Our Daily Biscuit: Blog 16: HayBoo and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good Very Bad Day (Illustrated)

One of my favorite books when I was a kid was called Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good Very Bad Day. It was about this kid (named Alexander, duh) who basically had a typical day with little annoying things in it which he exaggerated to the extreme. His solution to every problem is to say "I'm moving to Australia." It's an excellent book for the grumpies. Anywho, yesterday, I really felt like "moving to Australia." To be fair, the middle of my day while I worked 1-9pm was really just fine. It was the time before and after that in which I found the troubles which at the time seemed to be in hyperbole to the point of generating displeasure of comedic proportions.

The first part of my day was spent just cleaning the apartment and doing laundry. Nothing special, really. I did, however, have so much to do that I didn't have time for the shower I wanted/honestly needed...but, minor annoyance aside, everything was still hunky-dory as I walked out the door. Then I got to my car. The night before, I had parked in front of the apartment building next to ours. It was the only spot that wasn't very far away, as the people in the building down the hill from us ALWAYS use our parking spots instead of their own (for some God-forsaken reason). In any case, I thought "how lucky to get so close." How very wrong I was. Presumably because they felt entitled to that particular parking space, someone in the building I parked in front of poured some sort of sticky liquid all over the front of my car. By the angle of the splotches and streaks on my roof/windshield/hood, you can tell it was thrown from their balcony. I'm fairly certain it's beer (which really seems wasteful, but it's none of my nevermind). Having only fifteen minutes to get to work, cleaning it was not an option. So I drove to work with my window nice and blurry, fuming about the immaturity of it all. Oh, and these same people have parties practically every night and their guests take up all the parking as well. So awesome.

Work went by, no big deal, besides my usual feeling of being the odd one out. Guess it's just new kid syndrome. It just doesn't take me long to warm up to people, but I think I make people feel awkward by treating them as if we're friends pretty much when I meet them...anyway, that's not the subject of this entry. It was a decent but awkward day, as per usual--that is all I'm saying.

Once I was finally off work and ready to skedaddle, I discovered that I had left my lights on and consequently killed Maurice's battery. Again, no big problem. One of the smartest and best gifts I have received in this past year is a set of jumper cables (courtesy of my wise and thoughtful parents)--a must-have for anyone with a car like mine. After a short wait and the shifting of vehicles, Zack (coworker at Starbucks) graciously came and gave me a jump. Thought I was good to go. Shut the hood, replaced the bungee cord (an extra precaution because the hood latch has been loose for awhile), then started home. As I was driving down the interstate, jamming out to a good song and enjoying the warm wind, Maurice's hood flew up with such violence that my rearview mirror detached from the windshield and fell into the trashy abyss that is my front passenger floor. I quickly pulled over (alternately cussing and thanking the Lord that the traffic wasn't bad at that time) and realized that the hood latch was now completely broken. So on this windy Spring evening, I had nothing to hold my car hood down but one single bungee cord. I spent the next 15-20 minutes driving 40mph to get off on Callahan and get to the Clinton Highway Wal Mart while my hood flapped up and down, threatening to try and kill me again any moment.

I bought bungee cords at Wal Mart, not knowing what else to do, and went out to the parking lot. I then preceded to crawl around on the ground around the front of my car trying to attach 5 bungee cords in a fashion that would ensure even the slightest sensation of sweet safety and security. SO there I was at 10pm, crawling around the parking lot in my frazzled work clothes, and the security guard drove by, eyeing me rather warily. I tried not to notice the other weird looks I was getting. At this point in my life I have very little pride left and am not embarrassed half as easily as I used to be, thank goodness. Along with my unshowered grungy look, I then found myself covered with black smudges all over my face, hands, and khaki pants. The front of my car, because of the fender bender I had over the summer, has a lot of microscopic fiberglass shards which like to embed themselves in one's skin when the front end is touched even slightly--so my hands and arms got quite scratched up. This whole fiasco gave me the appearance of a little orphan child living on the streets, which I will later prove with the photos I took just in case any of you are skeptical of the extent of my disheveledness.

Once I finally got that all taken care of, I came home and did something very bad. I'm trying really hard to be healthy and not eat late at night. Any nutritionist, fitness guru, or bossy big sister (*ahem*) will tell you that doing so is a surefire way to gain weight. However, I felt like I was starving to death and kind of threw a pity party for myself, as silly girls do from time to time. I have a bad habit of rationalizing that when I'm having a rough day I deserve to eat what I want. I know, I'm so mature and disciplined. I preceded to wander around the kitchen, eating bits and pieces of whatever was on hand, which just happened to be Doritos, cheese, and chocolate chip cookie dough. Momentarily, I felt so much better. A few minutes later, nonetheless, I was dealing with a large sense of guilt and general plumpness, to be honest. Needless to say, I was not pleased.

So how does one cure a bad day then, if not with sweet and savory treats? Well, so far my plan to eliminate the lingering stress is to pour maple syrup and dirt all over the doormats of the jerks who sullied my poor Maurice on Sunday night...then they'll track all kinds of crap into their apartment, which would be a glorious retaliatory moment for me.

Or maybe I'll just move to Australia.

And now, a photographic review of the stages I went through after the Maurice debacle:

Mechanic's hands...

Smudgy pants...

Questioning why I look like a little orphan child...

Beginning to feel indignant, saying "Really? Really?" several times over (mostly to myself)...

Crying uncontrollably for about thirty seconds...

Plotting my revenge...

Feeling sorry for Maurice, who looks almost as bad as this car...

Figuring out that this is probably the substance covering my windshield and splotching up my hood...and thinking that there's probably no other use for that crap. Way to use your resources, dumb redneck neighbors. I applaud you.