MY BREAKDOWN :
The “You’ve Gotta Be F****** S******* Me!!” Story
((Please note: I’m not complaining or looking for sympathy, I just want to share my recent thoughts so you can have a laugh with me, cuz yes, it’s sadistically and pathetically hilarious.))
The following story is not for the faint of heart. Nor is it for someone looking for a quick blog-fix, for THIS story, this hellish story, will take all the time it needs to get its point across. Are you ready?? If not, now is the time to turn around and head home. If you are ready, then go on… keep reading.
For those of you who don’t know me and my life, I am a somewhat recent college graduate – one with both a BS and an MS in education. As you may or may not know, it is extremely hard to get picked up as a teacher (I’m talking “600 applicants for a single position” hard) in the Upstate NY area, unless you either have 16 years of previous experience, or have a connection so important the hiring committee doesn’t even need to check your resume. Because of those odds, I’m not currently working as a teacher, but as a substitute teacher, rather, where you go from day to day wondering what kids you’ll meet, what grade you’ll teach, what city you’ll drive to, what school you’ll end up in, what subject you’ll be asked to wing, what lesson plans you’ll be left, what bullshit you’re going to have to put up with, whether you’ll get your own room, or if you will even be able to work at all. It’s the most fun game, EVER!! Fuck that. I always feel like Marlon Brando in that movie, On the Waterfront, where only a certain number of people get picked to work the docks each morning. Fucking pathetic, man! I have so many horror stories from my subbing days that the following cartoon isn’t far from reality…
Ya, we definitely are punching bags. And not just bags for the students. I’ve gotten soo many dirty looks and had so many degrading things happen to me, I feel like waste. I’ve even been asked to clean up ACTUAL waste! And I get lunches and breaks taken away from me so I can go and cover another teacher that needs a “break”… and this happens all the time. But who has the desire to eat when you have to watch little kids pick their noses and eat their booties (pirate slang for “treasures”), have explosive diarrhea all over the classroom toilet seat (yes this did happen!), lick their unwashed hands, eat glue, wipe “unknown substances” all over the desks and carpet, eat crayons, and do just about every other nasty-ass thing you can think of??? The job, in general, sucks royal balls. Right now, you may be asking yourself, “Why in hell is cette merde relevant to this chick’s story,” but I promise you, it is. It will soon explain why I was where I was on this day of hell, and why I wasn’t working like normal people.
Getting back to my story…
As I think I explained before, you don’t always get calls on everyday of the week. School pretty much just started and teachers are still getting situated. I haven’t had a full week, or anything close to it, at all yet. Sunday evening came and no subbing calls for Monday. Monday morning came, no phone calls for the day. Fine. I spent the day making apple sauce in my pjs sympathizing with the men I once met in New York City who had a PHD and at one point a boat and a house, but was now currently homeless. I didn’t shower (“eww gross, ewww gross”), but I at least brushed my teeth and washed my face that day. When Monday night came and I received no subbing phone calls, I started ripping the wallpaper off of my bedroom wall, hoping that doing something productive would help me with my mood. No, folks, I’m not psycho. I was taking the wallpaper off so I can eventually repaint my “little girl” room. I cleaned up the teeth and face again, and hit the sack.
Now it’s Tuesday morning. I woke up at 9 something and realized that no one had called for me to sub that day. I’m looking around my room thinking how shitty I felt. The fact that I have two degrees (one of which was earned with a 4.0), an impeccable resume, experience, outstanding evaluations, rock-solid references, and finally a smile that says “ HELL YES I WANT TO BE HERE,” but NO JOB makes me turn into the ugliest version of the green hulk, to-date. Even worse than the one that hottie Eric Bana was in. I am and just have been utterly bewildered. As a result, I tend to get down in the dumps when I don’t get subbing calls – especially two days in a row. Staying in pjs and looking dumpy sort of suits the “down in the dumps” look.
Agreed?
