Life on the Mason Dixon Line

We (Normal People) all know you (Southerners) don’t mean anything nice when you say, “Bless your heart,” but I seriously thought my grandmother-in-law liked me. For the sake of privacy, we will call her MomMom, which is her name and since she shanked my tire I don’t want to protect her privacy. Apparently you need to slur the 2 “Mom” ‘s together. My Midwestern diction is a bit too precise and I get ridiculed mercilessly by, ohhhh, let’s call them Paul and Elizabeth, every time I say it.

So this morning I stopped for an errand and when I was pulling back onto the road, the tire sounded LOUD. I pulled over, opened the door and heard PSHHHHHHHHT. I immediately slammed the door and made a break for it. I was only half mile from work, I could totally make it and be working while I waited for AAA to come (they don’t call me Susie Efficient for nothing). You know how they say your life flashes before your eyes when you are about to die? That didn’t happen to me. But similar to that, as I started to feel the car riding on the wheel rim, Paul giving me non-stop shit for weeks flashed before my eyes. I obeyed my 3rd instinct and pulled over. In case you are keeping a list, my 2nd instinct was to drive into the man made lake toward death so my fun life could replace Paul’s lecture in my last moments on Earth. Then I figured the lake was only about half up to my door, I would live so really  would only block out part of Paul’s yapping so I dismissed that thought. [First instinct you ask? Make a run for it--please keep up, people.] I pulled over and put on the hazards.

In hindsight I feel like I was very mature in my response. Until about 3 years, 3 months ago, 2 weeks and 4 days ago I would have called my dad. You know–because he could be very helpful when he is in Florida or Indiana and I am in NC. But I did what every mature, professional, with-it woman would do. I called my husband and cursed at him VERY LOUDLY. He responded appropriately (i.e. offering to come meet me), I declined and hung up to call AAA.

AAA Ed was a gem, really. He was very concerned when he showed me the tire with the uber long metal piece sticking out of it, bent at an awkward angle. He was convinced I had some pretty formidable foes–mafia, gang member, disgruntled employee? I immediately thought of the geriatric perp responsible for this. Sweet, old soon-to-be-89-year-old my ass. You see, each year MomMom gets Paul and I a membership to AAA. You know how the elderly like to feel “relevant” and “appreciated.” The only logical explanation for “my accident” is that because she was feeling a bit ignored lately and in a fit of demented rage (ok, she officially does not have dementia, but after only 3 years, 3 months ago, 2 weeks and 4 days of being married to Paul, I think I have dementia so naturally she must be a little touched after 36 years of him, right?), she snuck out last night, drove an hour from The Home to our place (don’t even start on the “she doesn’t drive at night” shenanigans–she’s got you fooled too, right?), broke into our garage (I am sure Paul sweetly gave her a spare key back in the day–she only has pretended to lose things to throw us off the scent), planted the shank to implode at  j  u  s  t  the right time…

[...wait for it...]

…so I would have to call AAA….

[...wait for it...]

then thank her profusely in front of everybody at her birthday bash Friday night.

To which she would ask me the story of how it happened, put her hand over her heart and say, “Oh, Susan. Bless your heart.”

I know she looks sweet. You telling me her cane is just a cane too? Have you never seen a Bond movie? Sheesh!