Don't start with me, Brad Mosiman!

 For two Saturdays in a row, I have been denied the luxury of planning for my work week at the school. Two weeks ago, I was recovering from a NASTY stomach "bug" ("Bug" is too cute a word to assign to this ailment...imagine a post-nuclear war cockroach crawling out of the sewage lagoon scene from Slumdog Millionaire.). Last Saturday, temperatures had dipped so low that my truck couldn't even consider starting, emitting, instead, a shaky moan. So this Saturday, I was thrilled to be back in my quiet classroom, surrounded by piles of paper and planning out my week by the minute. 

And then the phone rang...

Yeah.  I considered not answering it.

Brad's car had broken down in Dansville. "Turn right when you get to the sign for the hospital," he told me helpfully, not factoring in that I had no idea how to even get to Dansville. I gamely jumped in my truck, heading in what I thought was the right direction. Google Maps quickly told me that my instinct was, of course, wrong, and I immediately turned around.

I arrived in a reasonably efficient amount of time, leaping from my truck, loudly humming my hero-quest anthem. Dramatically handing me the one side of the jumper cables, unnecessarily warning me NOT to allow the handles to touch, Brad asked why I was singing the Bonanza theme song. Startled, I temporarily forgot about wondering what would happen if I just touched the handles a little (A spark? An interruption in the time/space continuum? A shock of such epic proportions that you could see a flash of skeleton, cartoon-style, through my skin? Or was Brad just being theatrical, as usual?). "No," I told him, "I'm humming the Lone Ranger song." Brad removed temptation from my hands and shrugged. "I've never heard that version of the William Tell Overture before," he remarked as I immediately regretted rescuing his sorry ass.

Before we jumped back into the truck to let the car's battery charge, I noticed (and ignored) a box of fund-raising donuts on Brad's passenger seat. We sat in the donut-less cab of my truck for ten minutes or so, chatting about our respective mornings before attempting the next leg of the journey home. "If it's the alternator, as I suspect," Brad told me, "We may have to repeat this process a couple of times." "Happy to do it," I replied magnanimously, happy in my hero role. By the third pit stop, however, my resolve faltered and I yielded to the siren's sweet song. No, I didn't cross the streams. I snagged the donuts.

The 4th stop had me parked, precariously, along a steep embankment. I clung to the side of my truck to deliver the cables, imagining the real possibility of my tumbling down the sheer, snow-covered escarpment. 

Brad made it back to the house before me. As I moved to reverse the truck into the driveway, I wondered why he was parked in the middle of the road. Seemed odd. He was waving VERY enthusiastically at me. Also odd. Oh! I know! The car must need to be jumped one more time. As I attempted to maneuver the truck into position, Brad YELLED at me. Yes. He yelled at our hero. "Just park it," he yelled, ungratefully, "We'll just push it into place." What?!?! THAT was his plan?!?! That sounded TERRIBLE. Working together to rock the car, to time the rocking, and to throw all of my body weight (Thank goodness for the donuts) against the car at the precise moment while my treadless shoes slipped ineffectually on the icy ground was as much fun as you can imagine. Brad yelling encouragement was a lot of help too. Turns out, I don't really get a charge out of being a hero.