I’m absolutely, positively, one hundred percent convinced my life is put on purely for the enjoyment of millions of television fans that are out there in the real world. Northern Virginia, as I know it, is just a giant, elaborate set. Everything that happens has been scripted, choreographed, and put into action by a talented bunch of television executives, producers, directors, and writers.

Why then, you might ask, would they allow me to see a movie such as, “The Truman Show”? It was a leak. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Just like in the movie, someone was trying to alert me to the plot.

Oh so many years of doubt later, I’ve finally figured it out. I will be a patsy no longer. You can raise the curtain, you can shut off the lights, you can let me out into the real world now, please. I’ve had enough. Or, at the very least, you can quit with the disappointment tactics and go on to a happy episode for a change. I understand that drama makes for better television, but I swear, get me some happy news and I promise to make it funny. People like comedy, right? Comedy sells, trust me. Happy comedy, even.

So what’s happening? And why is this week’s episode brought to you by the lovely folks at Bavarian Motor Works? Because… <--insert jingle--> “Nothing else compares to a BMW.” This entire weekend, ever since the car accident, it seems it’s been nothing but car trouble – but car trouble caused by other cars, not my bimmer.

On Monday, I got a rental car. A Chevy Impala. I was okay with that – not thrilled, mind, but okay – but noo, my (planned) bad luck with automobiles followed me no matter what car I was in. Sure, the car sucks, and it won’t even begin to compare to my BMW, but it was better than nothing. Of course, the gas pedal was an absolute pain in the butt. Naturally, the brake pedal was totally in the wrong spot and caused me to strain my already sprained right ankle. As everyone knows, the car is absolutely impossible to drive safely because you can’t tell where the front of your car ends. But I was okay with it. Until last night.

Last night I had to drive into downtown DC for another volunteer training meeting. Unfortunately, this meeting was held at the Washington Convention Center, which is located on the corner of Chinatown and The ‘Hood.

I was driving along, no problems, all by myself. I navigated DC without getting lost at all (I was very proud of myself), everything was going well, until I pulled into the parking garage. Suddenly my gas gauge went from having half a tank, to below empty. The low fuel warning came on, the car was beeping at me non-stop, and I was beginning to panic. I was already barely on time for my meeting, and I wouldn’t get done until well after dark. And I was in the worst possible part of the district. To my right was the gang-ridden neighborhood of Chinatown. Straight ahead, The ‘Hood, along with its gangs, thugs, and general scariness which is of course magnified by the dark of night. To the left, nothing but the city, and no gas stations in sight.

Plus, there was the worry that, oh-no-there’s-a-gas-leak-and-this-stupid-freaking-Chevy-is-going-to-be-the-death-of-me-and-it-will-be-a-very-large-orange-hot-and-firey-death. *sigh* This never would have happened in my BMW…

I parked the car in the garage (which I was paying $14 for, gag me with a spoon), and walked over to the convention center. Once I finally got to the right room, I stepped back into the hallway to call my parents and explain, yet again, that I was having car troubles. I felt horrible. Couldn’t anything with an engine or a battery be nice to me for a change? Obviously, no, because when I pulled out my cell phone I realized my battery was about to die. Greaaat. I had just enough juice to call my parents and tell them what great luck I was having. They said they’d call the rental car company and I said I’d call back after my meeting to see what I needed to do.

The meeting was fine, albeit a bit pointless. But alas. The best part was I got to see a good friend of mine that I met at Orientation. I didn’t think I’d get to see him again so soon, but he surprised me, he was there, and we had a great time.

Thankfully there was someone else there that happened to live right near me (what an amazing coincidence, don’t you think? Nice job, writers, way to keep me on my toes,) and they were kind enough to agree to come with me to get some gas if I needed to after the meeting was over. Then, I’d drive them to the metro stop where they parked their car, and they’d follow me home. Great. I tried to call my parents to tell them the good news, but alas, when I tried to turn my phone back on, my cell phone was conveniently dead.

I let out a laugh of desperation, looked up at the friends around me and said, “I swear, nothing’s going right this weekend. I think I’m doomed.” Just then, with absolutely perfect (and obviously planned) timing, I felt someone grab me by the shoulders, then I heard a very familiar voice saying, “Hello!” I turned around to see my Father standing right behind me.

Long story short, Dad and I had to drive through the ‘Hood to find a gas station, then we drove all the way home, and this morning we got a new car from the rental car company. It’s a Buick. A gigantic, behemoth of a Buick. *sigh* Can you tell I’m in car agony? Why in the name of all that is good are dash boards hollow, wood panelling isn’t even made out of wood, and why – WHY!? – are the brake pedals not even with the gas pedals?! My already damaged ankle is only getting worse, thanks to American crapola engineering. The ratio of leg length versus arm length is totally screwed up – in order for me to reach the pedals, I’m so close to the steering wheel I could sue for damages. And I’m even an average sized/shaped person! What’s wrong with these car designers?! Are they all really long-legged and yet have ridiculously short arms? I just don’t get it, it makes no sense. And furthermore, looking at a LeSabre, wouldn’t you think they’d have loads of room inside? Nope. In the passenger seat, my knees are up against the dash board. Am I really that oddly shaped? Is it just me? Or are these car designers really that pitiful?

It all comes down to this – even in the smallest, most unexpected ways, nothing compares to my BMW. Nothing. The way a car moves, the way it responds, the way it looks at me, just sitting there in the driveway… *sigh* It’ll be another week on The Heather Show before I can get back into my Bimmer. I’m thinking of playing up the drama and having a Welcome Home party for it, complete with a car-shaped cake. What do you think? If The Heather Show producers want good television, by golly, I’ll give it to ’em. 🙂 You asked for it, baby, so you’d better watch out. Tune in tomorrow, same Heather time, same Heather channel.