On Wednesday, I went to Quizno's for lunch. For many of you, this would be enough to make Wednesday a shitty day. There are so many of you out there, I've found, who do not enjoy a toasty Quizno's sandwich, but I am not one of the many because it's one of my favorite sandwich joints around. This makes you lose considerable respect for the food blog I manage, I'm sure, and that's even before I tell you how often I make this delicious dessert for myself.
Anyway, if that would make Wednesday a shitty day for you, JUST WAIT.
I got my sandwich to go, to take back to work, but when I went to start the car, the car ... well, it didn't start. (I just typed nine different variations of that sentence with the word fuck in them, but I deleted them all. I believe this is a sign of maturity.) Anyway, I did what we all would do in this situation. I kept trying to start the car. I was sure I was just IMAGINING the clicking, grinding sound the engine was making and if I just tried one more time, it would miraculously start right up!
I think I accepted my reality around time 48.
I then did what probably very few of you would do in my situation, before I called Mike or a coworker or AAA or Natalie, I ate my sandwich. Yep, that's right. I wanted to enjoy it and I knew my life was about to get shittier before it got less shitty, so I enjoyed my Baja Chicken right there in the parking lot while I started to sweat (it was 104 outside; good timing asshole Passat!).
Long story short, my car was towed to the shop, the shop couldn't get to it until the next day, Natalie was the saint of a best friend who picked me up from work that evening and drove me the hour to my house and then the hour back to her house and she didn't call me a single name, at least not one I could hear.
Yesterday evening, the shop called to give us the official diagnosis.
Guys.
It wasn't good.
Let's just say I can think of a million other ways I'd rather spend $800.
It has gotten a wee bit better since then because Mike (that gloriously talented man I married) thinks he can fix at least one thing himself, but he did go out last night without complaint to buy me TWO bottles of champagne (although he had to buy the really, really cheap, twist-off-cap stuff, because we're now broke, which made me depressed enough to need another bottle).
We had a family vacation planned for next weekend, a roadtrip up to Colorado, through New Mexico. We were going to introduce Kyle to Mike's dad's side of the family, 95% of whom haven't met him yet. It was going to be a refreshing break from the heat and a little time for my little family before I jet off on another work trip in a couple weeks. I don't know if we can take that trip now, and that makes me EVEN MORE DEPRESSED, MAKE THAT FOUR BOTTLES OF CHEAP CHAMPAGNE.
Hey, you know, this is normal life-type stuff. I know that in the grand scheme of problems, having to pay out the ass for a car fix is irritating but also normal. Having to (possibly; we're still weighing some options) cancel a (much-needed and much-anticipated) family trip sucks but there will be another trip, another opportunity. Life is full of disappointments, you know? That's never going to change. Doesn't mean it doesn't suck, but it also doesn't mean freaking out and losing my head is going to make anything better.
Not that I didn't totally freak out and lose my head anyway, of course.
So, cross your fingers for car miracles, winning lottery tickets, and a bottle of the good stuff in my future.
(Thanks, you.)