I got up and brushed les dents and washed la visage and combed les cheveaux, but no shower. I know what you’re saying right now. “NASTY!!” But I was depressed, dude. All I wanted to do was sulk in PJs and eat a bowl of oatmeal. How I ended up putting on jeans and a sweatshirt and driving in my beat up ’92 Toyota from B’Ville to LaFayette is beyond me. Well, it went something like this, I guess… “I know what will cheer me up… a tractor ride through the apple orchards at Beak & Skiff!! I can take some pics and feed the goats and get some cider!! Do I shower?? Naa, they might close soon and it takes me an hour to get ready.” So, I drove down (or is it up?) to LaFayette and took a few pics of the leaves on the way, had a couple tractor rides through the orchards, got kicked off by the tractor driver because I wasn’t getting off the wagon to pick apples, and took some more pics of the goats coming up and down the billygoat steps. I didn’t even have an apple. I realized halfway through my Beak & Skiff trip that I had on the jeans whose fly doesn’t stay up. It slides down really easily and before you know it, you’re looking like a wanker. Besides being an unshowered scumbag, I was having to constantly pull up my fly.
WHAT THE FUCK.
It was time to leave. I packed up the Toyota, put away my SLR, stored my newly bought 5 fucking dollar cider gallon in the backseat, buckled up, started up the GPS to get home, and was off. I was coming down one of thousands of hills in apple-country and realized the car was making a slight high-pitched whirring sound. I thought, “Interesting.” I got to the intersection of like Lord’s Asshole something and Route 20, and a small grinding nose came. I’m 45 minutes from home. My next thought: “Oh shit.” It was time to silence Howard Stern on my trusty Sirius Satellite Radio, as entertaining as it was to listen to the Farting Porn Star, or Blue Iris (the 90 year old porn star), or whichever weird thing was currently on. *GRIIIIIIIND* It was a terrible nose. And here comes the terrible moment of truth, “Holy mother of God, I’m gonna get stuck in fucking LaFayette with a busted car.” I headed down one of the only downhill parts of the road between Beak & Skiff and I-81 and hit the gas as much as humanly possible, because the hill to come was like fucking Mount Everest. I had no clue how I was getting up it with the car in the shape that it was. Well, the inevitable came and I tried to step on the gas to go up, up, up… but all I heard was terrible, god-awful grinds and pounds and, Jesus, I can’t even begin to describe what it was like. I thought some monstrous beast was being killed under the base of the car. You know when your dad is teaching you how to drive stick and you drink the gears all together and it makes a terrible nose???? Multiply that by 20. When I felt something lock down, I had no choice but to pull over to the side of the road, come to a halt, and stick her in “P.” I was definitely braking, but - - - OH SHIT. I forgot to tell you the name of this little Toyota. Its name is Blue Molar. It’s a long story and you don’t want to hear it, especially since you’re in the middle of another long-ass (but hopefully not boring) story, so I will save you and just say that its name is Blue Molar. You will partially see why in a few secs. Anyway, I was in “P” and braking, but the car was rolling back the steepest hill I’ve seen in quite a while. I thought it was the transmission, but why were the brakes busted too? Who knew at that moment. I had to pull up the archaic emergency brake in the middle (yes, middle) of the car. I realized I never figured out how to turn on the flashers in this car, and without the car started and power running, I couldn’t use the signal. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Blue Molar is basically a tin box with 2 cloth straps that make up what are supposed to be “seat belts,” and 4 wheels. So. I had Triple AAA and Emergency Roadside Service, so I knew what to do in a situation like this. It just sucked I was in THIS particular spot, all by my lonesome, dirty, with pants that don’t stay zipped, in a car that a kindergartener could break into, 45 minutes away from home.
