My Best Worst Day Ever

 

The universe went out of its way last week to yell at me. Repeatedly.  For those of you who haven’t been yelled at by the universe, this is how it works.

You work your butt off at something, in this case, re-upholstering vintage furniture. When the time comes to bring your vision into reality, everything, I mean everything goes wrong. You try to get a few easy projects done at the last minute, and every possible thing under the sun goes wrong. You break eight sewing machine needles in one day. An upholstery cover that you carefully cut and checked multiple times somehow won`t fit. You run out of freaking fabric on a chair that you spent a week on and is almost done. Your car gets stuck in ice in front of your house, where you specifically parked it so you wouldn`t get stuck in the twelve inches of slush outside your garage. Your fourteen year old has turned into a surly teenager overnight, and your twelve year old slips and falls on the ice in front of your house helping you carry things out to your (stuck) car. And you get in a fight with your business partner.

So, I got it. I accepted that the universe was trying to tell me something. And then, two days later, I had my best worst day ever.

I got up in the morning early enough to call a tow truck to pull my little impractical convertible out. It was still stuck in ice that had frozen solid two days earlier and had not yet melted. But somehow the universe was smiling on me just a little, because I didn’t look like I normally look on a Sunday morning: like something the cat dragged in.  My hair was all silky and wavy, so even though I was wearing my torn work jeans and my Sorels, I looked alright. Yay for me. I actually had a chance to make some coffee before the tow truck driver arrived. And when he did arrive, all gruff-dark-bearded-sexy-flirtatious-funny six feet of him, we joked and laughed and sat in the tow truck while his dispatcher was fortuitously slow and inept getting him the information he needed (thanks universe).

After promising him some home made cookies (which are emerging as some bizarre food porn metaphor in my life by the way) for being so “nice” * 😉 *,  I made sure he knew that he had my number and should feel free to use it, and he was gone.

Not ten minutes later he phoned, but I was in the shower and didn’t hear it ring. So he texted me as well.

Hey beautiful.  I drove by the alley and hope you didn’t try to drive back there.  But now you have my number, so call me if you need me. Or if you have cookies.

I’m not sure how long it’s been since someone last called me beautiful, but I know it has been too long.  And it is definitely the right thing to say, especially in a sexy, gravelly voice.

By this point I was fairly happy that I was such a moron I got stuck in front of my own house.  By the time I got home at about 6 p.m., all reason had left me, however, and I decided to try parking in the alley.  I know, I know. Maybe it was subconsciously on purpose. I don`t know.  What I do know is that:

1. I got stuck in the six inches of slush, halfway down the alley from my house;

2. I was NOT wearing appropriate footwear, and trudged and slipped and slid through the slush around to the front of my house.  My business partner and a young guy helping us out were waiting out front to unload a bunch of furniture.

3. After sulkily helping me unload the furniture that didn’t sell on the weekend, wedging a round table halfway in/halfway out of my front doorway, and not showing any interest in helping me get my car unstuck, they left.

4. I tried to go out my back door to my car in the alley, but the screen was wedged shut, and I mean wedged shut.  My dog had been outside while we unloaded, and was impatiently pawing at the door wanting to get in and see what was going on.  This had pushed the screen door past the jamb, wedging itself in so it wouldn’t even budge. I have lots of tools with which to unwedge it. But they are in my car, in the back alley, half a block of slushy melted snow away.  Which I can now only reach by climbing over the table wedged in my front door, and walking all the way around the block again to get to the alley (I can’t get the table out either without taking the top off with said tools.)

By this point, I am having a pity party.  So of course, I text my new friend Jake the Tow Truck Driver. Although I am normally very capable and independent, I have now been reduced to a sniffling, pathetic, helpless woman who got her car stuck twice in one day.  As it turns out though, men seem to dig this kind of thing. I guess it makes them feel manly and indispensable.

Needless to say, I was very happy to see Jake the Tow Truck Driver twice in one day.  He got my car out just by rocking it back and forth (because I’m that dumb, or at least I was that day.)  And we have been texting since, so I’ve got that going for me, which is nice. Oh yeah, and I can get in and out of my house again, too.

But I still have no idea what the blasted universe was trying to tell me all weekend. Although my top two theories are that it had something to do with writing, or Jake the Tow Truck Driver.

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