Some people beat the winter blues by going to the Carribean. Others hunker down with a good book in front of a roaring fire. But our mother Jeanne has an altogether different solution. She whiles away the winter months by having car accidents as a way of meeting new people.
On Christmas Eve, she commemorated the holiday by getting side-swiped on a local highway by an Indian gentleman whose daughter had just arrived home from college. “She seemed like a very nice girl!” Jeanne commented. “And the police officer was lovely!”
Last week she had an axle-crunching run-in with a 20-something female driver when they both trundled through a Stop sign. “She came out of the car with a cigarette in each hand!” Jeanne said when she called in a lather.
“Mah,” I asked her, “Did you go through the Stop sign?”
“Of course not!” was her indignant response. “And the police officer didn’t ask me what happened. He just spoke to the girl! And she had a cigarette in each hand!” she repeated.
Jeanne had to call AAA for a tow. Her insurance provided her with a free rental. “It’s gorgeous!” she reported when she got the car. “It’s a Ford Focus!”
Let’s not even talk about the fact that she can’t figure out how to turn off the interior light, so she’s driving up and down major highways looking like she’s filming her own short for IFC.
An unexpected side effect of this whole fiasco is that she’s also developing strong opinions about the ambiance of various police stations. Yesterday she called to say that she’d just come back from picking up the accident report from the Englewood police station. “Oooh, what a dump,” she shared. “Not like Paramus. Their police station is oooh-la-la! You should see it!”