Moving to Rome: Part I

I was informed that they were not, but that I was free to come pick them up. I added that to my list of crap I hoped to get done before I left. So Deanna and I return to my house where we spent the next two hours or so packing my things and carrying them up the stairs into the sweltering attic, which was neither attractive to do or see, but managed to be successful despite that. So with much sweating, bruising, and cursing of the man-muscles that were nowhere to be seen to aid us, we finished about half before Deanna had to leave to get ready for a date. I made a futile attempt to finish, but quickly ran out of boxes as I awaited the call that I could come pick up the rest of them.

By the time 9:30 rolled around I was losing energy and motivation in equal amounts. A phone to Katie later and it turns out that my boxes and I had been forgotten. So my annoyance, my disappointment and I put on a bra and got into the car. The call I received a few minutes later, that ended up with me being yelled at and hung up on was a perfect precursor to the events that would follow.

Though getting the boxes had to be cancelled, I was already in my car and was diligent in my errand running and so I went to return some movies. As I was turning right onto the freeway, I stopped at a red light. The woman behind me did not. So she ran into me, hard enough to shove me out of the way as if my Nissan was a bumper car next to her SUV, so that she could drive around to my driver's side window with ease to offer this gem: “What the HELL are you doing?” To which I responded, “uhhh, you're supposed to stop at red lights” (which I knew with certainty because I had gotten a ticket for not doing that very thing a few days before). The conversation when from ridiculous to retarded fast before she drove off... to have another cocktail no doubt. In the meantime, Mr. Sensitivity in his SUV had wedged his way in on my passenger side, so that he could turn right on red, but paused long enough to roll down his window and yell “F**K YOU. GET OFF YOUR PHONE.” I'm pretty sure I was sobbing at this point. The next conscious decision I made was to go home, take a shower and an Ambien, and wait to loose consciousness.

Cue Sunday.