Idiot: A True Story.

Some background information:

First, you need to know that in a Honda, when you get into the car and lock the door, you cannot open the door with the handle from the inside.

Next, read, if you will, a little story that happened several months ago:

It’s disheartening to get into a car (that’s less than four years old, mind you) and turn the key and get nothin’. No turn over. Not even a click. No lights. No clock. Nothin’.

This happened the first time a few months ago. We loaded everyone in the van only to find the engine wouldn’t turn over. After trying to jump the battery, which didn’t work, we had to:

(1) Figure out the problem which was tricky, seeing as Steve and I know next to nothing about what’s actually under the hood of a car. This, however, was made easier with the help of a neighbor, still in his Honda whites and a direct line via cell to the people who are quite familiar with what's under the hood of a Honda (isn’t it great to live in Honda country?!). Turns out we blew the main fuse.

(2) Track down a fuse (not so easy).

(3) Replace the fuse (easy).

Steve had the forethought to buy an extra fuse and put it in the glove box.

Now, fast forward to Thursday.

So, I’m at Kohl’s and head out to the car. Unlock the door with the handy-dandy key fob. Get in the van. Lock the doors. Put the key into the igni… ok, so you know where this is going. I turn the key and get nothin’. No click when I turn the key and the clock is out. So I know it’s probably the fuse.

Now, did you notice in this sequence that I locked the door? This is a well-ingrained habit resulting from my deep-rooted paranoia, reinforced by my husband’s highly-developed distrust for all humanity. I always lock the doors after I get in a car. Always.

Next I try the windows. Try the key again. Try the locks. Try the handle. Then, I pick up my cell—noting that, naturally, I only have one bar left on my battery—and call my husband, who is at work. While I’m waiting I consider the heat of the day and the angle of the sun, and actually think, “So this is it. This is how it’s going to end. I’m going to suffocate in the van and leave my children motherless.”

Again, I’m in the parking lot—at Kohl’s.

He actually answers.

“I have a problem.”

“What?”

“The car won’t start, it won’t even turn over, the windows aren't working,” and make note of this next part, “and I can’t unlock the doors. I’m stuck in the van, I think it’s…”

He interrupts.

“Um. Honey?”

Silence.

“Did you reach over and try to push the lock up with your hand.”

Silence.

“No.”

He tries to suppress a laugh.

I’m such an idiot. And lived to tell about it.

On a side note, I’m not sure what’s more embarrassing: the story itself or the fact that I’m willing to post it on the internet.