Not to overthink the classics, but you’ve heard the old chestnut, “You make your own luck” or the not dissimilar “Luck is what you make it”.
Ok, well…could someone please explain what they fuck I’m doing?!?
Is it bad that I’m crowdsourcing that information? Check it out, though, and weigh in…because I can’t decide if the universe is flirty with me, sending me warning signs or possibly both.
It started with this:
Ok. Sure. Let’s make a Will. For all of you conspiracy theorists out there, this could be my own fault. I’d literally said “I guess I’d better make a Will” after I opened my parents’ gift from grandpa’s estate.
Not that I’ve got anyone to bequeath my plant collection to – but that’s another blog. Let the government have it. That’ll piss off plenty of folks…just letting the state have my shit. Not my family, of course. There’s perks to being the brokest bitch in my family. Well, outside Black Sheep Bro, that is. But anyone that knows me will tell you that self-referencing “bitch” comment was not figurative and that I’m sure as Hell not rewarding that history.
So, there’s that. I wrote it off to a not-incorrect coincidence and went on with my life.
Then things leveled up a bit.
I came downstairs last Saturday afternoon – thank you, good night sleep herb – and from well inside my lobby, could see bikes whizzing by on the street outside.
Racing the wrong way on my one-way street.
The street I was parked on the night before.
All I’m thinking is that my car got towed. Then I’m incensed because shit goes on in my neighborhood all. the. time. So I know what to expect when something is happening..
This is out of the blue, though. Literally. I’d walked home from my around-the-corner bar the prior evening around 930 pm. Usually, when something of this magnitude is happening, I have – at worst – last ditch reminders…like they’re setting up booths and tents and johnnies-on-the-spot in the park the night before.
And this is the last ditch visual reminders. Before that, there’s No Parking signs posted on the trees lining the streets for weeks ahead of time. Plus flyers taped to the building doors so you can’t miss them.
This? This is gotten a flyer about a half dozen trips to the recycler ago. Ok, fine…it was a good month and a half back.
So, what was it?
The Portland Criterion.
I don’t remember this happening in the six years I’ve lived in this building. Apparently, though, it used to happen all the time. Local legend has it that ol’ uniball (Lance Armstrong) used to ride it before he started winning Tours de France.
If you believe that kind of scuttlebutt.
Anyway, it’s a nine block course – if my mental mapping math is correct. A three block straightaway, up a block, back a block, up a block, over a block and down two to the start.
But did I mention that my car got towed?!?
(Un)Luckily, I’d run into the chattiest mailman ever on my way out. He was telling me that the parking situation was a real shitshow. He’d had to park a half dozen blocks away instead of right in front, as is his norm.
“Oh, all the bridge and tunnel folk?”, I asked, knowing full well he is one.
“Yeah! Well, that and all the cars they had to move off the route!” My ears perked up.
“Say what now?”
“Oh, yeah. They call it a ‘Courtesy Tow’, but it’s not doing me any courtesies!”
Ok, maybe my luck is on an upward swing. All I had to do was scour the neighborhood clicking my alarm remote until my lights flash.
Knowing my neighborhood, some crazy would flash me before my Angela did.
My car was right around the corner.
Luck: fully functioning.
I did whatever I’d needed to do that afternoon and then realized there was the neighborhood dysfunction to deal if I went home, and decided to kill some time.
Hello, app of Lost Boys.
It’s an indictment of my decaying subculture that a man my age, in my wavering physical condition can get laid with only a modest amount of effort on these loathsome asocial media apps. But there I was, finding a safe harbor to park my lil tug in to ride out the Criterion storm in my home port.
I’m still offended.
It’s like I’m the gay equivalent of Groucho Marx.
Nevertheless, I am heading home from my afternoon delight and my drinking buddy neighbor from the Silver Fox’s building asks if I wanna meet at the neighborhood joint for dinner.
This is also promising because somehow I conflated this with the Criterion being complete.
The car in the lane to my right’s bumper literally peeled off the car and flew right at me.
Interesting life choice for a car. Upon closer inspection, though, the car looked like it should have the theme from Sanford & Son emanating from it. Checking my bitchiness in an attitude of that-bumper-missed-me gratitude, I checked myself and admitted that this car was likely someone’s residence.
Oh, yeah, the bumper missed me. Mostly thanks to me not being where I was heading toward being once I saw it depart its logical location.
I pull past this “How is this street legal” moving violation and glance in the window.
Let me tell you, I’d just gotten laid in the first time in too long and my sunny disposition had nothing on this driver.
“So, great, she’s under the influence, too.”
I swear, this shit could only happen to me. A bumper leaves home a few feet ahead of me in a once-in-lifetime occurrence? Yeah, just me.
Nevertheless, I make it home without further whatthefuckness. Until I have to park, and then I realize the Criterion is not finished.
Go figure, my original towed-to parking spot on my “Street Closed” street is taken. Turning around, I pull across the intersection and part in a Loading Zone with 7 am – 7 pm restrictions Monday-Saturday.
It’s 650 pm on Saturday night.
“Fucking ticket me”, I say as I walk away.
Minutes later, when recounting the afternoon’s events to my buddy, I recall that this is exactly what had happened last time I gambled on that. But that was a pandemic ago…so who’s winning now!!?
The next morning, my tire was flat.
Here’s why there will never be a musical about my life: days like last Saturday. You couldn’t write a song about that day. There’s no rhythm to it. My fortunes that day were nothing if not psychotic.
