From the Mind of Meegs

After a brief interruption, we now bring you the conclusion of our saga. If you haven't already read the first and second parts, you can do so here and here, respectively. This probably won't make much sense until you've read the first two parts, and you'll ruin the suspense anyway.

Our story continues in Lincoln, Nebraska, population: two very dear friends and soon-to-be newlyweds, my second rental in as many days, and (as I will soon discover) many cops with too much time on their hands. On the way west to Lincoln, my sister and I note that we've seen at least 10 people pulled over heading in the opposite direction. I, who have never even been pulled over for speeding, note to her that we'll have to be very careful coming back.

We arrive in Lincoln and enjoy a relaxing few hours. Just minutes into the drive home, I quickly see the game the cops are playing. The speed limit vacillates rapidly between 55 and 65 and 75 mph, with signs advertising a variety of reasons for the change. "Work zone" seems to be the most common excuse, though I do not see a single bulldozer or traffic cone or other evidence of "work" during the entire ride home. Near each change is a cop car running radar and as many a six cop cars stacked up another quarter mile down the road. Fighting extreme fatigue, I diligently follow the shifts until I miss one from 75 to 55. Or, more accurately, I see it too late. Despite braking my way down to 58, I have already been clocked going 72.

License, registration and insurance. I've got the first one covered. The glovebox yields a grand total of 3 documents, none of which seem particularly helpful in the "registration" category. And I realize that I've left my insurance card back at my hotel room, bagged up with the other contents of my abandoned car. Once the cop realizes it's a rental, he waves off the registration question in favor of seeing my rental agreement. And after remarking, "And if I explained to you why I don't have my insurance card, you wouldn't even believe me," I babble on for solid two minutes in an attempt to explain the reason anyway, throwing in the fact that I was only in town to be the maid of honor in a wedding, not to cause trouble. Probably tired of my rambling, he waves the insurance requirement off too.

He explains the speeding issue rather patiently before retiring to his squad car. Almost all at once, my sister, our friend (along for the ride back to Omaha) and I remark that he sounded like he was willing to let me go with just a warning. Fingers crossed...fingers crossed. And here he comes back...and...oh come on. With the weekend I was having, do you really think he let me go? $169, including the extra cost I have to pay for the privilege of not returning to Lincoln for a court appearance. The problem is that there are two things in Nebraska: cornfields and I-80. And since corn theft is probably not epidemic, they have little left to do except write traffic tickets. Score for the weekend: Cops, 2; Me, -1,000,000.

Now for the good news. I did manage to make it home in one piece, though I had to wake up remarkably early after a late night at the wedding. We had to have the rental back in Chicago by 3:00 or else they'd start charging us by the hour. And since we were NOT paying extra for multiple drivers on the rental, I was the entire show for the 450+ mile trip home. I am normally iron woman when it comes to driving, but I fully admit it was a struggle. My sister: "I was really getting worried about you for an hour or so there." The fat making its way through my blood (thank you, McDonalds breakfast) probably didn't help the sluggishness. But hey, Egg McMuffins are one of the few McDonalds items I really like, and I hadn't had one in, I don't know? Two years? If ever an occasion called for indulgence, this weekend was it.

Other good news: my brother agreed to let me borrow his car for this week, while I awaited the final verdict on my car. He's a 17-year-old boy, so "tin can on wheels" doesn't even begin to cover the state of his vehicle. However, I was genuinely touched by how willing he was to lend it to me. Genuinely touched. And I don't get get genuinely touched very often.

The final word on my car came down not on Monday, as promised. Not on Tuesday. Not on Wednesday. Finally, Thursday. Apparently, three people are now out. Maybe less mouth kissing would result in less spreading of germs in that place. I can't think of any other explanation, though the mental picture of a bunch of greasy mechanics mouth kissing is...interesting, to say the least. Verdict: new engine needed.

And this is about the part where I tell Toyota to take this car and shove it. Take this crappy <100K mile car and shove it. Also, the Toyota dealership mechanics who swore up and down that the oil wasn't a problem--they can shove it too. Shove it all the way up there, fellas.

I'm thinking of getting a Honda next. If your boyfriend screws around on you, getting with his top rival is the best revenge, isn't it?