And then I moved on with my life. In fact, I’d almost completely forgotten about that incident until yesterday during my lunch break. I was about fifteen minutes into enjoying my sandwich when I see a guy in a striped orange shirt ambling over in my general direction. Again, nothing odd. This time however, I had my car off and my windows down, with one foot up against the window frame for comfort. This guy, who we’ll give the pet name of Mr. Fetishes (which I’ll explain later) says hi. I mumble hi back without letting my eyes stray from the page I was reading.

I realized Mr. Fetishes was not satisfied with stopping at a simple hello when a shadow fell over my book. I was annoyed to realize that he was actually physically LEANING on my car with his head tilted down to speak to me.

“Find a nice place for lunch, did ya?” He asked from above. Again, my awesome skill of always knowing what to say kicked in.

“Yea.”

I notice that his weight is shifting. Awesome. He’s leaving. But I was wrong. Instead of his weight shifting away from me – in the direction that he needed to be headed because I wanted nothing to do with him – instead he was leaning forward, and all the sudden his wrist shot out from his arm and he reached for my leg. MY LEG THAT WAS PROPPED UP ON THE CAR FRAME. My brain had stopped processing at this point, but thankfully my leg did an auto-jerk away from the strange man with reaching hands.

And my eyes glared. Even though my mouth stayed shut, my eyes spoke VOLUMES to his in the form of:

“Stay away”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Go find someone else to bother”

and what I especially hoped to portray was this: Touch me and I will kill you.

Mr. Fetishes just had one little thing to say before he departed into the unknown, before I got so freaked out that I hit the gas running and drove straight back to the safety of my red brick office building. “I was just teasing, I just wanted to – you know – tickle your toes,” he waggled his fingers ever so sickeningly.

I WAS DRIVING MY USUAL ROUTE TONIGHT, and minding my own business – which normally includes loud music and driving just a titch too fast. The traffic was good, the music was better and my spirits were high.

It was then that I saw the roadblock.

In “Utard” county, wrecks are as often as gas stations, just less convenient. I grumble and downshift, hoping to not have to stop completely. But what’s this? Spot lights? Camera crew? Incident Management truck? And every patrol car in the county. I thought I was in for some serious carnage.

Ever noticed how everyone drives in slow motion past a wreck? You don’t want to look, you don’t care to see, but something in your inner workings glues your eyes to the crushed cars and strewed glass in hopes of seeing something worth wishing you hadn’t seen. I was in that moment. That moment was gone two seconds later as I grudgingly had to stop completely under a halo of glaring spotlights, surrounded on all sides by a swarm of bacon policeman.

“How you doin’ tonight?” The nicer of the surrounding officers asked me while simultaneously glancing through my dirty car. I was hoping he’d noticed the large stack of books, the empty candy wrappers and most importantly the unopened donuts.

Because who doesn’t like donuts?

“We’re doing a routine sobriety check. Have you had anything that could impair your ability to drive tonight? Any alcohol, drugs, paraphernalia, fried chicken or loose penguins?” He adds with laugh at his own joke and a final glance in the back seats. Dang it, so that’s what he’s after, some home fried KFC. Sadly, KFC is one of the only things I don’t share, seeing as it only lasts about .08 seconds before I snarf it down myself.

Being the witty genius that I am, the only word I could spit out was an all-too-chipper, “Nope!”. Nice one.

“Alright, as long as you don’t have any loose penguins I guess you’re free to go,” he remarked and waved me on my way. I locked eyes for one last moment with a huge German Shepard drug dog and hit the gas a little harder, before I could let slip that they need to check the officer and not the cars, if he is seeing flightless birds and all.

And those darn penguins are all on the loose. Lord help us all.