Why I hate the 210 Fwy: A Horror Story

OMGosh you guys!! I almost died on Friday! And by “almost died” I mean my car got beat up by some bigger, bully cars and I managed to escape unscathed. But still, it was traumatizing! Trauma. Tizing. In order to grasp the depths of exactly how distressing it was, please see the following clip for a reenactment of my Friday night (minus all the jovial singing). Now that you have a visual, I will tell you how it really happen. There I was on my way home on the 210 Freeway, totally stoked that it was Friday and I had gained freedom for yet another weekend, when all of a sudden I hear something crash behind me. Before I can even ponder aloud “Where did that crash come from?” and realize that the source of that crash was located directly on and around my rear bumper, I was suddenly being thrust forward by said crash into the red truck in front of me, who, by the wonders that are physics, smashed into the car in front of him. Basically, science was involved.

So, my night’s not going so fantastic because I’m sitting in the fast lane in LA in Friday night traffic. I couldn’t possibly be in a more dangerous situation. . .or so I thought. So the being smashed into and sliding into another car happens around 6:30. At this point, I have to go to the bathroom a wee bit, but I figure, how long can this take? An hour? Hour and half? 3 weeks? Whatever, I’ll make it. After moving over to the shoulder and having the CHP show up, its now like 7:30 and I’m sitting in my dark car with nothing to do–except think about how much I have to pee. No sweat! I pee a lot and because of this I’m a pro at holding it (somewhere my husband is laughing as I type this)! More time passes and now its a little after 8:00, and the cop, who took all the necessary paperwork and licenses from all 4 cars, has yet to emerge from his cruiser. WTHeck is he doing? Writing a novel based on our insurance info? They say that a cop’s job is mostly paperwork, but seriously! We are 4 measly cars who happened to bump into each other–this is not a murder scene (where I can only imagine excessive documentation is needed). This is where my hatred of the cop began.

As I started to ponder exactly how I could walk up the freeway exit to the nearest bathroom/gas station/bush without getting horribly smashed by a speeding car (which would at least relieve me of my bladder problems), the cop finally decided to grace us with his presence. Once he was done taking my statement, I asked him how my car looked since I still had to drive 30 miles home and I had not been allowed out of my car (making the escape up the freeway exit particularly difficult). He checked it out and said I was fine. Now, let me just say, I am one who tends to put my trust in law enforcement. Not always, mind you, but in this particular situation, I had no reason to doubt Mr. I’ll-take-my-time-if-I-want-to-CHP-man. Whateves. He didn’t know that I have a bladder the size of an ant’s purse, so how can I hold his thoroughness against him. Little did I know that his little game of torture was only beginning!

After given the all clear, I merge super-duper carefully onto the freeway (which is way difficult when you are not only freaked out about your banged up car but know that the cop is watching you drive away). I pull over a couple of lanes and settle in at a cruising speed of approx 60mph, just waiting for the next exit so I can FINALLY get my 5:00 diet coke out of my system (Its now around 8:30). All of a sudden, I hear a rather large WHOOSH! and witness as my crumpled hood flattens out and flies up to meet my windshield, completely obstructing my view of all the speeding death wagons that surround me on the freeway!! WHAAAA!!??? Damn cop said I was good to go! Like I said, Trauma. Tizing. Can we just pause for a moment and thank the Lord above that I am a marginally fit 20-something year old who was able to hold in her pee at this particularly surprising turn of events. I’m not saying it almost didn’t come out–because it did–but I held it together.

So, what’s a girl to do when her beat-up car turns on her and decides to throw a temper-tantrum right in the middle of a freeway that was the site of an initial betrayal mere hours ago? Well, for starters, you slam on the brakes, (which I’ve decided is a totally normal response when the very handy sense of sight is suddenly taken away). Then you decide that stopping in the middle of the freeway is NOT a good idea, and proceed to duck down in an attempt to see below the car hood that is now glued to your windshield. Next, you pray very hard and very loudly as you pull over to the nearest shoulder and jump out of the car that is obviously possessed and has a vendetta against you. Then, you put the hood back in its place (not because this solves anything, but because it shows you have some dominance over the car when it is not in motion) and proceed to call AAA with a hysterical, stuttering voice. And finally, you kick the rear tire of the demon car for good measure and run up the hill of the shoulder so as not to succumb to the inevitable death that you have already cheated twice that night.

Once the tow-guy arrived to save me from bullying cars and possessed hoods (8:45pm), he continually commented on what a bad place I had chosen to pull over. As if I had a choice in the matter tow-guy!! I was like, dude, when you are maneuvering a heavy vehicle at high speeds and suddenly cannot see where you are directing said vehicle, you pull over to whatever stretch of non-freeway you can find! He didn’t seem to understand the desperation of my situation, which not only included near-death but also exploding bladders. So at this point, I’m dancing the pee-pee dance as if its the latest trend and I’m attempting to win So You Think You Can Dance (how much do you wish that was a category!!?) But I still had the 40 min drive home in the smelly tow truck to endure! Lets just say that I did not listen to any of the small talk that tow-guy yelled at me from across the cab on our way home as all of my concentration was needed to. . .how to say this lady-like. . .keep my wits about me. Which some how I managed to do.

Now, I can’t blame the cop for the initial smashing of my bumper, but pretty much all of the hell that I endured after this point I totally believe was the maniacal scheming of an angry Highway Patrolman.

And that is why I hate the 210 (and a particular unnamed officer).