I Should Have Stayed in Bed

Saturday morning, I got up, filled with hope that it would be a good day.  Not.  Even.  Close.

Tim is addicted to Starbucks coffee (okay, I am too, but I settle for the home brew, his highness has to have the real McCoy), so since he is recovering from knee surgery, I decided to raise his spirits by running out and getting a couple of ventis.

As I headed down the steps into the garage, I half-turned to talk to the dog (I know, I know, but these days, she is the only one who will listen to me whine) and slipped down the last two steps, landing right on my butt on the 2x4 that makes up the one side of the stairs.  Not.  Good.

As I sat astride the plank, educating Chloe to every swear word I know and wishing that I spoke another language so I could teach her even more swear words, all I could think was:  Unless Chloe can carry me into the house or dial 911, I am going to die here.  In the garage.  Sitting on the steps.  In my PJ top, sweats and Tim's jacket (hey, it's a look), while Tim mummifies up in the bed, just steps away from the phone he can't reach.

Days from now, someone will say,"Whatever happened to the Sinclairs?"  and then a neighbor will call about a bad smell and an unusual amount of flies swarming around the house.

I began to wonder if I could teach Chloe how to bark, "My mom has fallen and she can't get up" in Morse Code, but then I realized I didn't have any treats, so...that wasn't going to happen.  Besides, I don't actually know Morse code, so it probably wouldn't have worked anyway.

As I moved on to more positive scenarios in my head of Tim and I side by side in bed (like Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dumber), splitting a bag of ice and alternating the use of the heating pad, competing over who can do more leg lifts in PT, battling for control of the remote, fighting over whose turn it was to use the walker, and duking it out over the last Percoset, I realized that I was not only going to survive, but that I could actually walk again. 

I grudgingly decided to forge ahead with my mission, and drove to Starbucks where I ordered three ventis. (Hey, I not only needed two, I deserved them at this point).  The woman poured one , plunked it down on the counter and walked away while the other woman rang it up.

"Venti?" she said.

Duh.  A.  You were standing six inches away when I ordered it, B.  If you work here and don't know which cup is a venti, then you are probably too stupid to even be breathing, and C.  (this I said aloud) "Yes.  Three."

I even held up three fingers which she ignored while she blithely rang up the one.

"Twelve thousand dollars," she announced (This was Starbucks, after all)

"I need three,"  I reiterated, but made the mistake of handing her the money for all of them.

"Oh.  Uh."  She looked from the money to the register as though I had handed her a Rubik's cube and asked her to solve it while simultaneously explaining Einstein's theory of relativity in German.

"Why don't you just charge me for the one, then ring up two more," I suggested, almost, but not quite able to stop rolling my eyes.

"Um..."

Apparently, my suggestion was not computing in her razor-sharp mind, but like a dog with a bone, she was not going to give up. (If I wave a white flag, will you do the same?  Pretty please with cream and sugar on top?  How about if I just cry?)

Fifteen excruciatingly painful minutes later, I stumbled out of the Starbucks with my three ventis, and maybe the correct change, but I couldn't see past the tears in my eyes to count it as I wept for the future.

Thinking that taking the dog for a nice long walk would clear my mind and help me shake off the morning's events, I grabbed her leash and we headed out. (Okay, I actually thought that crawling back into bed and pulling the covers over my head would help, but I was guilted into the walk by a pair of big, brown eyes and a cute little button nose).

We got exactly halfway around the block when nature called and Chloe squatted in some leaves.  I leaned down with my little baggie at the ready, but couldn't find anything...because it was stuck to her furry little backside.  Eewww.

And to make the experience even better and more memorable, she plopped her little butt down on the pavement before I could stop her and I had a poopy puppy.

Somehow, yelling "NO!" For all that is holy STOP!!" after the fact seemed a bit useless, so I settled for pounding my head against the pavement and ripping out significant chunks of hair.

After carrying her the rest of the way home in order to limit the damage (to her, but apparently not my sweatshirt), I plunked her in the tub to try and scrub off eight pounds of dog poo (Seriously, how can something that small poop out that much?).  I had barely begun when the phone rang.

"Can you get that?"  Tim yelled in to me.

Some days, it just doesn't pay to get out of bed.

The Evil Queen, Er, I Mean Machine

There are very few technology-related things in life that I can do well, but using the self-checkout at the grocery store is one of them.  I can scan, bag, pay and be out the door in about five seconds.  Unless the machine turns against me.

