Yesterday, before a meeting with my new business partner (yes, thaaat’s right), I drove over a pylon (note: it took three tries to spell that word correctly… I don’t think I’ve ever had to write it before this post. Interesting.)

My neighbors have apparently caught our renovation disease and are fixing up their home, too. Adding a nursery, I think, since they have a baby due this September. Cool couple – easy going and social, like us. And, in true Toronto-free-loving fashion, they’re married lesbians. Obviously.

So, yesterday afternoon, as I hop into my [extremely messy and parking-ticket laden hatch back] I notice several pylons stacked around a white van parked right in front of me. They belong to the contractors working on our neighbor’s house. “These pylons are so close to my car,” I say to no one, but I think nothing of it, jump into the hatch back and drive away.

With a pylon underneath my car.

Loud and obscure noises start to drown out my car radio. “I hate this fucking car!” comes spilling out of my mouth in spades, because I’m convinced that yet another problem has arisen (like, the other day my car was towed – $250. and last month, I was hit from behind. and then I hit a pole… on the same day. um… I sure hope my insurance broker doesn’t read my blog.)

I call Rob to both laugh and complain about this weird noise coming from underneath the car. At this point, I still have no idea that I’m driving with a, um, passenger, if you will. “I think I might have hit a pylon,” I confess, “but c’mon! How stupid would that be? Besides, I’m wearing a really cute dress and I’m not crawling under the car to see what’s up.” He tells me there is no other way – I have to scooch on my hands and knees and see what’s going on. I hate when he’s right about these things, which, thankfully, happens rarely (ha! score one for me.)

Convinced that the universe is, once again, having a little fun with me, I pull over and crawl on my hands and knees to inspect. Nothing turns up. So, naturally, I get back in the car and keep driving for another block.

The noise only gets louder and now I’m laughing, certain that there is a pylon under my car as I’m on the way to a meeting and a networking event later that night. OF COURSE THERE IS A PYLON UNDER MY CAR.

For the second time, I pull over: I reverse, drive forward, reverse, drive, reverse, drive, etc etc. But my car births no pylon. It’s wedged up there, alright. Of course.

I get out of the hatch back again and notice a couple of neighbors are now watching me – I’ve become the afternoon entertainment for the old lady across the street who never leaves her porch and for the middle-aged man who always smells like wine. Perfect.  At least I know this whole episode is doing someone some good.

So, for the final time I get down on all fours and look under the car and, to my delight, there it is: The big orange pylon, squished and mashed, and adhered to the undercarriage of my car. Fabulous.

I take a couple of breaths. I’m both relieved that this problem can be fixed, yet miffed that it’s now confirmed, yes, I’ve somehow managed to drive over a big, orange object  in the middle of the road (the wine-smelling guy is surely thinking, ‘humph, women drivers…’).

On hands and knees now, I yank on the pylon a couple of times, determined to get it out as quickly as possible – there is no way I’m staying down here for more than a few seconds, I think to myself.  I have my limits.

Within a few heartbeats, I set it free, toss it to the side of the road, hop in my car, blast the radio and drive off into the thick Toronto heat (oh, did I mention there is no longer AC in my car?) to have a very productive evening on the town.

And that, dear readers of this little ole blog, is how I problem solve.

What ever gets in your way today, don’t let it stop you from moving forward.