This past weekend was the Drunken Housewives of Connecticut Reunion part two, which required a drive through Tony Soprano-land. Crossing the George Washington Bridge which currently carries a totally absurd $8 toll, I wondered if I should apply for recessionary pricing. The tolls to Connecticut are a freaking killer. I now understand why no one ever leaves Connecticut. By the time you get through the GWB and the Jersey Turnpike, you’re fucking broke.

At the risk of being labeled a stalker because of my now third consecutive love letter to my new lover, Facebook, I just have to say: Thank you.

To say I miss these women would be an understatement. They just don’t make friends like the ones who you have known for 60% of your life. Exactly 21 of us showed up, as well as a few guys and a lone ex, a cop who heard from one of his coworkers that his high school girlfriend was in town and at the local watering hole. When he came in you could see him trying to plot exactly how he was going to get to his ex, my friend who was oh so cute in high school but bloomed to Supermodel Status as an adult. Watching him maneuver the room was likeĀ  a game of Pac Man. He kept trying to get to the much coveted last dot, the Supermodel, but got detained by several other people in the bar who wanted to talk.

I turned to Supermodel and said, “This is just too good. Where’s my camera?” I managed to get several pictures of their encounter, my favorite of which is him staring at her boobs and her looking at me taking the picture. That had to feel good for her, and as she so aptly put it, “Yeah, I would guess he jerked it on his way home to his wife.” Awesome. Totally Awesome.

After we stumbled home around 2:00 a.m. (we’re too old to go to Port Chester anymore to take advantage of the 4 a.m. bar closings) I was instantly sobered up by reality:

I had smashed into a huge rock in my friend’s front yard and popped my tire. We took to task the idea of calling AAA. At 2:51 a.m. They arrived an hour later to tell me they couldn’t help me other than to tow me, but said, almost gleefully, “Nothing is open on Sunday.”

What? What kind of piss ass little town is this I grew up in? Nothing open on Sunday? We’ll see about that.

The next morning my friend texted me from her driveway to tell me to get out of bed so we could fix my car. We opened the phone book she had from 2004 and started calling all the tire places. It was true. No one was open. The one place we did find said they didn’t have the brand of tire I needed. We left on a mission. Costco, Sears, Mavis and a bunch of mom and pop shops. No tire, no workers, closed closed and closed. I then had the bright idea that would save my ass.

I called Daddy. What proceeds is the most absurd conversation I’ve had to date with them.

Me: Dad. Where do you get tires fixed?
Dad: Look in the phone book.
Me: I already did that. There aren’t that many places and they are all closed.
Dad: Did you call the place we went a couple years ago?
Me: Yes. Closed.
Dad: How about Sears?
Me: They don’t have the tire.
Dad: What about the spare?
Me: It’s flat.
Dad: Oh, well, call your brother and tell him to look in my third desk drawer and there’s a mechanic’s number there. I’ll call him and ask.
Mom, now on phone: That’s too hard! Don’t make her do that! Did you look in the phone book honey?
Me: Yes. Um. Let me call you back.
Dad: You’re supposed to bring your brother back to the city! I’ll call him and tell him to take the train.
Me: No don’t tell him anything yet. I’ll figure it out.

An hour later they called.

Mom: What are you doing?
Me: We’re looking for a tire place.
Mom: Well don’t waste all day, you need to get on the road.
Me: Mom! The tire is here in the car with me. How the fuck am I going to get on the road with only three wheels? It’s not a tricycle!
Mom: I know, but the snow is coming.
Me: Yes, this I know. I’m doing the best I can!

You see, I don’t call home for obvious advice. Calling home is what the natives refer to as a “last resort.” I will only call there when I’ve exhausted all my other options.

Finally we found a place that was open and I went in with the tire. The guy was taking my information and he asked for my address. I gave it to him and my friend K saw from the other side and said, “Your dad’s name just came up.”

Are you fucking kidding me?

I called back to my parents, sunning themselves in Florida and said, “I ended up at Firestone. They had you in the computer.”

My dad said, “Oh yea, I go there all the time.”

Jesus. Christ.