I'm beginning to think my last name is really Murphy. Because, try as I may, I seem to have inherited the constant state of Murphy's Law that followed my family growing up. I apologize for the epic novel below. But would you really be satisfied with a Reader's Digest account? I thought not.
Earlier this month, I found out my mother-in-law and her good friend were taking a short trip up to Traverse City, Michigan. BigGuy has family up in Traverse City, and his grandfather has a beautiful farmhouse on a nice amount of acreage. It's relaxing up there, and I haven't had the chance to go in a while. So I decided Bean and I would take a trip up to visit with them. It's about a 6 hour drive, so I opted to leave Squish home with a good friend of ours... "Peter Pan" and "Teeny"'s mom. BigGuy had work and school, so he wasn't going to be home most of the time.
So I packed up the minivan, which has been named Paddywhack for the little song it plays when you leave the lights on. We left at 1 a.m., because that's my peak time for energy. Plus, there's less traffic, and I figured Bean would sleep most of the way. Let's face it... 6 straight hours of listening to chatter while fighting traffic is not high on my list of favorite things. As we were pulling out of the driveway, Bean was SO excited. "We're going on a girl trip... yay!" So I started our official trip chant, "Girl trip! Girl trip! Girl trip!" She joined in heartily. The estrogen was flowing... all was well. A half hour later, as I worked my way through the light downtown traffic, I started chanting "Girl Trip!" again. Bean sighed politely and with all the maturity of a teenager said, "Yeah... I'm gonna take a nap now, ok?" So much for the excitement. ;)
Not to be dissuaded from my excitement, I plugged in my iPod, and car-danced my way through Indiana and Michigan. I even caught up on a few Podcasts I had wanted to hear. I sipped delicious caffeine-laden drinks, and felt like I was back in college... road-tripping with the girls. There's an energy that comes from leaving the day-to-day behind and doing something spontaneous. All was right with the world.
And then the road ended.
And no, I do not mean that figuratively. I mean the expressway literally ended. As in "All traffic must exit and take the detour." Believing myself to be a smart and flexible person, I wasn't too concerned. I had my loyal GPS, Lola, and she never failed me before. So I stopped for gas, and hopped on the detour road. I turned my music back up, and jammed my way down the business road.
And then the road ended. Again. With a great big "Road Closed" sign. Hmm. Well, Lola pointed out a nice little road that was right next to the road I was on, and continued in the same direction. By zooming out, I could see that it eventually wound back to where I needed to be. Patting my thoughtful GPS on her little head (what, doesn't yours have a head?), I hummed along to the music and took the bypass.
Suddenly that paved bypass started to look a bit more... gravelly. Ok, who am I fooling? It was a gravel road now. I was doing a lot less humming, and starting to shoot irritated questions at Lola. She was not responding, but kept primly directing me down the road. She has a real attitude sometimes. I began noticing a lot less gravel on that gravel road. Before I knew it... it was a dirt road. A dirt road that had had a LOT of rain in the last few days. Lola had directed me into the middle of the woods on a dirt road, and I was Dora-the-Explorering my way through it in a minivan. Fantastic.
About 30 seconds after I decided I needed to turn around and find an alternate route, I turned a sharp corner and hit the puddle. This was the mother of all puddles. In fact, I'm not entirely convinced it wasn't a part of Lake Michigan. Needless to say, Paddywhack is not built for off-roading. I was stuck, and stuck good. I tried rocking the van. I tried the old reverse and then forward trick. I tried stuffing some undergrowth under the tires for traction. Nothing was working. So I called 911.
After getting my latitude and longitude coordinates from Lola (we were barely on speaking terms at this point), I let the dispatcher know where I was. He realized I was in a completely different county. Apparently the cell phone tower that picked up my call was not the one right by me. I told them they were still going to help me. Apparently I used my Mommy voice, because he was quick to say that of course he'd connect me to the right county. They got me connected to the right county, who connected me to a local tow truck company. And this is where the fun begins.
I told the driver, Joe, what my coordinates were. He gruffly replied that he didn't HAVE a GPS. "Do you hear that Lola? He doesn't have a GPS. Maybe he's smart. Maybe I should sell you." Lola looked unconcerned. After I told Joe the grid of streets I was surrounded by, he took off to find me. He said it should take about 15 minutes. I should have known that BigGuy's habit of GROSS underestimation in regards to time came from living in Michigan. 15 minutes apparently means 2 hours.
Joe began calling every 10 minutes or so to ask more questions about how I got there, and to try to locate the exact dirt path I had come down. He actually resorted to having me honk to see if he could hear me. I KNOW. I was able to give him some more direction by telling him I was facing north (the moss was growing on the trees in that direction), and there was a river about 100 yards downhill from me. I felt I could possibly survive a reality show. I'm telling you... next season it will be Survivor: Northern Michigan Woods.
A few times, I think he just called back to chat while he looked. I learned all sorts of local trivia. For instance, a dirt path is called a two-track. Which would have been fascinating if I was not stuck.in.the.woods.with.a.4-year-old. I was already figuring out what to use for toilet paper for when I inevitably heard Bean's plaintive "I have to go potty" voice. I hadn't counted on this being her first "becoming one with nature" experience, but I was ready. Thankfully I had taken her in for multiple stops on the way up, so she didn't have to go. One less thing to worry about.
By the fourth time he called to have me honk, I began to think my knight in shining armor was a bit rusty in the helmet. I got out to put more stuff under the tires for traction, and decided it would probably be a good idea to avoid the undergrowth. It's been a long time since I was in Girl Scouts, so I am not sure what all the poison plants look like. So, armed with my girly all-purpose tool, I grabbed smaller branches off a few saplings to see if I could build a mat of sorts for the tires. I managed to cut my hand open at some point, because I noticed it was bleeding when I got back in the car for one more feeble attempt at getting out of there. I began to think we may need to hike back up the road to the nearest house, but my fear of facing some north woods psycho armed with only a MAG light kept me from doing that.
Finally, I saw a white sedan pull up behind me on the "road." I had several emotions at once. Worry that it was some nutjob that would hurt me and Bean; fear that this was the "tow truck" I was waiting for; and relief that maybe it was someone local and normal who could tell me where.the.heck.I.am. Thankfully it was the third one... and even better, he had seen the tow truck up the road! He went back to tell him exactly which dirt path I was on. (God forbid these people name their roads).
Not long after, we heard the rumble of the most beautiful tow truck in the world. I think Santa must look a little bit like Joe. Well, except without the yellow teeth, tattoos and cigarette. I hugged him in my excitement, which made him a bit bashful. He pulled us out, and led us back to the main road... even pointing us in the direction of the shortest route to Traverse City. He said he had passed 5 other lost people on his way to find me. In fact, he cheerily informed me, he'd been pulling people out of the mud all week because of those detour signs. Now tell me... wouldn't you think the city would rethink their detour signs? Just a thought.
When he told me what the charge was, it was all I had left in cash. I asked if he took credit, and he said no, that he doesn't believe in it. So he handed me the bill and told me to mail him a check. We're definitely not in Kansas anymore, Toto.
So we finally made it to our destination, albeit 2 hours late. My wonderful mother-in-law greeted me with a glass of wine. I can honestly say that's the only time I've had a drink at 9 a.m., but it was much deserved and much needed. At dinner that night, she toasted me, saying, "Here's to being a stick in the mud."
