Latest column: Transmission Trouble

Talk about a crummy couple of days.

First, you should know that I started writing this column in the dark. At a desk in the corner of a guestroom at the Quality Inn in Wisconsin Rapids. Typing as quietly as possible so not to wake my sleeping family.

This wasn’t the plan.

Hours earlier, we were zipping through Wisconsin on Hwy 21 — singing to Queen and watching signs for “Genuine Wisconsin Cheese!” whiz by. We’d just spent a weekend with friends at Sturgeon Bay, and were looking forward to getting home.

Then, at the stop-signed intersection at Hwy. 13, our van lurched (first), made a disheartening screeching noise (second), and came to a stop (third). This last part was the most disturbing.

“Crap,” said my husband. “Transmission.”

Pulled over to the side of the road between a rest stop and a warehouse-sized establishment called Private Pleasure (“Big Sale on Latex!”), we explored our options. Scratch that. We explored our option: Calling a tow truck.

Waiting for our knight in shining steel to arrive, my sons and I crossed the road to wait at the rest stop. (I took a gamble that Private Pleasure wasn’t an appropriate diversion for my 4- and 7-year-olds.) Our company was a hardcore biker (I say “hardcore” because not only was he returning from an 800-mile trip to Sturgis, but he was also sporting a lengthy braided beard) who kindly asked if we needed help.

“We’re fine,” I assured him. “We’ll be back on the road in no time.”

Poor, dumb me.

By the time we returned to the van, the tow truck was just arriving. Thirty minutes later, we were checking into the Quality Inn and the driver was delivering our van to the Chrysler service station.

Only, as we’d discover in the morning, it wasn’t. A service station, that is. It had been once. But now it was just a used car lot — and that didn’t help us one bit.

As Day 2 wore on, we traded calls with service stations, dealerships, towing companies and the roadside assistance operator. I passed the time enumerating the many reasons that no 2002 Chrysler Town & Country with only 50,000 miles should need a new transmission. At 10 a.m., I preached how we’d only buy new cars from now on. By 11 a.m., I vowed we’d only buy used cars with 80,000 miles on them — since that worked for us before WITH NO TRANSMISSION PROBLEMS.

By noon, we were waiting (and waiting… and waiting…) in the hotel lobby for a rental car. By then, we’d been told that our van did indeed need a new transmission and that it wouldn’t be ready for days.

Day 3 is tomorrow. Day 3 is when we find out how much this ordeal is going to cost us. See, we don’t know exact numbers yet — just that it will range somewhere between the price of the trip to New York we’d been hoping to take this fall and the new carpet I had really wanted to get this winter.

But that’s OK. As crummy as my week has been, I know how lucky I am. I’m thankful we had a “car problem,” as opposed to a car accident. I’m thankful for cell phone reception where we needed it most. I’m thankful for roadside assistance. I’m thankful for kind strangers. And I’m thankful for the technological marvel of wireless Internet, which allows me to meet deadlines like this — even when stuck in Wisconsin.

Stuck in Wisconsin

Well here we are.

It's Sunday night and we find ourselves at a Quality Inn in Wisconsin Rapids. We hadn't planned to be in Wisconsin Rapids today. But our transmission thought differently. So there we were, pulled over on the side of the road in front of a warehouse-sized "Private Pleasures" store. (Yes, we got a picture.)

A 25-mile tow-truck ride later (which the kids thought was very cool) brought us here, and now we're just waiting to talk to the service station tomorrow -- and praying the verdict is kind. In this case, "kind" would be telling us they can get to the van right away. We know better than to expect a cheap bill.

Thank goodness for cell phones, roadside assistance, and a hotel with wireless Internet! And thank goodness the kids think this is a big adventure! They're being great, especially considering they've only been home for about 18 hours total in the last 8 days. (I (Jen) had them at the cabin last week, then it was a quick stop home to pick up Jay before heading on to Green Bay this weekend. Come to think of it, no wonder the van is protesting...)

Okeedokee. Time for me to write this week's column. I'm thinking I have plenty of material now...

Latest column: Roadtrip Love

‘Tis the season for hitting the road. For throwing the luggage in the back of the car and heading out — to the beach, the reunion, the woods, the wedding.
Both my and my husband’s families live “up north,” so we spend more than our fair share of summer weekends on the road. I’d like to say we’re seasoned pros, but to be honest, there’s room for improvement.

On our last trip, we took my husband’s Kia Sportage. With no a/c. And with so many bags, backpacks, and portable DVD accessories that the stack o’ stuff on the floor in front of me was level with my seat. I had two available positions: legs folded “criss-cross applesauce” or feet on the dash.

And did I mention there was no a/c?

The space issue was my fault. I’m a chronic over-packer. I fill the vehicle like I do the dishwasher — wedging pieces into every last nook and cranny. I think it’s because I throw my stuff together fifteen minutes before we leave — frantically running around the house with an open backpack.

“Will we need the bug spray?”

“We’re going to an indoor waterpark.”

“Yah, well, I’ll throw it in just in case. How about the karaoke machine?”

“No.”

“OK, just the portable CD player with a couple of the disks.”

Even as I’m making my final walk out the door, I’m grabbing random supplies. Anything in my path makes it on our trip — a box of Legos, a couple of couch pillows, the kids’ baby books.

By the time I’ve gathered the necessities, everyone’s waiting in the car — juice boxes loaded, earphones plugged in.

“Are you ready, yet?” my husband pleads.

“Almost, I just need to get my knitting.”

“You knit?”

“I did. Once. I thought I’d start again.”

“During the drive?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you were going to update the baby books.”

“I am.”

“And finish your article.”

“I am.”

“And build a city made of Legos.”

“…I am.”

“You do know it’s only a five-hour drive?”

Truth be told, those are the things I’d like to do… if I didn’t spend most of the ride sleeping.

It turns out that spending any more than 20 minutes in the passenger seat of a moving vehicle is my equivalent of taking a handful of Nytol. By the time we hit Pine Island, I’m usually out cold.

Which is unfortunate, because there’s no pretty way to sleep in the car. And I know this because I’ve seen others sleep in cars as they drive alongside me. Their heads pressed against the glass, mouths gaping open, the imprint of the door lock on their foreheads.

And I think, That’s Love. If they get where they’re going, and their significant other — the person who watched them drool on themselves for 150 miles — still wants to be seen with their door lock-lined face at the family reunion, that’s love. And if my husband, who has put up with me packing three suitcases for a two-day trip, has stuck around for 10 years, then that’s love, too. Roadtrip love. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.