A malfunctioning alternator in my minivan has destroyed my professional guise. Driving my husband's pickup has revealed me for the redneck that I am.
Noisy pipes. Chipping paint. Flames in the back window.
Just call me Joe Dirt.
I haven't had to drive this beast since last Christmas. My husband, who had just endured shoulder surgery, needed my van to drive our kids from point A to point B. My boss and his wife were hosting a holiday dinner at their home in a really nice neighborhood in Norfolk.
As if it isn't bad enough parking your redneck truck in the driveway at your boss's house, the back of the truck contained cargo that my husband's malfunctioning shoulder prevented us from immediately discarding -- a broken refrigerator.
Imagine, if you will, the look on my boss' face when this truck pulls up in his driveway -- flames, pipes, chipping paint, spent appliances in the bed. I'm sure I made him proud.
I made it through most of the dinner without anyone commenting on my wheels. In fact, no one said a thing until we were walking out the door and one of them turned to me and asked: "So, Kathryn, does that refrigerator keep your roadkill fresh?"
I hope my van is fixed soon.