bad mojo

WHATTADAY.

This morning my mojo apparently took a brief time-out for station identification.

First.

I left the house sans my ever-faithful companion, Cell Phone.  Bad.  Bad and way stupid. Not having my cell phone with me … on the level, y’all? …  I confess it’s absence puts me more than a little bit out over my skis. Which then makes me wonder … how on earth did we ever cope before the Advent of Personal Technology?

Unfortunately, by the time I realized I was lacking Ye Olde Cell Phone, I was several miles down the road and without adequate time and/or inclination to return home.  Yes, I realize that it would have behooved me to take the time. But. Sometimes I’m not the most clever chimp in the tree.

Then.

To compound the issue, the very minute I drop youngest son off at school, my low-gas light flashes and dings.

Schwell. Simply root-tootin’ schwell. 

I hit the Idiot Driver button that supposedly tells me just how how far I can go before I’m stranded in the gutter. 

Thirty-two miles.

Okay. So 32 miles worth of gas in the tank is vastly more than I’ll need to safely arrive at the office. No urgent need to stop and fill-er-up. This is good, I say to myself.

Sigh.  I really have to get off the dope.  I’m starting to actually believe the stupid things that run around in my head.

So.  I make my move for the highway, and as I’m driving down the entrance ramp … too late, of course, to actually initiate any change in plans … I see that traffic is deadlocked. Red brake lights as far as my weak-sighted eyes can see. 

But.  Never fear. 

After all, I do have 32 miles before I run out of gas. 

I wisely turn off the air conditioning because y’all know that elementary gesture will buy you an extra … oh gosh … 400 feet of travel down the concrete. 

Traffic is not moving.  I sit.  And fume.  And watch the clock tick over another painful minute.  And throughout all of this unexpected morning joy, I most anxiously ruminate on being stranded without a cell phone or any viable means of contacting the outside world.   

Suddenly and without warning, my Idiot Driver low-gas light is now telling me I have a mere 23 miles left until something very, very bad happens.

No. No. No.

Listen.  I’ve traversed a grand total of about 100 feet and you’re dinging me for 9 miles worth of fuel?  Sheesh.  It’s no wonder the automakers are in a pickle.

Slightly panicked … I’m a pansy, I am … I make a split-second to detour off the highway in an urgent quest for fuel.  Folks, for the record … downtown Toledo is not necessarily a place y’all wanna hang if you place even an iota of value on your life.  To further complicate the issue of, shall we say, the Criminal Element of the Region, downtown also sports an (over) abundance of one-way streets.   Me and one-way streets.  Hmm.  Well, I’d be remiss if I didn’t report that we really don’t get along awfully well. 

Just ask Leila with whom I spent a fun-filled weekend in Indianapolis one time.  Taking her back to the airport at 5:00 am, we (read: ‘I’ … in fairness, there was no ‘we’ involved in that half-wit decision) tripped the wrong way up … or down depending on your point of view … a one-way street.  This mistake incited some early-hours, wall-eyed baboon to call me … and I quote … a ‘stupid bitch’.  Exclamation point.  Exclamation point. 

Nice.  Welcome to Indianapolis.  Y’all come back now, ya hear.

So this morning, there I am.  No cell phone.  Running on vapors.  White-knuckling a ponderous search through a maze of one-way streets to find the one solitary gas station in the entire delapitated downtown.  And I’m late. 

Very, very late. 

Then. 

In a quirky twist of fate, I find a gas station.  And in that gas station in said crappy part o’town, there is the security of a parked police car.  And in that police car?  Two patrolmen.  And Lord above, they’re smiling. 

I smile back.  All the while praying that they hadn’t noticed I wasn’t wearing my seatbelt.  And that they weren’t just grinning at me because there were giddy at having been given the perfect opportunity to write their first traffic ticket of the day. 

A short time later the van-beast was satisfied, those cheery patrolmen were sipping their java and jawing, and I checked out.  And yes.  I did buckle up.  No sense in further tempting fate after my very Bad Mojo Morning.

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2 thoughts on “bad mojo

  1. Girlfriend, I have been there — on the freeway, traffic backed up for miles upon miles, low fuel light griping loudly at me, “Are you an idiot, Leila Ann? Did you not notice my warning BEFORE you got on the freeway?” And then, to compound things (and make the low fuel light cackle with glee), said van overheated.

    But, hey, at least I had my cell phone to call hubby. Not, mind you, that we was able to help since he was at work over 60 miles away.

    Yes, my friend, I understand. I sympathize. I have traveled in your shoes…er van. Figuratively AND literally.

    Indianapolis. One way streets in the wee hours of the morning. Good times. Good times. I loved that weekend.

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