Writer's Block

I've got a little Writing Blockage this week.
Not that I haven't been engaged in rich fields of comedic fodder -

1. An adult responsibility class led by an egg-shaped man, with a dark little egg-shaped mouth; he smelled like a bar in the morning and had a trademark way of making a military turn on his heel and screaming "Bullshit!", with a slight lisp.

2. Just now, when I accidentally typo-ed "RFP", my spell check corrected it to REO, as in Speedwagon. I think that was one of the most personal feelings of elation that I've ever experienced at work. Finally, all the times I click "Add", to build up my personal spell check dictionary…
those clicks have paid off for me and it makes me smile on the inside and on the outside. My spell check knows that I always mean REO Speedwagon, even when I am lost in an industry marketing request.

3. I locked my keys in the trunk last night. I figured it out this morning, after having searched every rat hole I could think of, and retraced my heavy steps twenty times in the steadily pouring rain. It dawned on me that last night, I stopped to put my runners on, which were in the trunk of the car. I was in a really good mood and feeling warm and organic because I was planning to walk my dog to the Wild Oats store and get a low fat muffin for dinner. Often, if I am in a good mood and feeling quietly confident, trouble is looming. I just didn't realize there was trouble until I was trying to leave for work this morning.
I did the cursory search, sat on the bed and slowly looked around the room in an organized manner so that no niche would go unchecked. Finally, I ended up standing helplessly in my bedroom with the finger in my mouth that I believe helps me to think clearly. I realized that definitly, my keys were either in the trunk or lying somewhere, forlorn, along last night's healthy pursuit and good-mood display of peaceful living. Right after I realized that my keys were not going to be found in house now, or at any future time, Maggie jumped through the Kreature Korner Window and tried to bring her morning kill into my bedroom.

Goddammit. Quit smiling like that, Cat.

And it was still steadily raining. Of all the days that it rains so nicely in the desert, you know all 8 OF THEM, this would have to be one, right?
So now it's 7:30, which is the time that my voicemail says I'll be in for the day. I shoved the cat back out of the window, bird still-in-mouth, rain still falling, and prepared myself to do something very grown-up: I would need the services of a locksmith and while I was at it being all grown-up, I had better prepare myself to have the fucking car re-keyed by Smitty. Once you are sure that your keys are in one place, you had better be prepared for them to not actually be in that place. I know this to be true, although to be honest, I've never had to test that theory at this level of knowledge. Usually I "lose" my keys and "find" them in my hand. I rarely totally lose things like keys. Today, though, has shaped up to be full of all kinds of rarities.

I totally put on sweats and called work to let them know that I was going nowhere fast this morning. I watched a Buffy rerun, answered Smitty's 7 calls, most of which were telling me that he was on his way to my Bitchin' (stranded) Honda, and thought about not going to work at all.
Not an option, too many deadlines.


Finally, Smitty called to tell me that he had arrived at my Bitchin' Honda. I went outside and gave him the Thumb's Up to break into it. Easier said than done, my friends. 2-door Hondas are a Jedi-force to be reckoned with, apparently. It took Smitty 45 MINUTES to get my Bitchin' Honda open and if he had been a robber, he would have been damn lucky that since it was all pouring and flooding, he would have had the private time he needed to jimmy my lock.
There must be a competitive, Locksmithing spirit in Smitty because about 4 minutes into trying to get the car open, he whispered desperately under his breath, "This shouldn't take so long."
He kept kind of grunting and repeating himself and again, I realized how lucky Smitty was to be attacking this particular Honda on a cool, rainy day as opposed to a searingly hot day when frustrations are naturally higher.
"It shouldn't be taking this long."
"I can't..."
"This is too long..."
"Too much...

Yeah. There was actual desperation in his eyes and I wanted to go back in the house really bad but at the same time? I could not stop watching the one-man show that my brain was enjoying at Smitty's expense.
Rain and all, I spent 45 minutes listening to Smitty relive his days as Grandmaster Auto Thief, grieving under his breath over the loss of his former glory. It was clear to me that by the time I had my keys in my scrubby hands, my Bitchin' Honda might have broken his spirit.
After the car was open and the keys retrieved from under the Rolling Stone magazine that I read while doing cardio, he just stood off by himself, shaking his head, "That took too long. It was just... too much time."
When I thanked him, he hung his head, "I just... I'm so sorry that took so long."
I wanted to hug him but I sensed that impulse may not be so appropriate. This was his loss, not mine and he was going to let me write a personal check instead of making me drive to the Circle K up the street to get cash.

So I called work, asked my friend Pitty Pat Pat to shove my extra shoes into the downstairs bathroom, got a gigantic Starbucks, and arrived at work to ditch my dunzo flip flops, change into actual work pants and go with my day.

I guess the Writer's Block is gone, huh?

arizonasarah at 10:42 a.m.

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