Pick your title

“It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold:  when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.”  ~Charles Dickens

Once again I find myself exasperated and lying on my stomach wanting to title a post ‘Fuck that noise’.

I think starting with the boot on my car two mornings ago would be a nice beginning to a story. A boot thus rendering me unable to move my car and go to work, this would be the same morning that I woke up at 10:10 AM and my first thoughts were, “My, my, it is BRIGHT out today”. That was until I looked at the alarm clock – one of those ipod doohickies and thought “My, my I am royally fucked today”. And so ended that brief moment in time when I was in love with the start of Spring.

Of course for many reasons – which if expressed would leave some scratching their heads and wondering why on God’s green earth I am allowed to write a column about personal finance – my boot wasn’t removed until this morning. But only after a hellish ordeal involving me asking Bank of America why they’re so evil and if they’re from the womb of Satan and maybe to remove that stick from their ass because fucking seriously, it shouldn’t take two weeks to receive a new credit card. When lo! There was my credit card underneath two sympathy cards (Net: 11 in two weeks) and the new In Style. But oooh, In Style fuck the credit card, how about the greatest spring shopping finds? Until I realized that in order to shop I would have to work and in order to get to work I’d have to be able to drive and there’s a big ass boot on my car which was removed immediately and only for $307.

So I walked into work, albeit 2 hours late, and told the first person I saw that someone is going to get punched in the neck today (hat tip to Melissa for that one) and spent the remainder of the day in a mildly manic state because it’s about that time for some mania and at least I wasn’t so depressed that I wanted to drive off an overpass because I HAVE BEEN THERE BEFORE. I’d rather run my mouth and insert my foot in it than be dead.

Oh so the whole exasperation laying on my belly thing happened after a chocolate egg from Sucre. Imagine a heathbar but in the form of an egg and with two tablespoons of caramel on top that spills out at just the right moment that you think that God doesn’t really hate you even after an inauspicious morning.

I get home because oh yes, I had put in a load of laundry this morning and left it downstairs thinking that I’d just pop it in the dryer when I got home but I ended up with the shitty dryer. The one that allows you to put in one quarter and every quarter afterwards is a crap shoot. I literally have spent the past 30 minutes – the ones prior to writing this piece of shit entry that’ll make you say “Holy shit, why DO people pay her?” – putting in the same three quarters and having them shoot out at me.

I lifted the dryer. Smacked the dryer. Threatened to kick the dryer in the balls. But it ignored my threats and every time I put in a quarter it shot back out at me at a force to be reckoned with. Meanwhile some douchebag hipster with long hair comes down and does some insipid head movement and says, ‘Hey’ and stands there and stares at me while quarters spit out at my head, from a fucking dryer.

Which brings us to this moment in time where I’m thinking wine is a perfectly acceptable meal and screw the gym and say it with me now; fuck that noise

And totally unrelated but except to maybe the Sucre, I have a post up at BlogHer about the pants that tried to kill me.