Excuses, Excuses

As you can see, my New Year's Resolution to do a blog entry every week is coming along just swimmingly. I was going to try to do one tonight but then, as usual, my plans went awry.

It all started when my Dad called me at to work to tell me that my rear tire looked low. He said the Hess station on the Parkway had air so I headed there after work. Now driving on the Parkway at 5PM is the equivalent of descending into the seventh circle of hell as far as I am concerned, but I did it anyway in the interest of not having a flat tire. I arrived at Hess with my sanity barely intact after getting stuck behind a moron in a Hummer to find that the air was out of order.

I took a brief moment to reflect on the fact that if the good Lord didn't want me to swear He should not provide me with car trouble in the winter when my husband is out of town and calmly headed home, where I could fill up the tire using the air compressor before dark if I hurried. It was still light when I got there and I found the nozzle thingy you have to attach to the hose to blow up tires without any trouble, so I erroneously assumed this operation would go smoothly. (There is probably some technical term for the nozzle thingy that but heck if I know what it is.)

I dragged the compressor hose through the garage and out into the driveway still in my dress pants and heels. I didn't want to lose precious daylight changing my clothes. The compressor was on and full of air but nothing was happening. When I tried to put air in the tire it just kept getting flatter. My mood, which was none to rosy to begin with, took a sharp turn south. It took me, my dad, a flashlight, and a bike pump - in 16 degree temperatures - to get my tire to an acceptable level of air. I trudged back through the garage with my useless compressor hose seething with rage.

For most people, here is where the bad day would end with the aid of copious amounts of chocolate. But not for me! When you are me, when you try to put everything away the compressor hose, as a result of, um, maybe not being attached properly, shoots off at 150+ psi and nails you in the ear. You then spend your evening alternating between googling traumatic brain injuries, applying ice packs to your swelling cranium, and worrying obsessively that you will end up with cauliflower ear like a boxer gone to seed.

And that is why I suck at blogging.