I Am Stupid, Stupid, Stupid, Then Undeservedly Fortunate

So, a minor car accident today. An excellent precautionary tale: don't be stupid while you're driving. A moral we can all relate to.
The irony was, I wasn't on the phone, I wasn't texting. I hate texting...I don't even like to do it from the passenger seat. Anyway, wasn't doin' it. Wasn't talking to a friend on the phone, wasn't checking my eyeliner in the mirror. What I was doing was glancing down for half a second to see what song was coming up. I wasn't even touching the thing, just..."Hey, here comes Kei$ha's--whoooooooa!"
Yep, half a second of lapsed concentration was all it took. Good-bye, perfectly dry pavement with perfectly fine driving conditions, hello, ditch full of snow. Hello-but-now-must-leave narrowly-missed telephone pole.
There was silence while I realized what happened and then, as the strains of Kei$ha's latest annoying song (she bugs me, but I listen anyway) filled the car ("Comin' out your lips with your blah-blah-blah, zip your lips like a padlock") followed by my shriek: "Idiot!" Not Kei$ha. Me. Well. Mostly me.
I mean, jeez. I've been driving how many years now? Never mind. But it's been a lot. Too many years without an accident (my Ford trying to punch through my temple last month doesn't count; I wasn't actually driving) amounts to stupid complacency behind the wheel. Ho-hum, what's the next song coming down the pipe and isn't it great not being in a snow-filled ditch? Oh, wait...
So there I was, in the middle of nowhere, tire-deep in a ditch that hadn't shown green grass for four months. The car was running; everything seemed to work, I felt fine. Pissed, but fine. I was pretty sure I didn't need a cop, or even a tow truck...just someone to yank me out of the ditch. Unfortunately, I didn't have a "come yank me out of the ditch" button on my phone, so I called my husband and got his voicemail.
"Hi, don't worry, but I've been in a horrendous car accident and don't remember who you are. Once I get the blood mopped up I'll start to hike...somewhere. Don't wait up. Also, are those wolves howling in the distance? I think I'll try to make some new friends." Okay, not really, but that could have been fun. It was more like, "Yeah, I did an incredibly stupid thing and am now in the ditch, NOT HURT, just embarrassed, and I'm gonna call 9-1-1 for a tow, don't worry, I'm fine, I'll see you soon so don't worry. Also, there might be wolves after...never mind."
Then I called 911. Maybe it should have been the other way around but...I dunno. I wasn't hurt. I wasn't gonna freeze to death (I had over half a tank of gas, and there were houses within walking distance...not to mention cars passing and slowing to make sure I was okay). So I thought of Tony first, then the cops.
As I hit 9 and 1, a car driven by a teenage boy slowed and pulled across from me. He hit his window, so I hit mine. "Are you okay?" he asked, anxiously waving a cell phone at me. "Sure, just suffering from major blonde-itis," I said, pointing to my highlights. He cracked up and drove off.
Got through to 9-1-1: "911 Emergency, how can I help you?"
"Yeah, my name's MaryJanice Davidson and I've gone into the ditch. I'm fine. The car's fine. I don't need a cop. I'm not hurt. PLEASE don't roll fire or ambulance. I just need a tow truck. Actually I don't even need that. Just a good yank. Um, on my car."
"Where are you?"
"I dunno." (I didn't. I was on a minor highway in the middle of the Minnesota countryside with farms everywhere and no street signs for miles.) "Come on, you know where I am, right? In the movies you always know. Isn't your computer, like, triangulating me?"
"You don't know where you are? Did you hit your head?"
What, because I couldn't rattle off the longitude and latitude I was gushing blood from a head wound? "I'm on Highway 95," I sighed, "between Hastings and St. Paul. But I don't need an ambulance or a fire truck or really even a cop, but if you have to send one I won't complain. To your face."
"This is Washington County 911," she told me. "You need Dakota County 911."
"Well, what number do I call?" I snapped. "911? Because that's the number I already--"
"Transferring." She must have loved the chance to cut me off. I would have loved to cut me off. I was being kind of bitchy. I was raised better, too. But I was also raised to drive better, and look how that turned out.
"911 Emergency, how can I help you?"
"Yeah, I've--"
"Transfer from Washington County," the operator who loved to interrupt interrupted.
I didn't say anything.
"Hello?" the new operator asked.
"Oh, it's my turn now. Okay. Uh, my name's MaryJanice Davidson and I've gone into the ditch. I'm not hurt. The car's fine. I don't need an ambulance. Nothing's on fire. I'm not on fire. I just need a tow. Or a good yank."
