A Tangled Heap

I now know how it feels to be sucked into the dark hole of an abyss, for that’s exactly how I felt Sunday night. Sharon, Sara, Martin, and I had gone to Lee & Rhonda’s for the evening, and as one will do upon arrival, I sat in a vacant rocking chair in the corner of the dining room. I absent-mindedly noticed that where there once had been arms, there were only holes, and all that now remained was the seat and back. So I sat down and began to rock. And we began to converse as if we were old friends (which we are).

I suppose I was a little ambitious in my method of rocking, but I do so enjoy a good “rock.” But about the fourth rock backward, however, there was a horrific crack and then a snap! And indeed, I felt myself being sucked right off into the abyss beside the chair. And there was no amount of flailing that could help it. I felt Sara’s fingertips just brush my arm as if she were trying to save me from my destiny, and I reached for her as desperately as a drowning victim would have. But it ultimately did me no good. All the flailing in the world (which I attempted) couldn’t have helped me at that point. And I landed in the most disgraceful tangled heap upon the very hard floor. And it was not pretty.

When everything had come to a standstill, Rhonda stood before me, apologizing for the behavior of the chair that evidently had its own history of prior breakings. And I was apologizing just as profusely for having put undue pressure on the back of that poor chair. My apology was serious and laced with the embarrassment that only one in such an awkward position can appreciate. Rhonda’s apology, on the other hand, was intertwined with such laughter as I have never seen in her before. And amidst her hysteria, she snatched that chair up and marched out the door with it in tow. And she laughed hysterically… all the way to the garbage can.

Martin and Lee were out in the bakery (thank you, God, for small favors), and they looked on in absolute bewilderment as Rhonda stood there by the garbage can, disposing of a rocking chair, laughing hysterically and trying to convey the events of the past several minutes. When they finally understood the situation, they said they wished they could have seen it. I’m glad they didn’t.

And I finally felt safe… from my spot on the floor. As the saying goes: With friends like that…

Explain That One!

As I went to put my credit card into the pump to prepay for the expensive gas I was about to get, I noticed a little yellow sign that had not been there on my prior visit. I cannot recall the exact words, but the message was essentially this: “To protect consumers, and to keep Pilot’s gas competitively priced, there is now a $50 limit for Visa credit cards.” I had to read it several times. I was puzzled over why the gas powers that be would think they should limit the amount of a purchase. Who benefits? And what competitive pricing? I haven’t noticed any blue light specials these days. And besides, with the price of gas these days, some vehicles wouldn’t even be able to fill up on a $50 purchase.

I stuck my card into the reader and turned my attention back to the business at hand. I lifted the handle and pulled the trigger to release the gas. Nothing happened. I squinted at the display and saw to my amazement that it was now asking me for my zip code. What is going on? I was in an awkward position already, tangled up with the unwielding hose. I stretched out as far as I could and managed to punch in my zip code. This was the gas station I have frequented for years, and all of a sudden they are wanting my zip code to verify a $50 maximum purchase? Sheesh. I turned back to the nozzle and gave it an impatient squeeze. Alas! Apparently when I had performed the impossible reach, the nozzle must have slipped backwards, and the splash guard in the tank was now blocking the gas from going into the tank. That gas shot back at me with a force not unlike that of the Little Niagara, and I was immediately drenched! And more than a little aggravated! My right arm and side were completely soaked with gas. I had a quick panic as I scanned for the nearest cigarette smoker. Thank goodness, I was in the clear. It was so warm though that in a matter of mere seconds, the gas had dried, and had become my second skin.

The ten-minute drive home was sickening. I breathed in enough gas fumes to last me a lifetime. When I got home, I dumped my clothes directly into the washer and headed for the shower. Running into troubles of this nature should have been expected. I had left work early so I could come home and start working on my biostatistics test and prepare for my marketing test in the morning. Delays, delays, delays.

I had had my trusty little flash drive hanging around my neck and had thought that it had escaped the misting. But when I went to pull up the files I needed in order to take my test, I found to my alarm, that the flash drive not only smelled of gasoline, but that it also was fused to the plastic lid. It would NOT come off! And then I went into a real panic. For as much as I preach about backing up, I have never backed that little guy up, and to lose everything on it just like that would be pretty devastating.

I went to the kitchen and grabbed a sharp little knife and went to hacking on it. I managed to break the cover off without damaging the drive itself and was quite grateful to be able to pull up the documents I needed.

But just how ridiculous is that? Could someone please explain the physics of that one to me? Needless to say, the little guy is now backed up, and my efforts to keep all my electronic media shall henceforth be renewed … tomorrow.

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Tschuß!