Here is where it gets interesting. I called Triple AAA and reported my problem. It’s important to note here that I not only had GPS that could tell me my PRECISE location, but I knew exactly where I was at this point: about 6 miles from the I-81 exit in LaFayette, down Route 20, towards apple country, towards Beak & Skiff Apple Orchard (yes they knew what that was). The only thing left for me to do was tell them my fricken latitude and longitude coordinates. Anyway, the woman took down my car info and asked what my license plate number was. Of course I couldn’t find it in the glove compartment. I had to get out of the car - - GOD HELP ME - - and look at the license plate. I was just praying the fucking thing wouldn’t start rolling backward while I was out of it and wouldn’t have to go running for the door to jump back in. I hope someone was taping me. She told me that a tow truck would be there within the hour to help me, so I hung up and sat tight. Mmmmmmkay, this was 5:00pm. I played a few games on my cell phone, checked my email, listened to my iPod, and actually found my flashers for the car. Hooray!! At fucking 6:15pm, another Triple AAA woman called me to tell me, “Amanda, the truck is having an extremely difficult time finding where you are. Can you tell me again what your location is?” I’m thinking to myself, “How fucking stupid are you??” My local was pretty simple, but I told her again. I even identified a McDonald’s for her that was 6 miles down the road precisely across from the exit, as well as I-81 and Route 20 again. There was one turn off of 81 to find me. Jesus. She hung up. I started getting nervous; the sun was going down, and instead of it being sort of toasty in the car, it was starting to get pretty nippley, I mean nippy (that was me paying homage to Chevy Chase in Christmas Vacation).
I put my phone away and started watching the road for the tow truck. It came to my attention that I’ve never had to pee this bad in my entire life, but I’m too chicken shit to climb into the bushes right then and there. This is when I started noticing something very peculiar in the rear view mirror. The hill I was on was very, very steep. If you’ve been to LaFayette, you know what I mean.. maybe. Because of the way trucks run, they don’t go probably more than 20 mph up these hills, so they drive on the shoulder of the road. This, however, was where I was parked. It was also sort of rush hour and tons and tons of cars were driving passed me, all gawking into the car to see what’s going on the whole time, like I was a Circus Freak-Show exhibit. A cop drove by at one point and didn’t even bother to stop and ask me if I was doing ok or if I needed a phone or anything, even with my flashers on. These huge construction trucks were driving up behind me, waiting for the normal cars/trucks to pass, then moving back into the driving lane to pass me. My God, I nearly wet myself every time a saw one of them come close, closer, closer, then pass by me. I hated it. It was getting darker and my flashers shit the bed as far as making me visible to other drivers. The construction trucks started coming and going more often, and I started recognizing the drivers of the trucks. One of the burly younger guys started waving to me every time he passed by, hahahaha. Of course I waved back. Maybe he’d come and help. Oooh, this night kept getting better and better. Paul fucking Bunyan was my only friend out here in this very, very, very lonely and cold place.
At about 6:45pm, I swear to God the most beat-up, piece-of-shit tow truck drove by me slow and I see the guy is pointing to me out the window. My ride was finally, finally, finally here!! He drove all the way down the hill, turned around, and drove up in front of me and parked. The truck was probably 80% rust, if not more. And I mean nothing by the following statement, as it’s just an observation, but I couldn’t help at laugh at what stepped out of the driver’s side door. This man, whose beer gut was pretty damn impressive in size, had a Super Bowl 1998 t-shirt on that looked like it belonged to his son, pants that also appeared to have a zipper problem (and a crack problem), greasy hair that for some reason also looked like it had been electrocuted, glasses with what I assumed was masking tape, holey sneakers, and sausage-like fingers that tipped off with long, grease-filled fingernails. He asked what my problem was, I explained. He told me it was his one day of the week that he had this truck and did this for his friend. An exclamation point sort of beamed in my head. He asked me to step to the side of the curb so I wouldn’t get hit. The “tow man,” as I started calling him in my head, went to the bed of the truck, flipped a little white switch, and watched the fork of the truck for whatever movement he was expecting………….. nothing. Not even a slight budge of the damn thing. He started mumbling to himself and flicking the switch ferociously back and forth like if he started a spark with it, it might work. He proceeded to go into the front of the truck and turn on the rear lights. More flicking occurred, but not with anymore movement of the rusted piece of shit that extended past the back of the truck. At that moment, my mom called and asked about an update. She assumed I was on my way home already with the car. I informed her otherwise. I just laughed at the whole situation like a psychotic bitch. I am a 26 year old woman that knows my bitching will only slow down processes that I want completed. While I was talking to madre, the “tow man” called the owner of the truck, whose DAY OFF it was and was currently attending an antique car auction at the Regional Farmer’s Market across from Carousel Mall, as I was told. I hung up with madre, as well as “tow man” with the owner. He told me the owner was on his way out to see if he can get the truck to work. We chatted a bit on the side of the ride until I realized my new “Paul Bunyan” friend was waving at me from his most recent drive-by. “Tow man” joked and said, “Jeez you must have been here a while!” I retorted with, “Since 5, sir.” Which was an interesting response, as it brings up the next complaint I had.
