In September, I was 6 months pregnant. On my way home between classes, I stopped for a train. And my car was trashed by someone who didn’t. No harm done, but the car was a write-off and my eye was messed up for about a week (actually, it’s still numb, but whatever).

I’m not the type of person who car-hops. I city-hop when I can, but car shopping is such a pain, so I drive what I have until it runs into the ground. I miss my car. I’m crying over spilled milk, I know. BUT THAT WAS MY CAR.
A family member gave / lent me a car in the meantime (so, between now and forever, I hope). It was free, and that was so great, but somehow it’s led to this post
In the 8 months I’ve been driving this car, it has broken down 4 times. It’s only 10 years old and has a reasonable amount of mileage on it, but somehow, it was cursed at the dealership. Or something. The first time it got towed, I had to abandon it in a church parking lot. I started walking to a gas station about a half block away (7 months pregnant, -40, and late for a doctor’s appointment). A few cars drove by, and one stopped. One stopped. The stranger told me to get in, and I obliged, though only after we assured each other neither was an axe murderer. He drove me to my doctor’s appointment, never to be seen again. The car was towed later that day, some belts were repaired or replaced, and although the ABS line was severed (really?) on the hoist, the car place told me all was well and the indicator light would remain on. Fine.
Then,

the tire blew. On the coldest day of the winter, when it was stupid to go out in the first place (especially with a little girl and a newborn), I heard the classic thumpity thump that only an exploded tire will give, and drove the last few blocks home from the grocery store. I purchased an emergency road service membership, and called for assistance. Since it was -55C or so, you can imagine the emergency trucks were in high demand, so after a refreshing 11 hour wait, the donut was on, and we were off to the tire store in the morning. Now, I’m not so good with cars, and I don’t pretend either. So I trudged in with two kids, two carseats, pointed to a stack of tires, and said “Hi. I need one of those thingies.”
“One of those round black things? A tire?”
“Yeah…”
And who knows what a reasonable price is. At that point, it doesn’t matter. They see me comin’.
In February, the heat in the car decided to stop working. It’s cold in February. Really, really cold. We drove around for two weeks with blankets and mittens and touques. Finally, I made a call to a car repair shop that had “courtesy shuttle” in its ad. I made an appointment, drove the car in, moved both kids and both carseats into the courtesy shuttle, and the driver took us home… about 6 blocks away. When the car was repaired, the guy working the desk decided that the shuttle only goes one-way. I explained to him that The Girl was sick, and I needed to get her to a doctor. I explained I was on my own, and even the shuttle driver agreed that he would be able to pick me up for a return trip. “Nope. One way. He’s off in the afternoon, and we only run shuttles in the morning.” (Which was as bold-face lying as I’ve ever heard, as my original shuttle was at 3pm, and as my cab arrived — with two carseats, and two babies — the shuttle driver was seen working in the parking lot. For an $8 cab ride, I will never, ever go back.)
Yesterday, I was driving home from my brother-in-law’s birthday party. I approached a stop sign. And yay? No brakes. I’d heard that feels-like-there’s-a-dead-body-under-my-car thing before when my brakes were shot with my old car. I drove a few meters, and turned around. I got out, and looked under the car. I got back in as a police car was approaching from the other direction. I flagged. Them. Down. There was a time in my life when seeing a police car meant, “Shit! Cops!” But now, especially living in the hood, it means “Oh thank God. The police are here.”
One of the officers thought it was a CV joint, which sounded mildly important when he insisted that was the piece that held the wheel on to the rest of the car. I drove back to my sister’s and called a tow truck this morning.
When the car was ready to be picked up, my sister dropped everything and came to get us. Again, two kids, two carseats, it’s an epic. She probably doesn’t drive through the hood too much, and ultimately drove 57 in a 40 zone (some hidden playground somewhere). We were pulled over. There was another car in front of us, and just as my sister handed her licence over, the driver in the front car was suddenly in hysterics. He opened and slammed his driver door, and was either refusing to get out or otherwise cause a scene. He started screaming. We were on our way shortly with her licence in hand, no ticket or warning, and a great sight in the rearview of a man parked in a crappy old white car next to a lawn that hadn’t been mowed in months, being successfully subdued by two officers who figured he was more of a pressing situation than two girls, two kids, and two carseats. Yay, no ticket
But alas, after the car was towed from my sister’s, then to the only auto shop open on a longish-weekend Sunday, and an appointment was cancelled getting us closer in line (and it really only took 3 hours to fix), it turns out some sort of disc.. or something… had exploded. The shop guy said it was the worst he’d ever seen, and actually showed it to me, next to what “one should look like.” He knocked 20% off the repair bill for some reason, which was awesome
I swear driving this car is practice for the kids’ teenage years. Every time I turn around, it needs $200. Bah.