Mercury in retrograde

...And this is the point in the saga of little brown rabbits at which Marjorie remembers why she curses winter. For my entire life, I've been a warm weather girl. I've never been so happy, weather-wise, as I was during the three years I lived in Tucson. But, as my regular (ha!) readers might recall, I've recently watched An Inconvenient Truth and have finally been able to put winter in its proper perspective-- a necessary part of this planet's cycle, one that would have dire repercussions were it to disappear. Until this afternoon.

Last night, my freakin' psychic mother informed me that Mercury had just gone into retrograde, where it will stay for the next three weeks or so. In general, when Mercury goes retrograde, all sorts of the minor-annoyance brand of hell breaks loose. Miscommunications galore! Travel mishaps. Lost items. The milk spoiling two days before its expiration date... that kind of thing. And so, I should have known.

As I mentioned in a post earlier today, this morning, I decided to not brave the inclement Northern Virginia weather so as to make the trek into Georgetown where my office is. However, around 3 this afternoon, I went to the front of my building and noticed that a snowplow had indeed scoured the driveway of my apartment complex. So, I figured I'd try to drive in so I could enter some stuff into the computer at work-- and win some brownie points. I went and scraped all the ice off my car. I got in my car. I put the car into reverse. My car grunted loudly but did not move.

I should explain here that, while the snowplow cleared the main driveway area, it dumped all of the snow and ice that was in its way all along the sides, i.e., right under the rear tires of all the cars in the lot. Brilliant, eh?

I got out of my car and dug all four tires out with my piddly little icescraper. No, I do not own a shovel-- I live in a little apartment that has an enclosed sunroom, not a balcony... and I do not have a single square inch of ground on which I could stake a flag, so I generally assumed I would have no need for a shovel. So, yes, I'm digging away at hard-as-rock ice with an icescraper/brush-combo-deal. I get back into my car. I begin to back out, but apparently I began turning a little too quickly and my front tire sunk deeply into about 15 inches of snow. I wasn't goin' nowheres. Nowheres at all.

So, at this point my car is halfway out of my parking spot and neighbors trying to get out of the complex are honking at me--though it was painfully obvious that I'd gotten myself good and stuck. At this point, a lovely good Samaritan from a neighboring building comes to my service, bless him. He and I manage to dig the front wheel out again and he backs the car safely out of the slot. He gets out of the car. He locks the door to the car. With my keys still inside. With the car still running. Oh, yes he did. He did, indeed.

At this point, I can't even get back into my building b/c my door censor and my apartment key are, yep, on my keychain, in the ignition, in the car. So, I stand out in the cold shivering until this well-intentioned neighbor invites me into his truck... but then I figure I can at least call my landlord who can come let me into my apartment because he lives right around the corner. So, poor fellow, Mamadou the crazy nine-foot-tall Senegalese landlord, arrives moments later and lets me back into my home. At which point I go scurrying around trying to find spare keys. I manage to find my spare apartment key, but god only knows what's happened to my spare car key.

I get on the phone with the insurance folks and they manage to flag down another poor soul, who's been running around all day, dealing with people far less stupid than I, but who, nevertheless, possesses tools with which he can jimmy the lock. Bless him, too. However, by now, my car's been running in the driveway for a good hour and it's getting dark and the lights aren't on and I'm getting worried that some oblivious neighbor is gonna plow right into its little ass-end. Fortunately, no one did that. But, curiously, several neighbors found that it's helpful if you HONK at an unmanned vehicle, clearly stranded in the middle of the driveway. I'm not sure I follow the logic, but I'll have to remember that that is the proper protocol if ever I happen to see something of this nature.

So, anyway, the fabulous Auto-Rescue guy (Frank the Finn) opens my car without a problem. At this point, the idea of leaving my apartment complex is WAY TOO FUCKING STRESSFUL for me, so I decide to pull the car back into its slot. Foolish, foolish girl, I am! The fucking car gets fucking stuck. AGAIN. Frank has a snow shovel-- because it's his job-- and manages to dig my car out once again and then I get it pulled back in. And I turn it off. And I sign my locksmith receipt -- a measly $60! I thought it would be so much more! And I thank the nice man. And I go back into my cosy warm apartment. And I write this blog post.

Now, how's that for some seriously stinky-ass spoiled milk? I mean, really!