Three Little Piggies

I left work today completely numbed by the ridiculous high school drama that is present in my "professional work environment". Incredulous about the days events, my car door felt especially heavy when I attempted to open it, but at least I got a very close parking spot as my feet were throbbing from especially cruel shoes. Naturally, I was multitasking, talking on the phone as I loaded my things into the car. I'd arrived an hour early today to lead new hire orientation and excitedly flipped a bitch to park right out side the gates of the executive parking lot.

It sure was difficult to open the door, but in my sleepy afternoon logic I assumed my old little Honda was swollen because of our unusual September thunder storm from this weekend.
I drove to Santa Monica to pick out baby clothes for the twins' birthday tomorrow. When I got out of my car, having parked in my second lucky parking spot of the day on Wilshire, it was again difficult to open my door. I looked at the outside of the door for clues and found a massive dent in my front side panel. Through my highly adept deductive reasoning, I arrived at the conclusion that some massive truck must have taken a sharp turn around my car and misjudged causing a dent which bended my door in an angle just wrong enough to cause me to have to waif into my driver's seat. Fuck.

I must have shopped for at least an hour lamenting about whether to get the 12m size or 18-24m as there was no size in between. Again, I chatted on the phone about 46 topics and was distracted with each one as I shopped. Finally, I selected the perfect outfits - three for each girl.
As they were being rung up, I realized I likely had not put enough change in my meter to avoid a ticket. The sales woman urged me to take my time to run out and feed it. As if this bought me all the time in the world, I fed the meter and then wandered into Yummy to buy cupcakes for me and MC (Still inspired by Dr. Phil's urging to do something to improve your marriage every day). Although I imagined the sales woman to be drumming her fingertips on the counter when I returned, she was still ringing up the teeny pants and shirts in slow motion.
After maybe a year and a half, she arrived at the total, I passed my credit card. I held my breath as she read the total and I suddenly realized I'd spent far more than I intended to.
$267 and some odd cents.
WHAT?! How could this be? These clothes are tiny!?!
I was too embarrassed to protest allowed. I mused silently about coming in to return most of the purchase the following afternoon with the explanation that the mother of the girls turns out disliked the prints I selected and getting a credit to my card.
I glanced at the receipt before slipping it into my wallet. RETURNS FOR STORE CREDIT ONLY WITHIN 10 DAYS OF PURCHASE was bolded on the bottom of the receipt.
Shit.
I looked at my phone - 15 minutes to drive 6 miles on Wilshire during rush hour to make my training appointment on time.
I called Donovan and burst in to tears telling him about the car as if it had just happened.
He advised me to return to the scene to try to collect witnesses and file a police report and I realized I'd made it sound like a hit and run while driving. Rather than correct him, I insisted I needed to come to training. I ran downstairs and changed into my work out gear and Donovan ran to the parking lot to assess the damage on my very modest economy vehicle which I'm certain he expected to be much more fancy based on my very fancy job.

I did lunges in the parking lot for 15 minutes as he tried to pop the dent out of my side panel using rudimentary tools.
I'd planned on taking the kick boxing class after we completed our training session but all I could think of was getting out of there to meet MC for a beer.

When I arrived at the bar, I was in tears, working myself up about ridiculous charges to a store with piggies in the title.
After a semi-relaxing semi dinner at the Brew Co MC, Aquafresh and I got in the car to drive back home. A block away from the restaurant, I smelled a horrible smell. My nose was filled with the moist, thick aroma of fresh dog shit.
We all lifted feet and tried assessing the damage under passing street lights and I tried not to dry heave.
We stopped at a gas station and all popped out of the car where in a twist of karmic fate, Aquafresh revealed himself as the person of misfortunate steps.
When their friendship was new, MC had left a dogshit footprint on the carmat of Aqua's passenger side and it had been a running joke for the past year. Finally, they were karmically resolved, only in a twist of fate, as his wife, I’d taken on the price of MC's earlier shitty misstep (literally).

We bought two lottery tickets to beg for one more chance at luck. I scratched off two fifty dollars and imagined myself scratching a third and celebrating with the gas station crowd.
No dice.
Home before 10pm, which seems safer given this evening’s fortune, and watching my husband as he settles in, realize car damage, expensive little piggies, poop steps and losing tickets considered I am still one of the luckiest ladies in the world.