Let me back up. I have a great little car - a Saturn Ion. Her name is Squishy (ala Dorrie and the jellyfish from Finding Nemo) and I love it. However, Friday at rush hour, I got flat while driving on a really busy express way. In Michigan, the speed limit is 70, which means that people typically go 75-85, myself included. I never really realized how scary-fast that is until I was standing on the side of the road watching the traffic scream by.
My jack had never been used before so the ratchet end didn't want to pop out, but a liberal application of sunscreen and a hammer cleared that right up. My sister and my kids were with me and Cait (cause she's awesome) started changing the tire...only, I'd just recently gotten the tires rotated and the bolts had been machined on a little too tightly...which meant I had to call the hubby. He came, changed the tire and was all around fabulous.
Cait, while tossing the flat in the trunk, pointed out the giant nail sticking out of the tire and I swore. A lot. This was the fifth nail to puncture one of my tires in the last two years. Seriously, I know people who've gone a lifetime never getting a nail in a tire. Maybe I'm just being pissy, but it seems like a lot.
I spent my Saturday at the tire place (Thank God I had the new Suzanne Brockmann book) waiting for them to either fix or replace the flat and I found out that it was not the fifth nail...it was the sixth. Yes indeed, embedded in my other front tire was another five inch long nail. Luckily, that one managed to stay inflated long enough to make it to the tire place.
So I'm annoyed at the seemingly overabundance of nails that have found their way into my tires. Is there some cosmic lesson that I'm supposed to learn from this (other than don't drive over nails - which, for the record, I don't do knowingly) Cait insists it's my magnetic personality, but somehow, I kinda doubt it.