Damsel in Distress

My first day of the new semester started off with an interesting twist (what else would it be with me?). I stepped out my back door to be greeted with a rainy, gray morning. Perfect weather for my first day of school.

First class of the day... Statistics. Somehow, two classes were scheduled for the same room at the same time, so we spent the first 15 minutes of class in the hall before being relocated.

Sadistics... excuse me, Statistics left a slightly sour taste in mouth, but there was British Literature to look forward to. I always enjoy my literature classes and end up on a first-name basis with my professors. That was shot down as I beheld a sign on the door that read "class cancellation for today." No way. First day of school and already a cancellation. Bummer.

With an hour to kill, what else would I do except curl up in a corner with a theology book? "Total Surrender," by Andrew Murray was written back in the 1800s, but I find it very thought-provoking (yet understandable) reading material. I'll try to post some quotes from it tomorrow.

Next class was Intermediate Spanish... all I can say is that it will take a miracle to get an A in that class. I can speak, read, and understand Spanish just fine... but grammar? I can hardly understand English grammar, let alone Spanish grammar. Past participle? Imperfect tense? Are you kidding me?

I made an acquaintance with a girl in my Spanish class who just moved here two weeks ago from San Diego. Having returned from San Diego a month ago, I immediately struck up a conversation with her. It was her first time on campus, so I showed her around and ate lunch with her. *DING* Ministry opportunity! I'm no longer a freshman, so that gives me an upperhand to show around new freshmen or incoming transfer students.

After lunch was American National Government. I was instantly hooked and expect to enjoy this class immensely. It sounds funny, but I got really excited discussing international relations and national sovereignty in class. (Good thing, since that's what my major deals with.) I hope my professor brings up the topic of illegal immigration -- that's one of my favorite political soapboxes.

Last class of the day was American History 2 (1865-present). By then, I was weary of reading syllabi and listening to the same ADA statement being read aloud... "[We] do not discriminate on basis of race, gender, national origin, religion... blah blah blah." I felt some amount of relief because I had the same professor for this class that I had for American History 1 last semester. Yeah, she's a hippie with interesting ideas, a dislike for the Puritans, and bizarre statements about suffragists, but I enjoy her style of teaching -- even if it is American History tainted with a secular view.

I almost hated for history class to be over, because that meant I had to go home and take the rabbit to be put to sleep. The rain had finally stopped, but that didn't cheer me as I gloomily trudged through puddles to my car... my dead car.

Yes, I left the lights on -- which resulted in a very dead battery. I walked back into the building to look for someone I knew or someone from Admin (administration personnel). Every single person I knew or even recognized was either in class or already gone. Admin was overrun due to slackers signing up for classes on the first day of school. I returned to my car on the outskirts of the desolate parking lot and called my dad to come rescue me. Mom answered the phone.

"Hi sweetie!" she squeaked into the phone (her usual excited greeting). "Are you on your way home?"

"My car is dead. Very dead."

"What?? Are you serious?" Why do you always ask that? Of course I'm serious.

"Can Dad come rescue me?"

"Honey, our high-maintenance daughter needs to be rescued again," she called to my dad. High maintenance? Thanks, Mom. Just because I'm constantly getting myself injured, stranded, or... okay, nevermind.

Dad's first thought was why not ask some random strange guy to jumpstart my car. No way. I'm not going to walk up to some strange guy and say, "Excuse me, would you jumpstart my car, please?" No. In all honesty I don't totally trust guys. Call me strange, suspicious, cynical, or just plain weird. That was a good thing, because only my dad (who has an extensive knowledge of mechanics) would have been able to get my car started.

While waiting for Dad, I popped the hood (universal sign of "car in trouble") and sat with the windows open -- lone white car in nearly desolate parking lot -- impossible to miss. I read a print-off Mom gave me that morning from an Eric and Leslie Ludy book (deserving of its own post). Several guys drove by and saw me. I wanted to wave my umbrella and shout, "Hello... damsel in distress here! Any knights in the area to come rescue me?"

My knight came riding to rescue me in a big, ugly, green mini-van... my Dad. After ten tries to jump-start my car the conventional way (with no results), Dad turned to me and said, "I'm going to come behind you and push your car with the van. Put your car in first gear and keep your foot on the clutch. When I get to 20 mph, I'll signal you and you'll release the clutch."

"In the parking lot? Are you crazy?! What is that going to do?" I panicked as visions of me hitting other cars, trees, or assorted light-posts flashed across my mind.

"Look, if I explained you wouldn't understand anyway. Just do it and trust me, okay?" He mentioned something about decompressing the engine, but that is way beyond my line of thinking. I'm not mechanically inclined.

"Oooookay..." I moaned. "You are going to put the hood down first, right?" Like a scene from a horror movie, the thought of a car with its hood raised sailing through a parking lot disturbed me.

Dad slammed the hood and proceeded with his plan. He walked me through the steps on the cellphone. I can only imagine what that looked like to bystanders. Strangely enough, my car did start and I was able to drive home.

Needless to say, I finally arrived home an hour and half after my last class ended. The vet's office was closed, much to my relief. Besides, Amanda's girls were over and I didn't want them to have to deal with a dead rabbit. Spinning tales of bunny heaven, while comforting for children, is just bad theology.

I headed for the kitchen to snack on some grapes. Three-year-old Erin watched intently with her large brown eyes. I gave her a handful of grapes offering advice: "Here, stuff some in your pockets."

"You didn't give her any more grapes, did you?" Mom popped her head into the kitchen. Erin and I looked at each other.

"Uhh... why?"

"The girls have already had a bunch of fruit."

"Oops..." Aunt Carey is such a wonderful influence... stuff them in your pockets.

Amanda and Nate returned from the gynecologist with a successful sonogram (Amanda is expecting baby #4... and she's five years my senior) and took the girls home. We got ready to leave for Scouts. Jer was supposed to receive some Eagle patch thing... I don't know, but Mom wanted me to come and take pictures. Being the family paparzzi, I agreed to drag myself along with a camera to get shots at... er, of Jeremy.

Unfortunately, Jeremy's Scout master forgot to mention that he hadn't picked up whatever this thing was that he was supposed to present to Jer tonight. I stared blankly at the man, expensive camera in hand.

To make up for dragging me out of the house, Mom took me to get chocolate and Dr. Pepper. That cures almost everything.

After all that, the rabbit still lives... but my car does not. Dad is going to see if he can fix it tomorrow, but I may be paying for a visit to the garage instead of the vet. Secretly, I'm happy that I didn't have to take my bunny to be put to sleep, but I can't drive her to school. Hopefully, Dad can repair the car so I can drive to the College Life meeting tomorrow night.