I often hear people complain that I never have a bad day said in a manner that almost seems to be wishing a bad day upon me. In response I think that it sucks that this is being wished on me. There are others who misread what I say thinking I’ having bad days when really, it’s just what happens when the sarcasm is lost in translation.
So let me share my bad day. It started with a mechanic/part time dancer who has been trying to date me. Our paths have crossed regularly including this particular morning. As things stood the relationship was, I wasn’t disinterested, but I wasn’t interested, so we were treading the line where numbers had been exchanged but I wasn’t acting on it. I don’t date. There at least half the problem stood, add the fact I tend to ignore my phone, which only serves to further complicate the condition. But the other half of the problem became clear when I walked back to my car and spotted a red rose on the windshield.
Innocent maybe, that is until I walk around to the boot to collect my laptop there was another token of his mechanical affection. The thin brake light strip that runs above the handle had been removed. For a moment I freaked out, thinking someone had broken into my car (the lock was exposed and my laptop is my most precious essential), but a closer look showed nothing had been tampered with. There wasn’t a scratch on the car, but light had been removed with the infinite care, you could almost say with love.
The last time something like this had happened was with also with a mechanic and a spirited away an easy replaced missing part of my Beetle. I was 18, it was my first car and I loved that Beetle.
The disappearance of a part at the perfect time as next thing you know that mechanic had me in his shop making a hero of him. He just happened to have the exact part in stock, for the beat up old VW a make and model his shop didn’t specialise in. It looked used, like the one I was missing, actually. I may have been so overcome with his masculinity that I dated him.
This time the mechanic in question ha been telling me how great he is at working on Beemer’s for weeks (oh by the way I own a BMW). If I ever need help with my car, he ’d said as he handed me his number, I’ just a phone call away.
He kept texting to make sure I got that rose all day. so I finally responded that if the rose had been the only surprise on my car this may have gone differently.
After that he stopped texting, not even to pretend to not know what I was talking about.The stripping-my-car-because-you-can’t-fix-my-real-problems stunt just doesn’t work on me (anymore).
So I charged into Starbucks, feeling angry and violated, worried about rain running into my boot. I was upset so I ordered coffee, and a cookie, and plugged the computer in. The Starbucks lady offered to heat the cookie and it warmed my heart.
Then she placed it up on the bar for me and a shifty looking bloke tried to steal my cookie.
It was time to get out of this area. My horse is stabled a sixty minute drive from where I was so time for a little relaxation so I called my sister to see if she was free for a drive and ride. I collected my sister and her friend and we drove, with me bleating on for twenty five minutes of the thirty minute drive, and I added the cookie thief in the mix.
Now I knew it was a bad day – It started raining, which made the other drivers slow down. I got stuck between a line of trucks then sped up when I caught a window. 70 -80 – 90 miles per hour.
At last the M6 to Lancaster is three lanes each direction on perfectly landscape less land running in a perfectly rigid line. The conversation started to lifted my mood by retelling stories of past road trips. My sister and I talked about how she’s bad luck, and how I only get speeding tickets when she’s in the backseat, and how it’s been five years since I let her in the back seat because the last time I got two tickets two days in a row, and it’s been smooth sailing ever since I rid myself of my cursed passenger.
This conversation happened, of course, as I sped past a traffic cop parked in a run off at over 70 mph more likely 100 mph.
And it had, of course, never occurred to us to maybe not jinx ourselves by talking about it, or at least put her to the front seat.
Any way the long and short of it is I got a speeding ticket. He didn’t even ask first if I knew why I got pulled over. We all knew why I got pulled over. And I didn’t try to talk him out of it or show cleavage because he dropped the clocked speed to 80 to ease up on me and I didn’t want to push my luck right into a reckless driving charge.
Then we continued on, speeding to make up for lost time, agreeing that my sister would never again occupy the backseat, while she continued to occupy the backseat, and I continued to speed.
We drove over and saw my horse, fed him apples groomed him before it turned to evening darkness. If you ’re unfamiliar with roads that meander across country back to the motorway especially those lacking common decencies, like lighting, and people ride strange things, like tractors, and cows then prepare for the unexpected.
First up I almost hit a cat, five minutes later I almost hit a kitten, and a badger, well at least it seemed like one.
Without the time pressure it was enough to slow me to a speed more in range of the posted limit. There was a eat-in on the way back so we pulled in for homemade hot rolls and strawberry jam with strong steaming hot coffee.
We placed a couple of complicated orders that considering the place was soon to close must have hacked the staff off. In the spirit of reconciliation I smiled up at the waitress, whose face was devoid of the slightest sign of humour, displaying a mixture of anger and pain in equal amounts… I added, it’s ok if you want to spit in our food. I would too.
She smiled or more accurately grimaced no doubt out of guilt, probably because she already planned on it, or was thinking it at that exact moment, and everyone gets a kick out of irony.
When the food arrived mine displayed a fine specimen of a pubic hair. It may not have actually been a pubic hair, but more likely, the tightly coiled brunette lock of a short-haired cook, but either way these things are suspicious when found in food. It wasn’t even convincingly mixed in. It was centralised in full display pride of place on the chicken.
I asked Sis, who was also a waitress in her college days, and we discussed the best course of action. I didn’t want to be the douche who sent it back, or the one who had it taken off the bill, but I didn’t want to be the mug who ate a plucked pubes with a hair-light either. I looked for accompanying spit. It was hard to tell.
Ironically was reminded myself that it would be difficult to complain about any spit found on the plate, having previously given the waitress permission to do just that when ordering in the first place.
In the end I decided to let the waitress decide the best course of action, and I just tipped excessively. We made a pact not to ask for anything else for the rest of the meal, and we ate with our hands when we realised there was no cutlery.
So here I am sitting in another cafe, worrying about water leaking into my boot, rusting the lock while at the same time mulling over the texts about the rose, and had it has made me a bitch, for not acknowledging said rose.
The quandary, if I acknowledge the rose, it will end in a police report, where I’ maybe going to at the same time see what can be done about that ticket and the cookie thieves. I’ still willing to shoulder the blame for the tainted food.
Now that’s a bad day