And On the Seventh Day He Made Them Mad
How do I know this? My life is living proof. Every Sunday the stars align and my world becomes the critical mass necessary to spark a nuclear holocaust.
It starts with something simple, like stepping out of the shower, the first step in preparing for an audition, getting ready to blow dry and style my hair so I don’t look like The Bride of Frankenstein.
Of course, at that precise second, the power goes off. Then on. Then off. And stays off. Which means not only can I really not do anything about the hair, it also means putting on makeup in the dark. AND not being able to print out the word document I had carefully prepared with all the audition information on it including contact name, telephone number, and exact location, and which is now hidden behind a darkened screen because I could always print it after my shower, after all, what could go wrong?
And then it’s getting on the interstate to drive to the audition and getting stuck behind that idiot in the left lane because the idiot ALWAYS drives in the left lane because that is where he was taught to drive, operating his vehicle at all times at or below the speed limit. For this idiot the right lane does not exist; it is invisible or at best merely a wide shoulder where, god help all of us, he will park to change a tire should it become necessary at which time he will cause even greater havoc which will, of course, happen on a Sunday but thankfully it is not this Sunday and eventually I am able to pass him on the right and reach the audition after which I decide to eat lunch at the Whole Foods down the street even thought it’s Sunday.
Yes, that Whole Foods, the perfect place for pretentious people who want to overpay for groceries while acting self-righteous because they are shopping at Whole Foods. Anyway, because of those high prices, the store can afford to give away food, so whenever I’m in the neighborhood I stop by. This time I start in the produce section with some tangy grapefruit and mandarin orange sections, then stroll toward the deli, pausing to eat some freshly made guacamole and assorted salsas on multigrain tortilla chips. After that I savor several varieties of cheese, some sausage, and roasted red pepper hummus on pita chips, topping it off with a lovely cabernet and finally some hot spiced chai.
Sometimes I even buy stuff, if the store will let me. But they don’t make it easy. I picked up an ad flyer from a full display rack of identical ad flyers, happy to note several items at excellent sales prices. As I wander aimlessly for twenty minutes, unable to locate them, a helpful clerk offers to lead me to them. Which is when I discover the flyer expired two weeks ago which explains why I couldn’t find them and the clerk decides she doesn’t like my scowl at which point she says having weeks old outdated sales flyers still in racks to mislead and disappoint customers just happens and I agree because it is, after all, Sunday.
So I depart and head for the nearby Trader Joe’s (the Jimmy Buffett alternative to Whole Foods – seriously – he works register 3). Which I know will be a mistake (it’s Sunday) but I really need to get a multi-grain baguette and crushed garlic so decide to chance it. Only this Trader Joe’s has a basement parking garage designed for those miniature sub-sub compact smart cars while I drive a car large enough for full-size human beings and as soon as I pull in I learn the garage is full because a line of cars is stopped in front of me and I can’t back out because a car is now stopped behind me but after waiting 10 minutes a parked car directly in front of me backs out and just as I am about to pull into the vacant spot a van zips past from the opposite direction and pulls. Into. My. Spot.
So I do what I should have done in the first place: find street parking a block away. And as I step out of my car it begins to rain.
Eventually I’m back on the highway headed home only to once again be trapped behind the left lane drivers who have never grasped the reasons for having multiple lanes of traffic and minimum speeds, or the true meaning of “passing lane only” or “slower traffic keep right” signs. Which means I am the caboose in a train going 45 mph – in the left lane of a 65 mph interstate.
Thankfully, I have six days to rest.