The other day I was scanning my order when all of a sudden, it (let's call her Maleficent, shall we?)  decided she didn't like my brand of bread and refused to accept it.

"Please remove  item from bag and scan again," she intoned in her smug little voice.

So I did.

"Item not found," she informed me loftily, and instead of resetting the screen, the miserable witch put up the "need assistance" screen. 

What I needed was for Maleficent to actually do her job, not tell me I needed assistance.

Naturally, the woman in charge of "assisting" me was busy giving a tutorial to someone who had no business being in the self-checkout if she couldn't figure out the "self" part after the first thirty-six times she was shown how to scan and bag.  Although I'm sure everyone was thinking pretty much the same about me by the time I was done.

Finally, I caught her eye and she punched some buttons and brought daughter of Hal back in line.

The next item was fine.  The one after that, an issue.

Miss Assistance again pushed some more buttons, but clearly at this point she began to think that I was as clueless as a Wheel Of Fortune contestant who had bought all five vowels, guessed R, D and K and still couldn't solve an "animal names" puzzle that said: aard_ark.

Dreading the next scan, I searched my basket for something Maleficent couldn't get me on.  Aha.  Bananas.  I plopped them on the scale and quickly punched in the code.

"Item not found.  Please get assistance," she goaded me.

I gave an exasperated WTH look at little Miss Helper, who was not appreciating the self-control it was taking for me to not flip off both her and her evil machine cohort.

"What do you have there, bananas?" she asked, craning her neck to see the item I was dangling THREE FEET FROM HER FACE!

No.  These are fillet mignon masquerading as bananas, and if you're impressed by this, just wait till you see how I've disguised the zucchini.

I tried to scan some tomatoes next, but before I could even get them on the scanner, Ms. Fix-it started pushing buttons like she was a pre-teen girl trying to win Justin Bieber tickets on a radio call-in contest.

"Got it," she sang out in her shrill little holier-than-thou voice.

I glared back at her and grabbed the next item, shielding it with my body so I could scan it before her sharp little talons could peck away at any more keys.

I gave a quick swipe, but Maleficent came to her minion's defense and the next thing I knew, she was speaking to me in Spanish!

I don't know exactly what she was saying, but I got the impression it wasn't good.  She sounded kind of angry that I had challenged her authority and seemed to be cussing me out, or threatening to lock me in a tower, guarded by a fire-breathing dragon.

I backed away and shot Helpful Hannah a look that should have had her cringing and fleeing in terror.

Apparently, she didn't have the good sense that God gave a turnip because she headed towards me instead of away from me, this time stabbing the buttons on my screen instead of hers.

"Uh, I think this will work," she had at least enough brains to sound semi-concerned.

I bit my tongue against the multitude of rejoinders which were crowding my brain and backing up in my throat.

"There."  With a final flourish, she re-swiped the last item and...the evil seed responded in English.  Really loud English.  Extremely loud English.  Dogs three miles away began howling and covering their ears.

"That's kind of loud," she looked at me, aghast.

Ya think?  I would have actually said this if I thought she could hear me over the roar of the machine.

Sadly for everyone in the store...and the shopping center...we had reached the limits of the assistance she was able to give, but it didn't really matter.  The evil queen had won.  She magnanimously let me check out the last few items and leave with the minimum aggravation while her servant scuttled back to her station to lie in wait for the next hapless victim. 

Car Trouble

If Tim could, he would totally get a new car every year, or maybe even every six months.  His idea of fun is spending hour upon hour trolling car dealerships, reverently patting shiny new bumpers and stroking soft, supple leather seats.

Myself, I would rather run naked through a brier patch filled with poison ivy while being chased by a rabid dog than shop for a new car.

And that is why we make a perfect couple.  After almost eight years, it was time for me to get a new car, and, rather than endure the whining, pouting and snarky comments that bringing me car shopping elicits, Tim pored over car magazines and the internet, and narrowed my choices down to two, I picked one, and we both drove off the lot happy as little clams.

The bubble of happiness lasted exactly two weeks before it burst.

I was actually enjoying my new car, specifically the "keyless entry" feature before it all went south.  No more digging for keys in my purse like I was trying to tunnel to the center of the earth.  No more patting myself  down looking for the keys as though I was in a Macarana dance off.  Now, I simply had to have my keys and with one touch of the door handle, beep--unlock.  Beep, beep--lock.  It was....magic.

