We were driving down the interstate at 75 mph. A minivan pulled up next to us, keeping pace with our car. The woman driving waved, trying to get our attention. I ignored her.

A recent altercation between me and an automatic door had left my hand bleeding and my entire arm stiff and bruised. The automatic door may claim I started the fight by forcefully pushing it open, but I dispute this claim. If the automatic door had been doing its job and had opened in a timely manner, I would not have had to bash into it. Furthermore, the action said automatic door took was completely uncalled for. When it did decide to automate, the door pushed back, hooking into the skin on my hand and ripping it out. The door should expect a call from my lawyer; well, it would get one if I had a lawyer.

All this is to say that I was particularly bah-humbug at the moment the lady in the minivan was trying to wave me down on the interstate. My husband was driving, and I was sitting in the passenger seat, applying pressure to my wound while Googling on my phone the phrases "death by bleeding out," "nerve damage equals amputation?" and "number of deaths per year caused by automatic door combat." I couldn't have cared less about what minivan mama had to say. What? A taillight was out? Who cares? Can't fix it till I'm home anyway. If I ever made it home. One link said there are 62 wrongful automatic door deaths a year. I'm dying here, and this woman wants to tell me about a taillight?! Humbug.

But she was persistent. She started clapping her hands together the way someone might while imitating a hungry hungry hippo, the heals of her hands together and the palms and fingers moving away and then clapping back together. This woman was willing to take her hands off the wheel of her van driving 75 mph to tell us something. Even in my dire state, knocking on heaven's door, I could at least attempt to understand. I turned to her. She was saying something. I tried to read her lips. I guess I could have rolled down the window, but it was cold. And according to WebMD, my symptoms of a bleeding hand could have indicated a brain tumor, cancer or heart failure. Surely, the cold winter air can't be good for those things. I squinted as the exasperated woman flapped her hands more wildly and spoke the word more slowly.

"I think she's saying 'flapping,'" I tell my husband.

"Flapping? What could be flapping?"

"I dunno. Maybe we didn't fully close the trunk."

My husband looked at me in that way that is usually reserved for disappointed parents shaming their child.

"What?!" I yelled. "Do you really want that look to be the last image I have of you before seeing the white light?"

But I knew his look had a point. This had sorta become a thing. My leaving doors open and driving off. My leaving things on top of the car and driving off. My leaving things outside the car and driving off. Recently, the family had gone to a festival. We parked the car on a crowded side street and walked a quarter-mile to the event. Walking back, we could see the dome light on. A few steps later, we saw the reason: I had left the door open. Not a little. Not as if I had thought I closed the door but simply hadn't pushed hard enough. Wide-open. I'm like the absent-minded professor, without the advanced degree or teaching skills.

We decide to pull over on the shoulder of the interstate to investigate the flapping. The trunk was not open, nor were any of the doors. The gas cap was on. We bent down to see whether the tailpipe had come loose. Nope. What could she have meant? Flapping?

Dumbfounded and cold, I got back in the car.

We were home when my husband finally asked, "Have you seen the computer? Last I saw it, it was on the roof of the car."

And it hit me. That kind minivan mama wasn't risking her life to say "flapping." She was saying and motioning "laptop."

I write you this from a new one. With a healed hand.

Katiedid Langrock is author of the book "Stop Farting in the Pyramids," available at http://www.creators.com/books/stop-farting-in-the-pyramids. Like Katiedid Langrock on Facebook, at http://www.facebook.com/katiedidhumor. To find out more about her and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate webpage at www.creators.com.