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There is really no good explanation as to how I ended up barreling down Interstate 285, smashed against a tow truck driver and deeply regretting my decision to leave home last Friday afternoon.

I blame my husband. I had mentioned to him that "Big Bertha," our only occasionally trusty Suburban with 170 thousand miles, seemed to me to be barely hanging on.

"Perhaps you are a little paranoid," he said dismissively.

"Perhaps I have good reason to be paranoid," I snapped. "You do remember that our children are still scarred from the Bertha incident last fall that left us stranded on the side of the highway while I was driving them to school?"

He laughed, "You know it wasn't the car breaking down that scarred them. It was your curlers, slippers and robe combined with an unfortunately strong wind from passing cars that they are still working through with a counselor."

He had a point. After that, at the insistence of my children, a new policy that I must be wearing pants and a bra before leaving the house to drive them to school was implemented.

Still, I could point to the many other times that Bertha had let us down. Each time when we picked her up from the mechanic my husband would pat her hood and say "Now that we have fixed all the major things that could go wrong, Bertha is good as new." That was as ridiculous as saying my 82-year-old great aunt who has had breast implants, liposuction, knee surgery, hip replacement and an angioplasty was now ready for the Boston Marathon or the cover of Vogue.

With my appeals falling on deaf, or at least very wax-filled, ears and having no other means of transportation, Bertha, Ashley and I headed down GA 400 to her cross country track meet on the other side of Atlanta. Things took a turn for the worst about 25 miles later. A young man in a shiny corvette convertible pulled up next to me on the freeway and motioned for me to roll down my window. I could tell he was visibly annoyed by having to hold his car steady next to mine as I manually rolled the handle, stretched out the cramp in my arm, caught my breath and rolled some more.

Finally he yelled out, "Hey, lady, there is black smoke coming out of the back of your car!" I nodded thanks, but in my head I was thinking, "Look smart guy. I just manually rolled down my window, the ceiling of my car resembles a circus tent and my bumper is held together with bumper stickers. These things alone should signify to you that you were not born when this car was made. Do you think it should have the same emissions as a Prius?"

About that time Ashley choked out "something smells like a paper mill in our car!"

"Great!! That's new."

I pulled off at the next exit and managed to coast into a tiny Georgia service station. Explaining my dilemma to the mechanic, I asked if he would mind taking a look.

"No problem," he said. It wasn't long before he returned with his brilliant analysis. "Yep! She's got black smoke coming out her back side."

"Is it drivable?" I asked.

"Well, here's the thing," he said. "White smoke? You can drive her. Gray smoke. You can drive her. But black smoke means it's burning really hot and she may catch on fire while you are driving her."

I must admit that for just a moment I pondered the words catch on fire. I pictured Bertha on the side of the road burning like the Hindenburg and calculated that if I lived, that should guarantee me a new car. However, realizing I had Ashley with me, I came to my senses.

"I can call you a tow truck and get a rental car to pick you up," he offered. After 20 minutes a rental car driver named Bubba arrived in a car that wreaked of cigarette smoke and body odor. Gasping for breath, Ashley and I both rolled down our windows and hung our heads out like golden retrievers going for a ride.

Arriving, still dizzy from lack of oxogen, I fumbled in my purse searching for a tip. All I had was a 20. Well, I'm certainly not tipping $20 for a five-mile ride in a car that smelled like an armpit, I reasoned. Instead I quickly hopped out and headed inside, trying not to make eye contact with the driver, but I could feel his disapproving stare in my back.

Inside a perky agent greeted me with, "I will be with you in just a moment." Fifty-one minutes later I was called up to the counter. "Obviously the word 'moment' has a very broad definition here," I commented.

"Credit card and driver's license?" she motioned. I wearily produced both.

"I could put you in that brand-new SUV." She pointed out the window. "Perfect. I'll take it," I sighed.

"But I can only rent to licensed drivers, and your license expired seven days ago."

"What!?"

I grabbed my license in disbelief. Yep, the thing had been good for 10 years but today it said expired. "I still know how to drive!" I said sarcastically. "That may be true, but according to this, you're no longer able to," she quipped just as sarcastically.

"Thats just great!" I snapped. I tried calling my husband, but being unable to reach him, I turned back to the agent.

"We are closing momentarily, but our driver could give you a ride back to your car," she suggested. "Is that momentarily like in a minute or momentarily in rental car world 51 minutes from now?" I asked. Her face, no longer perky, said she was not amused.

I peered through the glass door into the parking lot and saw Bubba still glaring at me from behind the wheel. "Yeah, ok," I said, defeated. Taking a deep breath, I tried to act nonchalant walking out and sliding into the back of his car again. This time I handed him the 20 and asked sweetly, "Could you take us back to our car please?"

He snatched the money out of my hand and laughed. At this point I was growing exhausted and irritated. "Couldn't get a car?" he snickered. I looked at Ashley and raised my eyebrows as if to say buckle up, I'm about to lose it. I answered Bubba with the straightest face I could muster. "No, apparently that stretch I served back in San Quinton for an act of rage disqualified me. Who knew?"

When the color returned to Bubba's face, he quickly handed me my 20 saying, "It's on me," and even more quickly returned us to our car, which was in the process of being towed.

"Do you need a ride?" the tow truck driver asked me. I thought of waiting for my husband or a friend to pick us up, but it was five o'clock, traffic was awful, and everything here in 'Mayberry' was closing, so I said, "Why not? Sure. What else could happen?"

So two Valium and two moments….I mean two hours later, Ashley and I arrived home. Obviously we never made it to the meet. All and all, it was an extremely memorable experience that we have spent the last week trying to forget. It gave us a new appreciation for the nuances of hitchhiking and a strong desire in the future to just take the bus.

- Kim Avery

Kim Avery is an author, photographer, wife and mother of four children ranging in age from 21 to 11. Her take on life is often hilarious. She describes the ordinary in a way we can all relate while adding a twist that you cannot help but laugh.