Wouldn't you know it, the very SECOND I open my gaping pie-hole about owning up to my responsibilities as an adult, I get tested. I don't believe in any kind of karma or universal smack down in general, but I do find it quite funny (and not in a "not unless clowns are funny" kind of way) that right when I tell the world (OK, when I tell you, Mom, and you, Unnamed Visitor #2) via my blog that I am growing up and kicking some Elvis-style-TCB ass, my car decides to go on strike.

Yes, 11 year old cars have a tendency to do this. And yes, I've kind of shirked some of my car owner responsibilities as of late, too (shocking, right?), so it's really not much of a surprise that it's my turn to have to deal with the unpleasantness of bending over for a mechanic.

Because I'm still teenager sitting (more on my fabulous weekend of zero sleep, Facebook status feed Olympic spoilers and stress-induced nerve damage later) I totally lucked out and happened to have said teenager's dad's car in the garage for my use. It does alleviate the pressure of having to pay for a rental on top of what I expect will be a pretty grotesque bill, so I've got that going for me, which is nice. But I really freaked out to myself when I initially sat in my car and it did nothing but grind and moan and tell me it was officially done with my ass.