The morning started off well enough. For reasons I don't entirely remember I managed to convince myself that I needed to be awake and moving so that I could get to work closer to on time. Pursuiant to this goal, I rolled over and grabbed the issue of Sport Compact Car that happily managed to elude the possible grasp of my downstairs neighbors. Read an entertaining article about one of the columnists adventures driving the Lake Superior rally. Read an editorial by the same columnist griping about morons who enter the freeway at 30 MPH. Long time readers of this blog will know what a pet peeve of mine this is. I just about started cheering when I read the title of the article: "Coming soon to an on-ramp near you: Acceleration!"
Okay, so far no cause for feral mutterings, right?
I managed to get out of the house in the pre- pre-dawn hours, and just managed to miss the garbage truck completely blocking me into my parking space. So far so not feral. On my way out, I grabbed a sweater from where I had left my laundry drying for the past day or two. Walking to where I parked my car, I was amused to note that one of the other Integras that parks in the area had backed in last night, just like I did. (I had decided that I need more practice backing up, so I'm going to start backing into the parking spots. This also makes it easier for a fast getaway when the garbage truck is in the neighborhood, trying to block every possible access out of the area.)
Now please note one important thing: I knew that I had backed in. I very much remembered this.
I approach the end of the parking area next to my house, and don't see my car. This doesn't worry me overly much. My car hides. While this fact does tend to almost send me into cardiac arrest from time to time, I still think it's one of her unique and endearing characteristics. (Or at least I do once the heart starts back up and blood is returned to the brain again.) So I continue forward with full confidence that my car is sitting right where I left it.
It's only when I'm standing in the parking spot two down from where I parked and I'm still staring at an empty space where my car should be that I start to panic. My stomach takes that icy drop to somewhere below my feet (probably because of all the lead it suddenly seems to have acquired), and I start to panic. I walk forward some more so that I can stare with disbelief at the empty spot where I know I had parked my car the previous night, frantically reminding myself that I know I put the Club on and had hit the alarm last night. I walk forward a few more steps and look with dread into the parking spot -- only to find my car contentedly sitting there, looking at me and wondering what all the fuss is about.
*patpat* I love you, honey. You're so cute and adorable. Now we're going to drive me to the nearest hospital so that they can electrocute me or shine a light in my eyes or something to get my heart started again. Okay? Okay.
(Yes, it's been more than five years now. And even so, every time I walk up to my car I always worry if it is going to be there or not. It sucks.)
I renew my vow to buy a garage SOON, and get in my still-there car, and drive off. But not very far. The garbage truck is still haunting the neighborhood, and is blocking the route out. I wait for a minute, and he starts off, turning left to go on up the hill. That suits me just fine, I need to go right to -- oh CRAP!! What is he doing, backing down the hill and right in my way?!!
I slide to a halt. (Did I mention that it was misting heavily, and that the road was wet? No? Well, it was. Fun, fun.) I stare at the garbage truck that is going down the hill backwards with no warnings or anything. Don't you guys have some annoying beeping noise that's supposed to sound when you're backing up!? I know I've been woken up by it before, back in the days when the garbage truck came through early enough that I was still asleep when it came by. What's the world coming to these days? Being run over by stealthy garbage trucks, that's what.
I'm about halfway to the freeway on-ramp when I realize something unpleasant: My sweater was only half dry. The side that I felt to make sure that it wasn't wet was dry. The other half was just damp enough that I didn't notice it at the time, but quite damp enough to make me cold. Unfortunately, I'm not quite awake enough to think about turning around, braving the backing garbage truck of Dooo0000M, going home and getting a dry sweater. Or maybe I am. Those garbage trucks are evil.
(An important note to self: When selecting what sweater to wear of the freshly-done laundry that is hanging downstairs to dry, make sure to feel both sides of the garment, rather than assuming that it will be a uniform driness. Similarly, when there are two black sweaters drying downstairs, take some care to ensure that you grab the one that was put up to dry two days ago, not the one that was put up to dry last night.)
The drive to work was filled with the usual amount of stupidity coupled with me being cranky and damp. My day seemed to have decided to settle down until about twenty minutes after I arrive at work, my nose -- which had managed, over the course of the night, to decongest for the first time in five days -- started clogging up again. So now I am cranky, damp, and congested. And whiny. Did you catch the whiny part yet?