Wednesday: My No Good Very Bad Day

Today I:
1) Woke up on the wrong side of the bed (apparently);
2) Stubbed my toe;
3) Dropped a plastic jar of hummus on the ground and broke it; and
4) Pissed my cat off, to which she responded by scratching me. Repeatedly.
And that was before I left the house.

When I did leave the house I got in the car to run some errands, namely getting a wedding present ready to send. I had already re-hot-glued the homemade present (it had come apart after sitting in my hot car for an hour), and was finally ready to get it in a box and ship it off. Since I didn’t have any boxes lying around (one of the downsides to not having an office job—no access to random stuff like that), I thought I’d just go to a nearby packaging store and get them to find a box and fill it with peanuts.

The clerk at the store takes some measurements and asks how I want to send it. “Cheap!” I respond. He says the cheapest he can do is FedEx Ground, and that’s $21. The cheapest is $21?!!?? “Half of that is the box, and half is the shipping,” he assures me.

Unfortunately I’m not really prepared to pay $10 for a cardboard box. Nuh-uh, I say, and walk out of the store, resolving to find my own box and stuff some newspaper into it, like all normal shipping people. As I’m driving home, I remember that the liquor store around the corner always has boxes to give away. I stop and pick one up, and am delighted to find a Sierra Nevada box (the happy couple that I’m sending this to love this beer, and they just got married in the Sierra Nevadas. What could be cuter?).

I bring my little box home, happy I have saved myself $10, when it dawns on me that you can’t send liquor boxes through the mail. Even if they don’t have liquor in them. Erg.

Frustrated, I set aside that project, and get ready for a bike ride to run a few more errands. I run around the house, looking worriedly at the darkening sky, and resolve to ride no matter what. Then of course, the moment I step out of the garage, the rain starts. I linger for a few minutes, go back to the house, linger for a few more minutes, and the rain dwindles.

Now that the rain’s gone, the bike ride is hot—and rather humid. But I make my way to campus, and get right to the building I was looking for. Success! Except for the fact that I’ve forgotten my bike lock (rookie mistake). From what I’ve heard, leaving your bike unlocked on campus is not the best idea. So I leave it where I can see it from the windows of the card office, where I’m about to get my picture taken for my school ID, envisioning a scenario in which my bike gets stolen and my bad day turns into a really bad day.

In the card office, I learn that the computers are down all over campus, and I might have to wait awhile. Fine, I think, I’ll go check on my bike, and stop by the career services office. There I learn that they can’t really help me, and I probably should head over to the student employment office across campus. Great, I think. Another errand. I walk back outside and check on my bike (still there) and head back to the card office. They look at me sadly, say they’ll do their best, and apologize. I decide to wait it out, as long as I can see my bike. Finally, miraculously, they are able to print me a card. The sad news is that sweaty bike ride does not equal terribly attractive ID photo. I shrug, take my card, and get back on my bike.

I ride up the hill, stop at a light and wait to cross. Suddenly a big truck passes, and in a split second something has flown off the top of the truck and hit me in the leg. It was a mushroom, of all things, a big one. Thank goodness it wasn’t a chunk of cheese, or, god forbid, a steak.

By this point I have to laugh at how ridiculous the situation is. I’ve just been hit by an errant mushroom on Broadway. What? I giggle to myself the whole way home, where I swap my bike for my car to get to my next appointment. The next appointment is a haircut, which I think is at 3 o’clock. It’s not—it’s at 2:30, so by the time I get there my girl is on her next client. Looks like I’ll have to wait awhile til she’s free again.

Finally, errands done, bangs trimmed, I go home and collapse. The day’s not over yet, but apart from the hurricane-like hailstorm outside, I think the evening’s got to get better.

You Guys Know This Place is Clothing Optional, Right? (Part I)

One of my favorite stories ever happened in a moment where my still-to-this-day-good-friend Daisy and I were becoming close and trying to be adventurous. We were in the middle of college, and we decided that a good old-fashioned camping trip would solidify our friendship. I knew of a spot in the mountains, about three hours away from school, and after class let out on Wednesday, we packed up the car with our PB&Js—pilfered from the school cafeteria—and a borrowed tent from the outdoor recreation center.

Daisy had talked to me of her life-changing Outward Bound experience as a teenager, and though I was a bit of a camping virgin, I trusted that she knew enough about the outdoors to get us both through. We had shelter, snacks, and some sleeping bags. What more did we need?

On the trip out there Daisy and I taught each other our favorite car games, talked about life, and realized that we both loved the same obscure k.d. lang song. But by the time we arrived at our campsite/hot springs, it was nearly midnight. We paid our dues, collected our towels, and listened to the campground manager tell us two things: a snowstorm was moving in—and it was supposed to be a big one—and the hot springs were clothing optional (so don’t be too surprised if you see people wandering the campground naked).

We laughed, overconfident in our college worldliness and outdoor preparedness. At that moment we should have just turned around and gone home for all the good the next hour did us.

Old timey radio voice: Stay tuned for Part II of our exciting adventure, wherein our two daring heroines face cold, snow, and a little too much nudity. Will they survive?