For years I’ve had mixed emotions about sun roofs in cars. On the one hand, you can let in some sunshine. On the other hand, you’re not really getting the effect of a convertible and you’re just courting skin cancer. So, despite having one, I really never open it.
Until now. At the worst possible moment.
You may remember my blog post here, about the torrential rain we can get in Sacramento. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does it rivals the buckets and sheets and cats and dogs you hear about everywhere else.
And it was just such a day, recently, when I was driving home, the wiper blades smacking back and forth, flinging the rain aside with the fury of a machete-weilding warrior.
Remember, now, this is a new car and I haven’t learned all the buttons and gizmos, yet. But I do know the garage door opener button is on the roof of the car, so I press it when I’m about three houses away, so the door will go up and I can go zipping into a dry garage.
Except the door does not go up. Instead, the sun roof hums open, allowing drops the size of almonds to pelt my head like a cartoon of a chipmunk firing nuts from his cheeks, machine gun-style. Bam-bam-bam-bam-bam. And the entire interior of the car is getting drenched along with me, like a surprise ice bucket challenge.
Well, of course I scream. But it’s raining like a monsoon so there’s no one around to hear me. Wildly I press every button on the roof, but none of them will close the sunroof or open the garage door. My hair and face are being pummeled, my clothes are wringing wet. I am now in the driveway, screaming and soaked, with my sunroof wide open and the garage door clamped shut.
My purse and some papers on the front seat are saturated and I have no idea how I’ll ever dry the carpet or upholstery. I keep pressing buttons and finally the garage door opens. Incredibly SLOWLY. The second I know the roof will clear, I zoom in, the antennae flipping like a rubber band.
St. Bob, having heard the door go up, comes out into the garage to greet me and sees a dripping wet version of his wife, furiously stabbing at the roof to try to close the sunroof. It will not. I throw open the door and leap from my unheated hot tub, red-faced, humiliated, and totally sopping. My hair is plastered to my face in rivulets and I am panting.
Bob's lips curl into a smile. Calmly he reaches into the car, presses a button, and the sun roof hums closed.
“That was NOT working a minute ago,” I growl as I stomp into the house. And like all good husbands, he knows better than to argue.
Next time you’re caught in a downpour, have one of my books handy to read. You can find them here, and curl up with them by a toasty fire, wrapped in a nice, dry blanket.