“You’ve been here since 5?” I said ya I have and asked him how he got lost when he tried to find me. “Got lost? I got the call about 15 minutes ago and came right here. I have family here. I wasn’t lost.” I responded with, “Whaaaaat,” and then told him what the woman on the phone told me. He took out… his PHONE (no, not the other thing!) and showed me his call history on his phone. It wasn’t necessary, but I said ok, thanks. Things got awkward with “tow man” and myself so I decided to text my friends. Cars are driving by with their lights on at this point, so I got back into the car. Twenty minutes go by and up rolls this black, antique car with at least 3 people inside. A man of about 70 steps out and rushes over to the crusty tow truck. He starts flicking the switch, and no response. “Tow man” redeemed himself in my eyes because I thought he was just incapable of getting the truck to work, but the owner couldn’t get it to work either. Jeeeeeeeee-sus! I hear a tap on the window and look up to see the wife of the owner leering down at me, smiling. I rolled down the window and she says, “Hi, how are ya. Is this unreal or what?” We chuckled and she told me how her, her husband, and her son in the car were all at the Farmers Market at the antique car showing or something. I felt I needed to apologize that they needed to come out here on their day off, so I did.
My God. A half hour goes by and it’s way dark out at this point and the owner taps on my window to tell me that “tow man” was going to take the rusty truck back to wherever it is that it came from and a new truck was coming for me in a bit. The surprising thing was that the man, wife, and son were going to stay with me until the new truck came. They’re sitting behind my car in their antique car, just waiting for the other tow truck. I’m shivering for about 20 minutes and one of the biggest tow trucks I’ve ever seen in my life is driving slower and slower toward the car. The owner gets out of his antique car and walks up to the tow truck. All I see in this new truck is the dark outline of a man with lights behind him. I swear it was like it was out of a movie. All you see is the outline, and the steam from his breath rising in the air, hahaha. Owner taps on my window, waves, gets in his car, and takes off with the wife and son. I check my fly to make sure it’s up, and get out to talk to the new tow truck man. He doesn’t mess around with what I now call “tow truck foreplay.” He asked for my key, asked what the car was mainly doing, and told me I could bring my stuff up to the truck and get in so I didn’t get hit. The door is fucking locked, but I get to watch him professionally back the Molar up onto the platform and string the belts to the hubcaps, or whatever the hell those tires had on them… they definitely might not have even had hubcaps. This guy knew his shit though. He unlocks the door for me, and I climb 5 feet to get up into this giant tow truck. A shiny, gold “Triple AAA” sticker was GLEAMING at me from the dashboard of the tow truck. Ahhhhh. He finally gets in and asks where we’re going. I tell where, and he tells me we’ve gotta stop and get gas at the gas station before we get on I-81. At this point, I didn’t give a rat’s arse. As I’m clinging onto my fucking gallon of fucking $5 cider from fucking Beak & Skiff’s, new tow truck man asks me, “Soo, just coming from Beak & Skiff?” I hesitated with my sarcasm, but finally said, “YAAA. Four hours ago!!” He chuckled.
But ya, it was 9:00pm at this point. We pulled off to pump diesel into this giant tow truck and as I watched the number climb from $50, to $100, to $150, to finally $171, I’m wishing for a hot shower, a bathroom, a toothbrush, and maybe some turkey that my fam was nice enough to tell me they were having for dinner that night without me. New tow truck man booked it to home. He even put the radio on for me, on my side only, but he put it on none the less. It was the best moment of the last 4 hours. As I was bopping around on the front seat trying not to let my cider gallon fly over to the man’s side, it hit me just how pathetic things can get sometimes. But you know what?? There’s nothing to do but laugh it off, learn from it, become stronger, and wish for a better day tomorrow… hopefully one that doesn’t include snot, poo, rotten kids, spit balls, or break downs of any kind.
Yeehaa. The end.
PS. EVEN THE BLUE MOLAR CAN GET A CAVITY.
