So today at lunch, I ran an errand for work and went to the post office. It's the first lunch I've spent away from the office all week, and I got a bit giddy. Instead of heading back to the office for my previously planned Smart Ones, I decided to go to Chipotle, which is nearby.
Unfortunately, Chipotle was way too crowded, so I ordered a Burrito Bol, which seemed easier to eat in the car while reading a one-month old newspaper (I keep forgetting to grab my book on the way out the door in the morning). So picture me: in line at Chipotle, my umbrella under my arm, my food ordered, standing in front of the kid at the register, digging through my wallet, looking for my ATM/debit card and not finding it.
I recently used up all my cash and change somewhere (the track?) so I was a bit panicky. I thought, jesus, will they take a check? But then I remembered, and I'll tell you why I didn't think of this in the first place a little later*, duh, I have my other credit card on me. I never use the other credit card, which is a real credit card, and God knows I never use it for food. But, there you go, I found it.
On the way back to the office, I phoned Patrick at work to see if he had my card for some reason (he didn't), decided not to worry about it just yet (and in fact I'm still not worrying about it just yet. I will commence worrying once I actually start looking for it and don't find it. Right now I haven't looked and therefore it could still be in any number of places, even in my wallet with a receipt or a piece of paper with a random address written on it, hidden in plain sight), and went back to work to sit in the still dry parking lot (it didn't start raining until it was time to go home, when I realized that I had parked my car so successfully and strategically that in order to get to it, I got to walk through each and every puddle in the lot) and eat my yummy lunch.
See, but this isn't the point of today's post.
Because after I ate my Burrito Bol (seriously, Chipotle is the best thing ever) I went back to work and dealt with the ridiculousness of my job and my co-workers for another few hours until it was time to go home, and that's where we arrive at the purpose of today's post.
At 5 p.m. I went out to the car, got totally wet despite my umbrella, and remembered that I needed gas in my car. I called up Patrick, because I had also discovered that he had the gas card (we used to have two... it's a long story), and arranged for him to meet me at the Chevron station. It seemed like a good idea, because I also wanted him to check my front left tire, which was low, and I worry about things like that, especially when it's all rainy.
The gas station we chose is closer to my work but it is on his way home (and therefore convenient for us both), so I drove over there in the pouring rain and pulled into the parking lot to wait, and started reading the same one-month old newspaper (there was a great story about Travis Claridge, a former USC football player who recently died. Timely? No. Interesting? Yes. The story is so old I can't find a legitimate link at latimes.com, but I did find a photo of him. You can see it, here). About five minutes after I got there, Patrick called me and told me that his car had died in the middle of the road (actually a highway; it's a big busy street, not unlike Sepulveda Blvd., but, um, not), and that he had his hazards on. Then he said, "wait, I got it started," and I asked him where he was, told him to pull over, and to get off the phone and that I'd be there in five minutes. And then I prayed that I had enough gas to drive back past my own job halfway to his.
I did.
By the time I got to him, he had pulled into a parking lot and was sitting in his car, revving the motor. He decided that we'd better stick to the original plan, which was to get me gas and air, so we left his car there and drove back up the road to the gas station. He gassed up my car, and checked the air, and said it seemed to be okay but that he'd keep an eye on it, and we drove back down the road to pick up his car, which started right up.
In a caravan now (yes, two cars counts as a caravan), we drove home. Slowly, because I was still worried about my tire, and because it was rainy and there were a lot of cars on the road. We stopped at a car parts store so that Patrick could buy something for his car, and he left his car running while I waited in mine, parked next to his. He was afraid if he shut it off, it wouldn't start again. So when he came back out, he checked my tire, and realized that it was really leaking air now. We were just a few minutes away from home, though, so it seemed okay.
Trailing him, with my tire apparently leaking air, with his car starting and stopping at will, I thought, jeez, some parade this has turned out to be.
One block later (two blocks from home), he called me to say his car was dying again (I fucking hate his car). He pulled over, with me right behind him, and we both turned our hazards on. Patrick got out to talk to me, and then he took another look at my car and decided that my getting home with all four tires inflated was iffier than we first believed, so rather than wait for his car to start, I should get going without him.
Which I did.
I pulled up into the driveway, and while I was walking up to the door, he turned the corner and pulled in after me. We survived a trek home that should only take 8 minutes (on the freeway), or 20 (on the streets), and we did it just over an hour.
Tomorrow we're going to fix the tire. His car may be dead forever. I can only wish.
*Yesterday Patrick came home and opened the mail and discovered that someone had opened a credit card in his name, and spent about $2,500 on computer equipment. Then, his mom got a bill from Verizon wireless, and our new friends have purchased a phone and made a bunch of calls and sent text messages from some place in Lakewood to someplace in Northridge. Luckily they don't have acquaintances in, I don't know, Ireland. Needless to say, we both freaked out a bit, calmed down long enough to take action, and promised to secure the credit cards we still do have with our lives. And then what do I do? I misplace my ATM/debit/credit card (whatever the hell it is). Yesterday my co-worker told me a terrifying tale of someone somehow gaining access to her checking account and how they drained her account, and that scared the living hell out of me. I need for all my money to be exactly where I left it, thank you. Anyway, we're dealing with it, and as long as our friends don't go crazy, I'm sure this will all be fine.
I hope I'm not being naively optimistic here, but we have done everything we can do at this point and as a wise person (my sister-in-law, the most patient and practical woman I've ever met) once told me about something else I have no control over, don't worry about it until you have to worry about it. So. I take that under consideration, and commence with not worrying about it. Oh, and by the way, I remember where my ATM/debit card is: early this morning I walked over to Carl's for a Diet Coke, and rather than take my whole purse, I put my card in my pocket. My ATM/debit card has been in my pocket this entire time.
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