I don't believe in luck. If it's possible, I believe in bad luck even less. But in the past month, I've experienced a string of events which can only be described as such. Allow me to explain.
1. It started with a volunteer event (or, if you work for Disney, which I happen to, a VoluntEAR event. Get it? Ha, ha! Oh, we're clever). I was driving back home after this thankless, five-hour, unpaid enrichment field trip for the middle school students I help mentor. I swear I wasn't thinking these nasty thoughts as I was driving. Roomie in the passenger seat, she and I jib-jabbed down the 5 (an interstate highway for you Hawaiians) like a pair of twenty-somethings normally would when they're feeling good about life. Changing lanes at my usual 80+ MPH, I failed to see a rather large piece of debris -- an almost-whole piece of tire -- in the lane I merged into until it was too late. Mentally defeated, I made a half-ass attempt to swerve out of the way, successfully allowing the rubber monster to hit the front of my car at an undefined angle and raping the Rabbit's underbelly of its protective shield (later known as the 'skidplate'). What was left of the skidplate hung on for dear life, while the spoiler (a $160 piece!) was left behind on the 5, according to the body shop.
Who hits a runaway tire, and ends up having to pay $400 in self-sustained damages? I've imagined hitting everything from toddlers to shopping carts, but never would have seen a blown-out tire on my Things-I'll-Hit-Before-I-Kill-Myself list.
As I told a lot of my compadres, I made myself feel better by thinking about the guy (or girl, but probably guy) whose rubber broke.
The silver lining to this story: I was able to get my repairs done for half the amount it should have cost to fix. Turns out my intern's uncle owns a body shop and takes care of people who could ultimately fire his nephew. :D
2. My grandfather died.
3. I had to pay the U.S. government $1,000 in taxes. I thought I was getting $2,000 back, so that's a huge miscalculation on my part.
4. I locked myself out of the apartment while doing laundry a few Sundays ago. While that would normally be resolved with a pretty simple break-in using nothing more than a credit card, I had absolutely nothing with me. Really, I was lucky to have even been wearing a bra. My roommate, who obviously has a set of keys, was unavailable as it was Mother's Day and she was at home-home. Anyway, being the motherless, college-educated Gen-Y-er that I am, I decided to be resourceful. I checked the trash near our mailboxes for credit cards (you know, the kind that say, "You've Been Pre-Approved!" and come with a generic plastic card that have no actual information yet you cut the card in a state of paranoia). None. I salvage a piece of hard paper and bring it back to my apartment door. After much shoving, thrusting and twisting, I ditch the limp piece. It's just not hard enough.
I resort to knocking on a neighbor's door. I ask them for a credit card. They look uneasy. I ask them for a credit card they wouldn't mind me having. Same look. I ask them for anything that is plastic. Hang on, he says, and shuts the door in my face. He comes back out with a Sheraton Hotel key card and says I can keep it. Whee.
I'm pretty sure I am saved at this point. I'd broken into my apartment many times before using the swiping technique (courtesy of my formerly ghetto roommate) and had no reason to think it wouldn't work this time, when I really needed it. Slide, click... snap. Nope, not the success you'd think it was. After a succession of SCSs (I'm also sweating now) I realize I'm just going to have to call a locksmith. Which wouldn't be a problem... if I had a damn phone. I knock on another neighbor's door for dialing capabilities. Half an hour later, a locksmith arrives.
Such a sweet man, such a bad smell. I guess that's what happens when you work with metal all the time or something. It's going to be $75 for him to let me in. FINE. I'd been catching up on TiVo'd episodes of The Office and I just wanted back in! It's clear that there's a problem when he takes more than a minute to pick my lock -- this is what he does for a living, it shouldn't take any longer than that.
He finally gets in and tells me my lock's broken. Someone messed with the lock, he says. Did I forget to mention that while I was trying to get in I may have rammed my whole body (repeatedly) into the door? I split wood.
He replaced the lock, and I wrote him a check for $225. Tiko was his name, and replacing locks damaged by stout Asian girls was his game.
There is no silver lining to this story. It just sucks, period.
For those of you who actually read this entire blog, I'm flattered. I realize this was long for events that seem rather miniscule in hindsight, but you're my friend and I assume you care. Happy Monday...
