theology&geometry

The Nationwide insurance lady is coming over in a bit to give me money. Yes, this stupid saga is finally getting resolved (knock wood). Good old Nina B. from Spotslvania V. finally got her ass in gear and filed her accident claim with her insurance company (the aforementioned Nationwide) at the end of March. That’s a full three months after the accident, if you’re playing along at home. You might also recall that I had to go ahead and buy a car in January, you know, because I have a job and enjoy being independently mobile. So this thing has been plodding along at a snail’s pace (including a laughably low offer from Nationwide the first time around: $350, hahahahahahahahaha), and I just want it to be over with. For good.

I don’t know why the insurance lady has to come to my place. I asked her where her office was and she replied that she could just come out to my location. Now it’s like I’m preparing for the world’s earliest and most boring date. Like, is she going to want to come in or can we just get this over with in the parking lot? Do I even need to put the pillows back on the couch, or hide the three hundred beer bottles scattered around the apartment (none of which are mine, but still make me look like a drunk)? Should I clean the litter box and sweep? Do I need to put on pants, for God’s sake? This is a lot of trouble for a check that could have just been mailed to me. But then, I suppose, she couldn’t make it sufficiently uncomfortable for me to gloss over the fine print when I sign whatever release she shoves at me.

Trust me, lady, I would sign anything at 9 in the morning as long as it got me one step closer to going back to bed.

Hi, Nina. You may not remember me, but the front end of your fancy 1996 Acura 3.2TL became intimately acquainted with the rear end of my 2000 Oldsmobile Alero at the end of December. Perhaps you recall that meeting. I recall it was quite traumatic for you because you yelled at me to look at your car, opining all the while that it was going to cost SO MUCH to fix, even though you were the one who hit me.

Anyhoo, Nina M. Booher of Spotsylvania, Va., it has come to my attention, via the accident report that has finally made its way into my hot little hands, that you told the officer that I swerved into your lane, which caused you to plow into the ass of my car.

I suppose that in your drunken state, it probably seemed like I was swerving into your lane even though I was sitting completely still for a good three minutes, waiting on a break in the steady oncoming traffic. But then again, it probably also seemed like you were happy and popular and headed downtown for a night of great fun, but that turned out not to be the case, either, as, apparently, they arrested your ass and took you downtown for other less fun reasons.

Which makes you a little psychic, I think, because, as you’ll recall, the first thing your stupid ass said to me when I got out of my car and looked at you was, “I”m fucked. I’m going to jail.”

That’s a special talent, Nina. It should serve you well. Maybe the first thing you will think tomorrow when you wake up is, “I’m an arrogant, lying bitch who’s lucky I’m not having the holy living fuck sued out of me. Yet.”

So, Nina, what I’m getting at is this: Not only were you monumentally bitchy to me when it was completely your fault that we had this accident at all, but you were also fucking stupid enough to stand around in front of me with your tuxedoed fratboy goon squad and openly debate who was going to take the fall for driving, only to wuss out at the last second and have the truth wrangled from you by an angry cop. But on top of that — the shit icing on a shit cake — you had the cojones to walk over to that cop and tell him — out of my earshot — that I was the one who pulled some stupid shenanigans to cause that wreck? Wow, Nina Booher. You may be the dumbest Spotsylvanian ever. Which probably doesn’t say much.

I hope you forgive my immaturity in this matter. But I thought you and anyone who Googles you should at least know how I feel.

I mustered up the huevos to visit Covington Pike today, just to look around at new cars to see what might strike me (it is hard to get a feel for cars just by doing internet research) as being “me.”

Within two nanoseconds of my feet hitting the pavement at Dobbs Honda, a salesman — Larry — was on it, up in my grill, wanting to know if I wanted to take a new Honda home with me. Uh, yeah, I sure do. Are they free? That’s a hell of a promotion.

Anyhoo, I was sizing up the new Civics and asked Larry if they also sold Fits. He led me over to a row of them, both the basic and the sport models. Damn, they are cute. I peered at the stickers in the window, and then into the window. I have no idea what I was looking for; all the interiors were identical. But that’s what you do — look into the windows until you think of a question to ask. Larry and I were running out of things to talk about, so I asked if I could get into one. He went and got the keys for me and hopped into the passenger side as I slid awkwardly into the driver’s seat and fumbled to adjust it to accommodate my short legs.

I asked him what bells and whistles the standard model came with, and he turned the car on and pointed out all the -dometers. I love a car that has an instrument panel that looks like a space ship. It appeals to my inner dumbass because it makes me feel like I’m doing something complicated that a monkey couldn’t do.

