....pushed a Mitsubishi Montero up my sloped driveway into the garage.
Not what you were expecting, eh?
Yesterday morning, a sweet old man came to my front door, wearing a jacket that said, "City of St.George". He asked if he could talk to me, so I stepped outside, wondering what this could possibly be about, but not really worried, as I believe I live quite peaceably and cleanly.
He was very, very kind. I could tell that he hated to have to say anything at all to me, but he said: "This truck you have out here? It's not registered, and that's kind of strike one....it's not licensed--which is [and he's trying so hard to be gentle and kind to me, so I smile and nod, fighting a surge of panic] strike two.....and it's been here longer than 48 hours? [My answer: "Oh goodness, yes. Much, much longer."] So....that's....strike three. It's not terribly urgent, but you do need to move it as soon as possible."
At this point, I was really trying not to cry--I didn't want to appear to manipulate or inadvertently manipulate by crying. He was so kind, very understanding, and I do tend to be a law-abiding citizen! But I couldn't help it. That dreaded lump grew in my throat and tears spilled over and I said with a warbly voice, "Um.....my.....um, my husband will be home on the 6th of March." And then realized that it was neither here nor there. The city official (or whatever they're called?) said it of course needed to be moved sooner than that--OF COURSE!--and I thanked him sincerely and walked into the house, trying not to cry anymore.
For a moment I just quietly panicked. And had silly visions of myself trying to push this Montero--which will not even start, not even turn over--up my driveway. I decided to call my home teachers--banking on the call-me-if-you-need-anything promise--and told them my plight. They said they might be able to be there that night to help me move it.
I knew that was the best I could hope for, and just prayed that it would happen sooner, rather than later.....not after a fine or citation. I made myself calm down. I took the 8 loads of laundry from my pantry and finally folded them and put them away. I cleaned the kitchen table and counters. I vacuumed meticulously. I cleaned the master bedroom, the master bathroom, and did four more loads of laundry. I dropped Reed off at school, I picked Reed up from school, we had a neighbor over, I vacuumed corners some more.
I filled up my day, so that there would be no room to worry about that big fat truck parked outside, apparently offending the city. (Now that they are trying to sell the house next door.)
After the kids were in bed, I had two friends over, with whom I chatted until my home teacher called and said he would indeed be there that night. Hallelujah!
For some reason, I didn't put shoes on when we went out to push this beast up the driveway. I had socks on. When we first started pushing it from the street to the driveway, I thought, "Well, the level road makes this easy....but holy cow, my driveway." [For the record, I am glad I didn't have to push it up my neighbor Sarah's driveway. I would be a pancake. Hers is infinitely more sloped.] So we get to the driveway and we are pushing, and it is much, much harder. In planting my feet on the ground for traction and using my legs for pushing, I begin to slide out of my socks. My socks stayed there, and my feet went backwards. So I abandoned the socks, and pushed barefoot. (I think if I had put my running shoes on, the tread is so worn-down that I would have slid right down the driveway anyway.)
At some point while we were pushing, it seemed near-improbable that we would actually make it. We were almost halfway up when my horribly over-active imagination conjured an image of all four of us in back giving out, falling to the side, perhaps being run over by the Montero as it zoomed back down the driveway, across the street, smashing into Sarah's side yard and through her house. (Over-active imagination is an understatement, isn't it?) My moment of panic seemed to give me some strength, as my friend Kelly was saying next to me, "Push! Push! Push!", calling childbirth to mind. Somehow (as in: Me, two girlfriends, and two men) we got it into the garage without dying or wrecking Sarah's house. And I can still pull my van in next to it. It's a tricky fit, but at least now people will buy the house next door, because they're happy to live in a neighborhood where cars aren't parked on the street.