By comparison, a couple Saturdays prior, I’d had breakfast with my parents, they’d cavalierly tossed out a check I with more zeroes than my dating history and they’d bought. Then I went home and watched movies and snoozed the rest of the day.
That’s plenty of Saturday for me.
Criterion Saturday? Do not need.
In other random “luck” housekeeping…
Yesterday – Payroll Monday, as I like to call it – turned out to be just Monday. No payroll. Too much other shit going on, so I decided to punt and process payroll today.
On the other hand, I got it done in 2.5 hours. This is something that appeared to be taking 16+ hours when I came on board, so there’s that.
Additionally, I arranged to have the local tire joint – who I have unpleasant history with – look at Angela’s tire today. I was betting it would be $100. The Silver Fox was telling me they did it for free whether you bought tires there or not. I just didn’t want to risk putting a can of Fix-a-Flat into the equation and then getting in the freeway to the Costco for the free repair I was entitled to after my tire purchase there.
So, here I am…still living haphazardly but thinking critically!
I’d called ahead and was told a patch was $20. Fine. Get it done.
I drop it off three minutes before they open this morning and hoof it home – cajoling Jessla into a coffee along the way…barely missing my “late” start time of 945.
At 1030, the call me – but I’m on a Teams call and can’t talk. Voicemail. When I get a chance to listen, it’s some guy you know is hot but totally selfish in bed and barely functional in life telling me they couldn’t find a problem.
I hold the phone away from my face and wonder aloud if they were looking at the wrong tire. I watched my onboard count down four pounds of lost pressure on my nine blocks up, eight blocks over trip to drop Angela off. So I call back and tell them to take another swing at it.
It took a few hours, but eventually I got a callback that said they were able to find the screw and patch the hole.
At 415 I feed Myrtle her 15 minute overdue dinner. Well, half of it because I can tell she’s gonna eat like she’s never had a meal. I figure, I can manage that and feed her the rest after she’s had time to digest a bit.
We’re talking 1.5 ounces of wet food here…and she still threw it up before 430.
I tell my coworker over Teams that I’m fucking off to clean up cat puke and then go get my car. I know I’ll come in tomorrow to an arms length of cat rearing tips – none of which will be “Don’t adopt a cat three other people returned”, but still well-intentioned.
I hike up to the tire place and am told it’s complimentary. Just remember them when I need new tires.
Goddamnit, the Silver Fox was right!
For free…unlike the person they paid to tell me the wrong answer.
Mind you, writing this out, I know it’s all nonsense. I got towed, I got laid, I got a flat.
Whatever, right? Free range bumpers notwithstanding.
But here’s what I didn’t tell ya: I’m between waking up on Saturday and getting laid on Saturday? A lot more happened.
I wouldn’t have been leaving my house at all that day if I hadn’t woken up to this random text message “from my bank”.
“Here’s the one-time verification code you requested”…only, I hadn’t? But, also…I had.
Days before. It was an aborted attempt to link my main account to my car loan – since my car loan had revamped their app (for the better) but had t imported any sensitive data. Basically, I had to set it all up again – because what benefits them, fucks me. Natch.
Sadly, that all ended in tears for the poor bastard I made help me after three failed attempts to link my main account to their new and improved shit.
But did I get three verification codes or just two? Was this random text something their new-but-still-having-a-stroke system buried out after a few days of rest or a legit scam?
I call the bank. It’s noon on Saturday.
By 1215, I’m being told that my account has been closed – for my protection.
“So, basically, you’re telling me I have 45 minutes to get out of bed, shower, shampoo and shine and make it over to my branch to re-open an account before they close at 1 or I can be penniless til Monday?”
“We’re super sorry (inferred, they didn’t say that) but our grocery store branches are open until 3! You can try this one in Portland’s version of Alabama.”
I Google “my fucking credit union’s branches in grocery stores” and counter that asinine attempt of theirs at help with, “How about I just go to this store a mile from my house?”
So I do all of this and end up leaving the branch with a new account and new debit card. It’s 245. I’m dreading all the new debit card ordeals ahead of me.
Assorted bill pays I have set up to my debit card.
This is gonna be Billy Hell.
But they’ve assured me that my direct deposit is flagged to transfer. Me, being an adult, resist telling them that that is literally my job so I’m not worried or asking what they do with my money that has them giddy that the flow will be uninterrupted.
Fine. Maybe I’m a little bit of that conspiracy theorist I maligned earlier. But only for my own entertainment!
On my way out, I ask if my pending bank to bank transfers will flow through, since I suspect they are still incomplete. My “transfer to” bank shows the deposits are funded, my “transfer from” bank closed my account without bothering to ask.
“I don’t see anything pending, so everything is good!”
“You’re telling me you could see transfers initiated outside the credit union?”
“Yup. Everything looks good.”
I woke up today to an email saying my $3000 transfer (the max allowed) had been rejected because of insufficient funds.
“Or a closed account and idiot banker” I mumble to my phone. Whatever. It only cost me time – since my investment account doesn’t charge for returned transfers and my credit union seemed to at least know not to trifle with that after my Saturday ordeal.
And that’s why I wanted to fuck someone after leaving the bank on Saturday…I knew my own fucking was coming. At least it was gentle?
I swear, if I find out Pam Ewing dreamed this whole thing…well, that might actually explain a few things.