So last Monday, I stuffed my keys into my pocket, grabbed the dry cleaning with one arm, the dog with the other, my purse with my elbow, and my reusable shopping bags with my teeth and headed out to run errands.

Bank? Beep. Beep, beep.  Dry cleaners?  Beep.  Beep,beep.  Christmas wreath?  Beep.  Beep, beep.  Dog park? ----Hmm.  No beep.  Perplexed, I shifted the dog to the other arm and tried again.  ----Uh oh.  Not good.

I checked all the doors, but they were securely closed.  I double-checked the trunk where I had put my purse.  Firmly shut.  I brushed my fingers across the handle yet again.  No beep.  I tried another handle.  No beep.  Another hand.  No beep.  My knuckles.  No beep.  An elbow, nose, chin, knee and big toe.  Nothing.  Chloe's paw, her tail, her nose, the tips of her ears.  No beep.

Aggravated, I got back into the car, pushed the button and it started up just fine.  Huh.  That was strange.

I got back out and tried my touching routine all over again, except this time, I included the five basic ballet positions, a downward dog, part of a pussycat doll routine and a few moves I once saw at the Cirque du Soliel.  Still no beep beep.  Not even a beeee.

By now, I was starting to draw a small crowd and Chloe was looking at me the way I looked at my mom when I was 12 and she danced the hustle at a relative's wedding; equal parts horror, fascination and alarm.

I gave one last valiant effort by removing the actual key from the electronic "key", but even that wouldn't lock the car.  Okay, so now even and old-fashioned, unsophisticated key wouldn't work?  How does that happen?

Since the dealership was less than a mile away, I decided to head over there before one of the people watching decided to call either the men in white coats or the police to take me away (Honest, officer, I swear it's my car.).

As I pulled into the lot, the salesman just happened to be there with another customer.

"Hey! How's it going?"  Big, broad smile.

"Not so good.  My key stopped working."

"Let me see," he performed the same voodoo rituals I had done, to no avail.  "Oh dear."  Not such a big smile now.  Meanwhile, his customer suddenly remembered elective brain surgery he had been putting off and fled, er, I mean left.  "Take it around to the service bay."

When I arrived, the mechanic was waiting for me.

"Let's see what we can do," he declared jovially.

Yeah.  You're smiling now.  We all start out that way.  But you won't be smiling for long. 

He took the key from me and...beep.  Beep, beep.

No way.  Uh uh.  That did not just happen.

But then he got cocky and tried to show off by making it happen again.  This time though, silence...

Frowning, he tried again, and again.  No beep.

"Give me a few minutes," he said, walking away and shaking his head.

I decided to take the dog for a little walk while he was gone and returned to find him writing me a voucher for a cab home.

"It's the strangest thing," he scratched his head,  "the computer is saying the car doesn't even recognize the key.  Do you have the spare key with you?"

Uh.  No.  I don't usually need two keys to run errands.  "Sorry," I shook my head.

"We'll send you home in a cab and call you first thing in the morning.  Do you need anything out of your car?  Because it's locked and we can't get in, and if I use the actual key, the alarm will go off and we can't turn it off."

A.  Of course I need the stuff in my car, but apparently I can't get it, so why bother to even ask, other than to torture me and

B.  What do you mean the alarm will go off?!!?  You mean that would have happened to me at the park?  Perhaps that is a little detail you should tell people when they buy the car?  "Oh, don't ever use your key because that will cause the alarm so sound, deafening you and everyone else within a twelve block radius, but the upside is, there is no way to stop it."

As we walked by the car on the way out, it suddenly unlocked.  Beep.

We looked at each other, startled, then tried a handle again.  Beep, beep.

"Are you sure you don't have the other key?" the guy asked me.

Suddenly, it came to me, a hazy memory of dropping a key in my purse the previous week. 

Oops.  My bad.  Chagrined, I reached into my purse and pulled out the key.  Apparently, they key only locks the car from outside, not from in the trunk, and the key I thought was for my car was actually for Tim's.

"Maybe you could put a colored sticker on the keys to tell them apart," the car guy suggested, somehow managing not to laugh outright in my face.

Meanwhile, I was busy trying to figure out how I could blame the whole thing on Tim and wondering where I was going to get my car serviced from now on.