"Where are you?"
Jesus. We just established that I'm an idiot who can't drive and doesn't know where she is. How long was all this going to take? I still had grocery shopping to do.
"I'm on Highway 95 between Hastings and St. Paul. I'm not on fire. I don't need an ambulance. Please don't roll fire and rescue," I begged. Daughter and granddaughter of firefighters and rescue personnel, I didn't want to drag someone away from their warm house and family on a Sunday because I wanted to know what Kei$ha song was coming next. It would have been so wrong. "I just need a tow truck, maybe." Whew! That seemed to take longer in my head...
"You're not hurt?"
"Only my pride. No I am not hurt!" I almost-shouted, wanting there to be no gray area whatsoever between she and me.
"What are you driving?"
Hey, good question! "A gray Ford Escape that..." Already tried to kill me, I almost said, then thought better of it. Who needed a trip to the Psych Ward? All I wanted was a snow shovel. And possibly cocoa.
"Okay, because we've had reports of a tan van in the ditch right about where you are."
"Well." I shrugged. "Witnesses."
"Actually, that's pretty good for witnesses," she laughed. "But they're calling in that you're hurt."
"I'm not hurt. I'm fine. This is not me being brave. I hate brave. This is me unhurt. Not hurt!"
"So you're not hurt?"
"Right. I just need a yank."
"Well, you should be talking to the State Police."
"Seriously?" I sighed. "So, what number would I call for that?"
"911," she said cheerfully. "But I'll transfer."
Thank goodness. I'd hate to call 911 again, and get the wrong 911 again.
"911 Emergency, can I help you?"
This time I was smart. This time I stayed quiet while the 911 operator told the 911 operator, "Transfer from Dakota County."
So I went through the whole thing again. But while I was doing that, two pickup trucks pulled over. Each driver hopped out and came over to me. "It looks like I've got a couple of Good Samaritans pulling over," I told the operator. Then, to the first driver to reach me, "Hi, I'm okay, I just need a yank."
"Yeah, I've got a 25-footer," Good Samaritan #1 says in the mysterious language known to Midwesterners who live in the country.
"D'you mind?"I asked, which was a dumb question, because he'd pulled over and gotten out, probably not to say "I could, but I won't...nyah-nyah!" and then roar off in a cloud of snow and Camel cigarettes.
So he and the other drive started pulling things out and poking around my tires, and I said to the operator, "It looks like they're going to give it a go. So probably you don't have to send anybody."
"Okay," she replied, "how about this? How about, after they get you out, you call me back?"
"Uh...call you back where?"
"9-1-1."
Oh, sure. Like I was falling for that again. "That way," she was saying, "we'll know you're okay."
"Good idea," I agreed. "For all I know, they could both be serial killers and this is part of their sinister plan to get their hands on a blonde marching band mom."
"Right," the operator said without the slightest trace of mirth. Killjoy.
It took my saviors about two minutes to get the job done. During which a Sheriff's car pulled up (argh! not one of those three operators listened to me). So he directed traffic and I obediently put it in Neutral, Drive, etc. as they instructed and in about two minutes I was back on the highway.
I got out, shook the first one's hand and thanked him, and then had to run to catch the second one, who'd already packed all his Good Samaritan Gear away and was climbing into his cab to zoom off to help other morons in other ditches. "Don't you dare leave until I shake your hand," I said and, bemused, he obeyed. "Thank you so much. I'm really grateful you stopped to help." He mumbled "yrr mmcmm" and off he went.
That's when the fire truck and the ambulance pulled up. "God DAMN it!"
I stomped up to the cop. "I said I was okay! I told all three of those operators I wasn't hurt! Go away," I begged the fire truck, waving frantically. "Oh please go AWAY! Thank you for coming. Now leave!"
Gah. They obeyed (the sheriff). The Good Samaritans were gone. Fire and Rescue were (thank God) gone. Then the sheriff turned to me and says, "Unfortunately, we're not done yet."
"No doubt," I said. "I was a moron and drove off the road, costing the county all sorts of money and aggravation in telephone calls alone. I don't even want to think what it costs to gas up a fire truck and send it out to wherever-the-hell-we-are. Also, could you not ever tell my dad about any of this?"
He stared, then laughed. "At least you're not hurt."
"At least I'm not hurt," I agreed, and then lightened the hell up. There are worse things than living in a country where all sorts of people insist on helping you in spite of yourself.
At least, that's what all the rescue personnel kept telling me.