My day began today in Goodyear Tire.
It also ended there.
My front left tire had been low for a long time. I was aware. However, it also refused to let air in, so there was nothing I could do but wait for the inevitable disaster. That disaster finally birthed yesterday as I traveled to pick up lunch at Mi Ranchito (yum). About a quarter mile down 95th street, my car began to wobble a little bit. “I hate this car,” I mumbled, and continued onward.
Thirty seconds go by and now I can hear my tire flapping in the wind. I was hoping it was an isolated incident, and again that it would go away. Then my car started to smell like burning rubber. “Damnit.”
I pull over, conveniently directly into the Goodyear Tire parking lot, and get out to inspect the damage. What once was a tire was now black, melted goo around the rim of my wheel. I was dismayed. Really I was just angry that I would now be late to pick up my Mexican cuisine. Anyway, it was Sunday, so the tire shop was closed. No big deal, I figured I’d leave it in the parking lot and call them in the morning.
Morning comes and I call the tire store. They tell me the tire will be in by noon. That seemed reasonable, so I had my friend Anna drop me off there at noon. I give the mechanic my car keys and take a seat in the waiting room, where I stayed for the next five hours. Long story short, the tire never ended up being delivered until 4:45 pm, and wasn’t put on my car until after 5 pm. On a scale of 1 to 10, I was a Chris Brown on the anger scale.
Seeing as I spent the entire day sitting inside a tire store next to an end table full of outdated ESPN magazines, I was famished by the time I finally got home. I was craving pasta. Nothing else would suffice. Unfortunately I didn’t have all the ideal components that would go into a delicious recipe, besides the penne. In the fridge I found a half-empty jar of chunky pasta sauce, whose “birthdate” was unknown. I unscrewed the lid and looked inside. Everything looked fine except for a floating circle of mold dead in the center. “Eh,” I said, and scooped it out with a spoon. The next issue was that we were out of both parmesan and mozzarella, two key types of cheese pertinent to a perfect pasta dish. All we had was the remainder of a block of cheddar & monterey jack, usually better on a Mexican themed meal….Oh well.
I slapped together my penne, questionable sauce, and inappropriate-flavored cheese anyway. The result? A still delicious dish. It somewhat reminds me of eating a burrito from Los Amigos, but I’m open-minded.
Nicole Scherzinger is hot. There’s no denying it. Trent and I have been religiously watching The Sing-Off (great show by the way), and she is one of the judges. I even got over the fact that she’s a member of my dreaded musical group The Pussycat Dolls because she’s so smokin’. What can ya do.
A 200 person snowball fight in Washington D.C. is all fun and games until a disgruntled cop pulls a gun on the crowd. Looks like SOMEbody can’t take a joke. What kind of psychopath threatens a group of rowdy-snow tossers with a fire arm? What is wrong with this man? And who is allowing him to own and carry a weapon? Good lord. That’s like pulling a knife during a wrestling match. Listen, if you were a retired veteran of war who had served in South Korea and were suffering from a very, very serious case of PTSD, that would be one thing. But a cop pissed that his H2 got pelted with a ball of white, fluffy snow? Get a life.
WELL, I’m off to brush my pearly whites for the eightieth time today. I have a very serious tooth-brushing compulsion. If my breath is not minty fresh and my teeth are not spotless and clean 24 hours a day, I am upset. My enamel is probably wearing off as we speak. Beauty comes with a price.
“You wearing the gown, I’m wearing the crown, pound for pound, we’re the freshest couple around.”