Sometimes laughter is just a cry dressed in drag

Just when you thought you were having a bad day....

Yesterday, I awoke at the usual 4:00 am to sneak in a shower and walk the dog before Jonas woke up. The morning was a typical one, grey, gloomy, tornado watch in effect. Welcome to Florida in the spring.

As Jonas and I were on our way out the door he dropped his binky, requiring me to re-arrange the hundred and one things I was trying to carry, so as not to drop him on his head. In the process, my soda, which was tucked neatly into my scrub pocket, crashed to the cement and exploded into a sugary brown shower. Jonas thought this was the greatest. I simply cursed quietly and kicked the can out into the yard to deal with later.

So I get J-man in the car, all buckled into his fancy carseat with the million and one parent proof restraints, and he's chewing happily on my keychain. Have you ever tried prying a really cool toy away from an infant? It doesn't go over well. Next thing you know, he's activated the alarm, and half the neighborhood is peeking out their windows at me. Not to mention, Jonas is terrified. I get the baby calm, and off we go to daycare.

After dropping him off, I stop at the corner store to get myself a replacement for the exploded soda, only to get to the register and realize that I left my debit card in the pocket of the jeans I was wearing the night before. And, of course, I have no cash on me. No problem though, I always carry the card to my old account with me, just in case. It's an account with First Bank of Ghetto, but I haven't bothered to close it because, well, I've had it since I was 15, and in some strange way or another, I feel some sort of attachment to it, and it's free, so who gives a damn, right? I use the card to buy my soda, and it's off to work.

Wait, it gets better, I promise.

So work is a drag, like always. It's an issue that doesn't need to be re-hashed. I'm just burnt out, and I'm tired of being nagged to work more hours. I sort of, kind of, got handed an ultimatum today, either I go back to working insane amounts of overtime, or I can find a new job. I don't really give a damn. I tell them I'll start looking tomorrow. The day drags on, I leave about 15 minutes early so that I can stop and get some gas before spending the next hour in dead-stop traffic.

The gas station's parking lot is adjacent to ours, so I cruise on over to the pump, insert the nozzle into my very empty gas tank (as in, the gas light has been on for the last 15 miles) and swipe my First Bank of Ghetto card. The pump hesitates, and then flashes the dreaded phrase, "See Attendant." Dammit. This has happened before at this gas station, and I'm assuming it's a faulty reader, so I go in and the guy behind the counter tells me that my card is stolen.

Stolen? Ummm, it's right here in my hand, and look, here's my id to prove it's me.

"Sorry ma'am, I can't do anything about it."

"Can you loan me a gallon or two of gas so I can go get my kid? I work right next door. I promise I'll pay you tomorrow. I'll even leave you my driver's license, if you want."

"Sorry, no way."

Have I ever felt so low in my life? Begging for a gallon of gas when I have plenty of money sitting right there in my bank account?

It never dawned on me to go back into work and just post a ten dollar debit to my already astronomical bill.

So, pissed off, I get in my very empty car and head off into dead-stop traffic to try and sputter my way home.

Imagine my shock and surprise when, as I pull away from the pump, I hear a loud BANG followed by the THWACK of something landing on my roof.

What the fuck?

I get out of the car to discover that, in my rage over the "stolen" card, I neglected to remove the gas nozzle from my tank, and now I have effectively destroyed what I am assuming to be a rather expensive piece of equipment.

And everyone at the other pumps are laughing at me.

Fuck you all.

I go back inside, tell the guy what I've done, tell him that whatever needs to be done, we need to do it quickly because I've got to go get my son before the daycare closes, so call the cops, or get the forms, or call the insurance people, or whatever.

This is the place where, if I were in a normal, or even somewhat sane, state of mind, I would realize that there are still a few decent people left in the world. Not the type of decent people that'll loan you a couple of bucks worth of gas, but the type that, when looking at their busted gas pump will laugh and tell you, "I didn't see nothing, you didn't see nothing. Go get your son."

Thank you Mr. Gas Attendant.

Now I'm on the road, that little gas light glaring at my from the dash as the minutes tick by slowly. I know there's no way I'm going to be able to get all the way to daycare with what's left in the tank. I'm not even sure I can make it home. Then it occurs to me, I pass First Bank of Ghetto on my way home. I'll stop in the lobby, clear this whole thing up, get some gas, and be on my way.

I pull into the bank parking lot at 5:25, walk to the door, and they're locking up.

"Sorry, the lobby's closed."

"Yeah, well, I've got a real problem here. My card is being reported as stolen, I don't have enough gas to even go get my son from school, and surely it'll only take a minute to fix this. Will you please let me come in?"

"Nope, we close at 5:30, but the drive-thru is open."

"Well, can I fix this through the drive through?"

"No, you have to come inside."

"So, even though you're still here, you're locking the door five minutes early, all the tellers are still here, and the bank manager is still here, you're telling me that we can't get this cleared up, and that even though I have money in my account, I'm not going to be able to get any gas simply because you're too damn lazy to let me in for the two minutes it will take to fix your error?"

"Try using you card at the ATM, maybe it'll let you get some cash."

"Thanks a lot, really. I appreciate your help."

The ATM welcomes me to First Ghetto with all of it's blue screen splendor. I punch in my pin number, ask nicely for my $20, it churns, chugs, and then sneers at me. I swear to god it did! The reciept that pops out reads, "Your card has been retained, please take this reciept inside."

I've already broken one machine today, but I swear, if I had a baseball bat, I'd have gone Office Space on it's snearing blue ass.

So, back into traffic I go, empty tank just chugging along, trying to get the four more miles to home thinking that the closer I get, the less walking I'll have to do. I call Heidi on my cell phone, ask her to please run over and pick up Jonas, that I'm going to be late. I call Bonnie to let her know that Heidi is picking up Jonas. She tells me that Heidi's not on my list of people who are allowed to pick him up. WTF?! Is everyone just out for me today, or what?

I tell her it's her choice, either she can send Jonas home with Heidi, who I now bestow permission upon, or she can keep him until I get there, which may be an hour or more. She tells me that she doesn't see how it will be a problem to send him with my best friend, but that I'll need to supply her information for future reference.

Sure, hon, she lives three houses down from you, she's short, she's blond, and she's doing me a huge favor. Thanks.

Despite all of my previous doubts, I am now convinced that there is a higher power of some sort. Don't ask me to call it God, just accept the fact that I truly do believe that something greater than myself got me all the way to my driveway before the car finally sputtered to a stall. Talk about close...

But now what do I do? I'm home, I have a working debit card in my hand, and I can't get the car to the nearest gas station. How much irony can a person have in one 12 hour period?

I'm eyeballing the lawn mower.

Oh, Angie, you're not really going to do it are you?

Fuck yeah, I am.

It's a damn good thing that a year or so ago I took an interest in the art of making meade. It means that I have about 50 feet of rubber tubing that I used to use to siphon the fermenting ale from one container to another. And I'll be damned if it doesn't work just as well for gasoline, if you can get over the fact that you're inhaling petroleum.

I get maybe a gallon of gas from the mower, and, armed with a working card, climb behind the wheel, say a little incantation to the great spirits of the automobile, and turn the key.

On the third try, we're on our way! Hooray for me!

And all the way from my house, to the gas station, to Heidi's I laugh. Laugh like someone that should be surrounded by pillowed walls and guards in white uniforms. Because, really, what else are you supposed to do?