Larry asked me if I wanted to take it for a drive, and I said suuuuure! and drove veeeerrrry slowly around the other cars to get out onto the highway. God, it sucked driving with Larry watching. Despite the stupid number of wrecks I’ve had (three that were my fault, one that wasn’t), I maintain that I’m a pretty good driver. But I rarely flex my driving muscles for complete strangers. It weirds me out. I feel like they’re judging me, silently ticking off minor infractions and wondering what podunk DMV let me onto the road (Hardin County, thanks). Just like the driving test I took when I was 15, we made four right turns and ended up right where we started. Except I had to back the thing back into its parking space. Which was easy! Because it’s tiny.

Only not annoyingly tiny. It’s way more roomy than you’d think. Granted, I didn’t get out and roll around in the back seat to see how roomy it is, but I could tell from looking that it would seat friends or gobs of random crap equally as comfortably. The seats fold totally down to fit more cargo. Even the front seat folds down if you need to haul long things. I don’t do a lot of hauling, but I do like the idea of hauling crap.

The driving itself was pretty smooth. I had read reviews/threads complaining about how the Fit will, if you stop accelerating, kind of jerk and slow itself down instead of coast (I’m sure this has a name), and I did feel that periodically. Kind of annoying. But overall it was a smooth ride and I didn’t crash into anything, so there’s that to be happy about.

I’ve decided, though, that when I venture back out to the car lots to look at my next round of cars, I’m going to have to invent some kind of persona to put on. I just can’t be me around these car salesmen because THEY WILL EAT ME ALIVE. They ask polite questions and I get diarrhea of the mouth and give them the full story. Larry — who, to his credit, wasn’t aggressive at all — knows all about why I HAVE to buy a car now, and fast. As I was telling him about my situation, I was wincing on the inside. Pokerface, pokerface, pokerface! Don’t got one. I was just making conversation in that silent car. I suppose I should have turned on the radio, to check it out. But I was terrified of crashing the damn thing if I took my hands off the wheel for even a second.

So, next time, I’ll be shopping as Tammy, the young single mother who has raised ten kids in nine years and who chain smokes, has tattooed knuckles, worked on cars at her ex-boyfriend’s body shop, wears tapered jeans, and does not take shit from anyone. I’ll start working on my accent now.

An anonymous commenter left this for me on the post where I mentioned that my police report still was not available to me:

The MPD handles over a hundred crashes a week (on average about 28per day) – and EACH one has to be reviewed by A traffic supervisor so it takes time to get them filed. These supervisors do not only approve these reports they have other supervisory duties as well including making the scene of certain crashes when needed for advice by the officer or PST.

Then once it is approved at the Traffic Office it is sent to Central Records to be manually filed – add that to all the criminal reports they recieve and it takes some time to get each report filed. A few years ago the State changed the format for TN accident reports – it went from a few pages to about 10 so not only does it take longer for an officer or PST to fill out but it also takes longer to be approved and filed. Due to the fact the crash reports require a manual drawn illustration of the accident these reports can not be completed electronically which would certianly expadite the process. The general rule is 7 days or so per report – factor in the holidays – and you can see that it can take a bit longer to get a copy.

Look, I’m not a hothead. In fact, I’m probably too easygoing for my own good. So I haven’t bitched anyone out over the report being so late (15 days now, minus a few weekend days and New Year’s Day and possibly New Year’s Eve if that counts as a holiday too). I was just mentioning that I still couldn’t get it. It’s annoying.

So here’s my question for anyone who might know, including the Anonymous who posted the info above:

If my accident record isn’t available to me yet, how in the FRICK did my cell phone and mailing address become available to the FIVE OR SIX different ambulance-chasing doctor/lawyer teams that have contacted me repeatedly in the past two weeks? The first lady who contacted me told me, after I pressed her, they got my info from the public record. She didn’t get any more specific than that.

Is there another public record other than this accident report that I am unaware of that would include my freaking cell phone?

I’m not being sarcastic; I seriously would like to know.

My neck/back is pretty freaking sore today, so I popped a muscle relaxer a bit ago, and proceeded to call Ashley to chat and check on her and Luke and JD, and midway through our conversation, the pill kicked in and suddenly my sentences got longer and more meandering and I was stringing words together without syllables and I’m sure she thought I was drunk or maybe just stupid but I can assure you that I am both.

But it is the kind of drunk and stupid where you can still drive and go to work and be the president.

Interestingly enough, my neck/back still really hurts, and the only muscles that seem to have relaxed are the ones controlling my mouth.

Fun fact: The Memphis PD still has not filed my accident report from Dec. 29.

And before anyone yells at me: Yes, dammit, I will go back to the doctor.