|We passed this sign on an Indiana country road and had to double-back to get a picture.|
I think this could only happen to my mom.
She's in Florida right now, escaping the winter doldrums and cold. I wish I could say she's having a good time, but she isn't. In fact, she called me yesterday and said it was the worst day yet. She'd driven to the beach hoping to comb the shore for seashells and enjoy a few hours of surf and sand. But the shells were all little broken bits, the sky was overcast, and it was too cold for the beach. So she chucked it in and decided to head home when her truck broke down on Highway 19.
Luckily, she was near an auto shop and managed to pull in and get an estimate. Her brakes were completely shot, but the guy said he could get the parts and start work the next morning. The only question was, how would she get back to Wildwood?
The mechanic said he'd call her a cab. He'd even pay for it, since she was having so much work done on her truck. It seemed awfully generous. Too generous. Wildwood was two hours away from the coast. But my mother agreed and he called a cab. They came and picked her up and started driving. He'd prepaid them $25. She was a little suspicious about this nominal fare, but she'd heard the mechanic call the cab company and tell them she needed to go to Wildwood.
The cab driver, who'd only been on the job for four days, took her to Club Wildwood -- a nudist colony.
Oh, how I wish she'd gotten out of the cab. I might have been willing to pay her truck repair bill in exchange for seeing how she fared at a nudist colony for the night. But no such luck. She had the cab take her back to the auto shop, where there was a "who's on first" type of discussion on the mix-up between Wildwood and Club Wildwood and where she actually needed to go.
Suffice it to say, she ended up with a rental car, driving two hours back to Wildwood all by herself -- fully clothed.