Nonetheless, I thought we had paid our dues. So when this happened Saturday night:
I couldn't f***ing believe it. (Note that both of these cars belong to us.)
We were woken up Saturday night/Sunday morning by the sound of metal colliding with metal, that loud smack that sounds like a fat man doing a belly flop into yogurt from 50 feet up. We heard a second crash seconds later, and Mitch jumped out of bed and looked out the window. "SHIT." He ran out, and I followed. We found a hysterical girl, we'll call her Blannah, crying on the curb, and her hysterical boyfriend, we'll call him Blhris, pacing up and down the street yelling "BLANNAH! WTF BLANNAH!" He was very helpful.
It was clear from the position of the cars that she had rear-ended the silver one, smashing it into the red one, pushing the red one forward about 10 feet to block our neighbor's driveway. We called the police, and our neighbors slowly filed out of their homes to gawk at our misfortune. Their condolences were predictable. "I can't believe this happened again." "Was she drunk?" "Do you want me to take your dog for a walk?"
Blhris continued to yell and pace, and not-drunk Blannah continued to cry. As we exchanged information I noticed something happening. Mitch began to console her. HER. Not me. Not his wife walking around in her bathrobe on hold with claims, but the young girl with schmears of eyeliner all over her face.
One of Mitch's many redeeming qualities is that he is insufferably nice. Particularly to strangers. Mitch told Blannah that insurance will take care of it, that her dad won't be mad forever, he'll just be glad she's okay, that she should make sure someone can drive her home because she's probably too anxious to drive. Of course she can leave her car in front of our house all night. Everything will be fine. We'll see her in the morning when she picks up her car. She thanked "us" for being so nice.
We spent hours on the phone with our insurance company that night because they couldn't understand how to file two claims for what had happened, and of course their server crashed while we were on the phone. So when we flopped into bed at 3:00 am, and my baby promptly demanded a feeding at 3:05 am, my forgiving feelings towards Blannah began to wane.
Blannah showed up the next morning to retrieve her vehicle (which had nary a scratch on it, might I add), and we finally decided to get the story out of her. How had she hit the cars so hard if she was parked? Why did we hear two crashes? And what on God's green Earth were they fighting about?
The story goes, she and Blhris were arguing at the bar, and she fled the scene in a dramatic fit of abandonment. Her intention had been to jump in her car and speed off (I'm sure hoping Blhris would follow), but as she attempted to accelerate through our narrow, steep street with parking on both sides, something got in her way. Blind with rage, she reared back and gunned it AGAIN, hitting something AGAIN, and finally stopped to assess the situation. Upon the assessment she realized that the thing she was hitting was in fact another car. Who would have thought?
Mitch is so nice. He gave her endearing glances and minimal encouragers while I laughed in her face. OF COURSE she hit our cars twice. OF COURSE. I couldn't be mad anymore. I could only feel crazy. My life is so out of control these days, I expect nothing less from the universe.
So I pinched my baby, said oh-no-it-must-be-naptime-we'll-be-in-touch, and fled the scene. Mitch showed her out, and we vowed that the next house we buy will have a driveway. And will be no where near a bar that attracts hipsters. Maybe somewhere in Madeira. Or Mason.