A curse

I have a friend who mocks me whenever I make allusions to fate or karma or any other such ephemeral force.  But it is at times like these that I must, even in the face of his derision, assert that, when it comes to cars, I am cursed.
Let me give you a brief history first.  Well, I'll try to keep it brief.

1. My first car (affectionately referred to as "The Carcass Mona") developed a fun quirk of blowing smoke in through the vents--you know...to keep life interesting.  The last time I drove her I was bundled up in hat, gloves, coat, and scarf as I drove her through the Provo canyon in mid December with all the windows down.  She promptly retaliated such harsh treatment by enveloping me in a choking cloud of smoke the moment we stopped moving.  So chalk one up to attempted murder by asphyxiation.
2. Next car that I drove wasn't actually mine, but my brother's.  I borrowed it to drive to work the summer he spent in Alaska being manly.  Unfortunately, I didn't get a job till half-way through the summer, and as such, was without any money for to procure insurance.  Unfortunately, the week I finally got my job with Target (but had not yet been paid) was the week that the police decided to pull me over for the tail light which had been out on my brother's car for the last three years.  I would have gotten off with a warning had he failed to ask me for my insurance.  Instead, I got a hefty ticket, a nice tow to an impound garage (plus the fee to keep Steve there for three days, as my dad couldn't take me to pick him up any sooner) and the cost of insurance.  In a matter of three days I burned through a little over $1000.
3. A week or two after posting bail, I was driving to my second job when my tire blew out.  Not just blew, but shredded entirely, all the way around.  One helpful biker, three family friends, and a call to AAA later, I drove on Steve's little donut tire over to Les Schwab (one of my favorite companies of life, by the way, right after Geico) where I showed them my impressively shredded tire and they told me that, not only would I need to buy a tire to replace that one, but I'd have to buy three others as well.  They were all dangerously cracked from the heat and in danger of the similar fates.  My brother informed me that it was my job to pay for all four tires.  Another $400 dollars down.
4. A few weeks after that my brother returned from being manly in Alaska and took his car, with its four new tires, down to Utah.  Having recently payed out almost $1500 dollars in the last month I had deferred out of school.  Which meant remaining in Oregon and continuing to work.  Which meant I still needed a car.  Which meant borrowing $2000 from my dad to purchase a "new" car from a Mexican man whose wife was deported so he needed the cash.  But hey!  It came equipped with a BYU sticker in the rear window!  What are the chances?
5. Two months after that, as I was slowly digging myself out of debt to my parents, yet still cherishing dreams of returning to school in winter semester, my head gasket died, causing my engine to overheat.  Against all the expert expectations of my mechanic, the engine block did NOT crack (I do have small blessings here and there), but the new head gasket, water pump and...um...some other stuff came to a nice round total of $1600.  Goodbye school.  
6. After a year and a half in Oregon I finally accepted that I would never actually come out ahead on the financial front.  I moved back to Utah and re-entered school.  I was promptly pulled over by some bored Provo policeman for driving 9 miles over the speed limit on University Ave.  Ticket.  Can't even remember how much.  It came days after witnessing my friend walk away scott free after being pulled over going 65 in a 35 zone.
7. Driving my roommate to the airport a few months later.  My brand new tire, purchased mere weeks before, blew out a smidge past Thanksgiving Point.  After calling my friend to rescue my roommate and get her to the airport on time (at this point my friends are beginning to notice the curse) I drove 40 mph on a donut tire down about 15 miles of a Utah Interstate, nearly get killed by a semi truck, and finally make it to my friends at Les Schwab (seriously.  love these people)
8. Its the end of the semester and I'm booking it up to campus to make it to a test.  Turning left on the tail end of a yellow light I get in a fight with an SUV who also wants to spend time in the intersection.  My car, being made of metal, comes out ahead, with only a shattered headlight casing and a peeled back fender (but leaving the bulb in tact) as opposed to his mangled fender and door.  Unfortunately, the police don't see things quite this way, and give me a ticket.  Bless my dear friends at Geico--the only people I love more than Les Schwab--they don't hike my insurance.  Another sneaky blessing.
9. I am at a friend's house the day before I am supposed to leave to drive up to Oregon.  I've run inside to grab her and the car is idling out front waiting.  At least, that's how I leave it.  We return from the house to find it dead and nothing will get it started.  After a huuuuge favor in the form of a ride up to Oregon, my brother takes the car to be fixed while I'm gone.  I still don't know what they said was wrong with it.  I just remember that it cost me another $600 to get it fixed.  
10. Fixing the fixing over the next two months costs me another $200-ish.
11. Despite my almost obsessive habit of clipping my keys to my purse the moment I take them out of the ignition (a habit born of one too many desperate hunts through the apartment for keys 10 minutes after I am supposed to be gone for work) I somehow manage to leave them in the ignition and then lock them in the car.  Thankfully my dad was in town and was able to break into my car (we don't talk about the clanking sound my window now makes when you close the door) and rescue me.  And then rescue me again when the car battery, which was dead, marooned me at the grocery store an hour later.
12. It's been a year and I've not had any problems.  It's about time for something to go wrong, especially as I'm leaving again to Oregon the next day.  Always to be counted on, the curse comes through and again, the day before my planned departure, my car refuses to start.  This time, however, it seems that time alone is all that is needed.  As soon as my expert is called in to diagnose the problem Sharry Baby starts like a dream.  I am left to drive in Oregon in an uneasy state of mind, wondering every time I turn my key if this is the moment she'll choose to shaft me...
13. A few months problem free and I've been lulled into a false sense of security.  Just to keep me on my toes though, I get another two days of car failure.  She wont start and she also wont tell me why.  Again, as soon as the mechanic friend gets in touch, all problems mysteriously disappear.  I am still waiting, therefore, for the other shoe to drop.
14. Interspersed throughout this four year history are innumerable dead batteries caused by my failure to turn my headlights off, culminating in the purchase of a new battery ($70) when the old one starts dying WITHOUT the lights being left on.

