Sage and I got into a hit and run accident. And no, it
wasn't Amy Senser, but I'm pretty sure this lady was drunk all the same. Sage
and I were doing everything right. I was in the driver's seat and he was in the
back: buckled, blindfolded, and surrounded by pillows. We were on our way to
the dog park to pick up that athletic, outdoorsman
type man who is dog focused, but loves pu...um, cats too? Just imagine... a guy wearing
flannel, carrying a shoulder load of wood with a beautiful border collie or
golden retriever following close behind. Although this scene doesn’t make sense
for the dog park (perhaps better suited for a Brawny commercial?), it’s still nice. BUT A
BITCH REAR-ENDED ME. Therefore postponing our visit to the dog park and ruining my chance to find out how flannel feels in the morning.
When my head hit the back of the headrest, sadly, my first thought was: f***, I JUST DID MY HAIR! Second thought: Is my neck broken? Third Thought: No, but WOW, my neck is skinny-- I can actually find the bones under the skin. Note to self: add 'skinny neck' to list of best attributes.
I can only assume that the girl who hit me knew her way around the baseball diamond. By the looks of her evening dress, smeared make-up, and no shoes, I can only image that she was in fact a baseball groupie to the traveling New York Yankees. The accident occurred across from The Grand Hotel in downtown Minneapolis. (The hotel that the players stay at while in town). In an effort to prove how absolutely ridiculous the post-accident conversation went without exaggeration, let me relive the moment via conversation breakdown:
Cab Driver: "Pull to the side of the road! You're blocking the way!!"
Crazy Woman Driver: I'm so sorry, are you okay? There isn't any damages, so we should be good, right?
Me: I'm fine ( While stepping out of the car to observe the damages I couldn't help but to notice her less than accurate use of the English language: "isn't any damages" ).
CWD: I don't have a license. Can we pleeeeease just forget this?
My internal dialog: WTF? why isn't this girl wearing shoes?
Me: Umm.....you ruined the bumper of my car. I'm calling the cops and you may want to put on shoes.
CWD: cry, cry, cry
My internal dialog: Wow, her neck is fat.
Needless to say, she drove off while I was on the phone with the police; perhaps there was a vikings player in desperate need. From what I could gather from the situation, she was either: A) drunk and didn't want a DUI B) a baseball groupie/ drug mule or C) all of the above.
To put the overpopped cherry on top of the ice cream that is this story, all of this went down while Derek Jeter was signing autographs across the street. Uh-huh. Under more favorable conditions, I would have jumped at the chance to meet a single millionaire (mama taught me right), but my hair was ruined and I was wearing dog park friendly spandex. I am convinced he looked over at me once, but it cannot be proven until his new girlfriend starts sporting athletic-slut wear like me. More pressing, I am convinced that the girl who rear-ended me was his or his teammate's groupie/one night stand. She reeked of booze, cheap perfume, and desperation. I have watched enough episodes of "Basketball Wives" to know what a groupie looks like the morning after.
Why do I only get 'hit' by the player's girlfriend and not the player? I doubt I will be able to get any money out of the bitch for my car, let alone Sage's chiropractor visits.
Take Two: Sage and I are going to the dog park tomorrow. But this time we'll walk there.
When my head hit the back of the headrest, sadly, my first thought was: f***, I JUST DID MY HAIR! Second thought: Is my neck broken? Third Thought: No, but WOW, my neck is skinny-- I can actually find the bones under the skin. Note to self: add 'skinny neck' to list of best attributes.
I can only assume that the girl who hit me knew her way around the baseball diamond. By the looks of her evening dress, smeared make-up, and no shoes, I can only image that she was in fact a baseball groupie to the traveling New York Yankees. The accident occurred across from The Grand Hotel in downtown Minneapolis. (The hotel that the players stay at while in town). In an effort to prove how absolutely ridiculous the post-accident conversation went without exaggeration, let me relive the moment via conversation breakdown:
Cab Driver: "Pull to the side of the road! You're blocking the way!!"
Crazy Woman Driver: I'm so sorry, are you okay? There isn't any damages, so we should be good, right?
Me: I'm fine ( While stepping out of the car to observe the damages I couldn't help but to notice her less than accurate use of the English language: "isn't any damages" ).
CWD: I don't have a license. Can we pleeeeease just forget this?
My internal dialog: WTF? why isn't this girl wearing shoes?
Me: Umm.....you ruined the bumper of my car. I'm calling the cops and you may want to put on shoes.
CWD: cry, cry, cry
My internal dialog: Wow, her neck is fat.
Needless to say, she drove off while I was on the phone with the police; perhaps there was a vikings player in desperate need. From what I could gather from the situation, she was either: A) drunk and didn't want a DUI B) a baseball groupie/ drug mule or C) all of the above.
To put the overpopped cherry on top of the ice cream that is this story, all of this went down while Derek Jeter was signing autographs across the street. Uh-huh. Under more favorable conditions, I would have jumped at the chance to meet a single millionaire (mama taught me right), but my hair was ruined and I was wearing dog park friendly spandex. I am convinced he looked over at me once, but it cannot be proven until his new girlfriend starts sporting athletic-slut wear like me. More pressing, I am convinced that the girl who rear-ended me was his or his teammate's groupie/one night stand. She reeked of booze, cheap perfume, and desperation. I have watched enough episodes of "Basketball Wives" to know what a groupie looks like the morning after.
Why do I only get 'hit' by the player's girlfriend and not the player? I doubt I will be able to get any money out of the bitch for my car, let alone Sage's chiropractor visits.
Take Two: Sage and I are going to the dog park tomorrow. But this time we'll walk there.