Anger Management

Have you ever had one of those days where everything goes horribly wrong, where you wake up with the Vin Diesel of headaches and the uneasy feeling that Aunt Flo may have actually broken your girl parts, proceed to forget an important work-related item before you leave the house, then experience another unpleasant work-related incident you can’t blog about, have a mild panic attack as you finally begin to accept the deadlines staring you down over the next three months, eat twenty pounds of chocolate and almost burst your pants at the seams, listen to a Slaughter marathon on a local radio station all the way home without even being aware of it until it was too late and you have auditory nerve damage, oh, and also almost start crying on the way home because you really wish your mom was there to have a delicious home-cooked meal ready and waiting for you, and then pick a fight with your loved one at 12:30 in the morning because you’re so frustrated about life?

And think how badly you’d like to meet the person who came up with the pansyass, kumbaya saying, “Anger only harms the vessel in which it is carried!” so you can choke them to death with a sustainably-harvested, fair trade hemp rope that gave a family of five a decent source of income and helped them buy quinine to relieve little Momo’s malaria?

What’s that? Jesus came up with that dandy? Nevermind.

I feel better today. Despite the fact that last night we had an ice storm and this morning my car doors were frozen solidly shut. I was ahead of schedule, could even possibly arrive early to work. Life was looking good. J had pulled my car out of the driveway so he could leave for work, so I knew getting into my car despite its thick coat of ice was indeed possible. But alas, enough time had lapsed between his and my departure times that my car doors had refrozen.

Solid.

So I kicked. I punched. I knocked. I pried. I tugged so hard on my door handle that I almost pulled it off. I was inside trying to find a hammer so I could pound away at the edges of the driver’s side door on MY NEW CAR when the phone rang. It was J.

J: “Are you going to work today? The roads are kinda bad.”
Me, frustrated again: “Yes, if I can ever get my car door open! I’m looking for a hammer.”
J: “Don’t do that!”
Me, sighing deeply and thinking that I will anyway: “But my door is frozen. Like, solid.”
J: “Try getting in from the passenger side.”
Me, looking doubtfully out the window at the icy sheen coating the passenger side door: “It probably won’t open either, but I’ll try it.”

So after punching my sensible clogs through a snowbank and getting completely covered in sharp snow cone ice, I discovered to my shock and delight that my passenger side door could open!

And the driver’s side door was … simply … locked.

I’ll be submitting my application to the Airheads of America Association later this afternoon. Gail Goebel, you were completely right when you called me an airhead during our fourth grade softball game when I dropped an important catch in right field.