And there you have the history of my car curse.  I grant you, plenty of those are caused by my own failures--of memory or whatever.  But you must admit that plenty of them aren't.  Enough to make anyone start to wonder if she is suffering from a car curse.  Brand new tires blowing out for no discernible reason.  Mechanics who mess the job up, but still charge you full price to fix it.  And a neurotic car that plays mind games...

...and last night the curse struck again.  Upon walking out of the [Two] Dollar Theatre in Provo I was confronted with the rather confounding sight (or rather, lack thereof) of nothing but air where my car was supposed to be.  It would seem another hidden blessing of my colorful car history is that I have learned to take such disconcerting blows with a fair amount of equanimity.  At this point I rather expect something to happen to my car than the opposite.  So I stood and looked for a few minutes, as though I thought my car was simply teasing me and would step out from behind a light post any minute, chortling mischievously.  Once it finally registered that a.)my car really doesn't chortle and b.)she certainly wouldn't fit behind a light post I kicked my brain in gear and called one of the other people who'd been at the movie with us.  While my two companions started asking me what my car looked like to begin looking for it around the parking lot (I don't put it past her to do something like that to me, but so far her powers of movement under her own volition have been fairly limited so I had my doubts as to the likelihood of this possibility) I went to examine the signage to find some hint as to the fate of my car.  While I did notice the heretofore UN-noticed red curb that had most likely instigated this entire fiasco, I did not see a sign anywhere telling me how to find my car.  It was around this time that my friends showed up and gave us all rides home.  

I woke up this morning uncharacteristically early, no doubt because of the lingering awareness in my subconscious that my car had not made curfew last night.  I'll make such a great mother.  Anyway, I thought through my options and resolved on calling BYU Parking services.  No answer.  Ok...um...front desk?  Still no answer.  I guess it IS Saturday after all.  One last try to BYU Police, even though I know they can't help.  But theoretically they should still be answering their phones even on a Saturday and maybe they can tell me who I can call.  Turns out that when you're towed you are supposed to call the police.  Just not the campus ones.  So they transfer me over to Provo police who finally confirm that yes my car was towed last night and not stolen.  Well, at least I know where she is.  To make a long story short, $145 later my car is back home with me, safe and sound and the curse remains alive and well.  Here's to fate!