The other day, when it was NEGATIVE NUMBERS of cold, I was heading out to meet up with one of my old bosses about some work. Being unemployed but enjoying the comforts of the employed, I decided I'd better shower and get myself presentable.
So I sort of dried my hair, got bundled up and headed out to get my car and go to the meeting.
And I couldn't get my fucking garage door open.
I'm not sure if I can adequately express the rage I felt that morning, but it sounded like this:
So I'm standing there, hitting the stupid garage door opener panel, watching the fucking thing open about 4 inches and then sit there, like it was thinking about something or maybe just got really, really tired, and then I'd try the opener again and it would close, like an asshole. So I kicked the door [did not help] and tried again, and the same thing happened, except this time I tried to pull the door UP and open, which surprising did not work, and then I remembered there was a side door to the garage that we never use, so I walked around IN THE SNOW to the door and actually found the key on my keychain on the 4th try [I have no idea why I have so many keys. I use two, and yet I have about a dozen keys. I'm afraid to get rid of them, because what if they magically open something wonderful? Like the secret entrance to David Beckham's heart? Or the special door to the Hermes store where I can get a free Birkin bag? Or maybe my parents' house, where I can pop in even if they're not home and I really have to go pee? I don't know.].
And then . . . . And then. I couldn't get in the side door.
Evidently my husband had stacked garbage bags full of EVERY SINGLE RETURNABLE BEVERAGE CONTAINER IN NORTH AMERICA in front of the door. Also the lawn mower. And possible a shovel, which I would have used to dig his grave, if I could have reached it.
I called the husband and started cry-yelling about how the fucking garage door wouldn't open and the side door wouldn't open and how much I hated this house and I was going to end up dying here because we're too poor to ever move, except I wouldn't die in the garage BECAUSE IT WOULDN'T FUCKING OPEN.
I kept working the opener as I yelled, and finally the fucking thing opened, because evidently I had said the magic words ["I will burn this motherfucker down if it doesn't work this time."] and then I went to my meeting and the rest of the day was fine. I mean, I was still kind of cold, but I think my rage kept me warm enough that I didn't get frostbite, and my hair didn't freeze. That's a win, right?
How have you been?