Baby Pea, Grand Bears 1 and 3, and this girl traveled to attend Grand Bear 2’s second birthday. Got there, celebrated with a visit from the uber-famous in the under-ten set, Elsa, and settled in for the drive back. With me so far?
The stop for food is a bit sketch. Baby Pea and I exchange looks over burgers. Will we be the next Netflix murder doc?
“I think something’s wrong with my car? Did you feel that?”
“I thought you were just swerving.” Why thank you, Baby Pea.
Motoring a stretch of road labeled Nowhere, really, there’s a sign, I pull over enough to be off the highway but not so far that the dirt road could swallow us into the abyss. The right passenger tire is beyond flat. Mutilated.
“No worries, I have XXXXX Roadside,” I announce, confidence at peak performance. “When I bought my car, they said it was much better than AAA.” I believed a car salesman. Are we sensing a problem?
The lady on the phone is almost cheerful, announcing the arrival of help within 58 minutes.
“I’m going to look down that road,” announces Baby Pea. I spy her phone and know she’s calling Oldest Chicken to report on our plight.
“I’m coming,” says he.
“No need,” says she. “They’ll be here in an hour, faster than you could get here.”
Baby Pea reemerges in the passenger seat. We stare ahead at the little dirt road and create the conversation women do to make us feel better. And then a cow walks by. And another. And then another.
“Do you think it’s possible something happened at that rest stop?” I’m thinking foul play. That very tire was replaced less than a year ago.
“I thought the same thing but they would have gotten to us by now.” We watch the same murder shows.
“Isn’t there a tire iron with the spare?” Good thinking Baby Pea.
No tire iron to be found, but the jack itself could kill. I place it on the center console, remember a recent TikTok, and share vital information with Baby Pea on how to kill another human since women’s center of gravity is lower.
She’s nodding. Makes sense. We call Oldest Chicken and share the plan. It’s been two and a half hours. No truck. It’s dark. He’s two hours away. “That’s it. I’m coming.”
Not amused anymore. It’s dark. Another call to XXXXX Roadside reveals they can’t find us and someone should arrive in two hours. Excuse me? Hour four and a half arrives with a tow truck.
“You can’t drive a donut spare for two hours. Won’t make it. We’ll have to tow you.” Jimmy is kind and understanding. He’ll need it over the next hour and a half.
He can’t tow the car without permission and direction from XXXXX Roadside. Another call to the lady who can’t find us. An hour on hold while she figures out where to tow the car. Her answer? Kingman. Two hours further away from home.
“You can’t take my car to Kingman. That’s even further from home than I am right now.”
“Ma’am, you need to listen to me.”
Done. Five and half hours have taken their toll. My mouth snaps like a twig. I was not previously aware I had an inner Karen but that girl told Miss XXXXX Roadside where my car was going, that they would pay for it and this conversation was over. I handed Jimmy my credit card and we jumped in with Oldest Chicken.
A week later, with $670 out of pocket, XXXXX Roadside is debating whether to refund my money. Do they really want their name exposed to the Duchess Dolls worldwide to use for the greater good? My inner Karen says they should think twice and issue a refund.
The Duchess Diaries 