You just need to weegle it, si?

When I was younger, I used to let things like "bad moments" quickly build up to become "bad mornings" which would then become "bad days." And, when it happened, it wasn't such a leap that bad days could turn into bad weeks.

Now, I should probably clarify that these "bad" events were generally TERRIBLE atrocities like the woman behind the counter at Dunkin Donuts pouring half a quart of heavy cream into my coffee when I asked for skim milk. Or slyly putting a blueberry doughnut in my bag instead of a blueberry bagel. Or, shrugging her shoulders that they were "out" of everything...refusing to look in back, when you could see clearly that shelves of baked/fried goods were sitting there just beyond the door. (Come to think of it, that lady at Dunkin Donuts had a serious attitude problem.)

But those little things would irk me...and my righteous indignation would grow from a slow simmer into full blown road rage in no time when the girl in the car behind me (applying makeup while talking on her cell phone) would hit the gas every two seconds and come within inches of rear-ending me in already infuriating bumper-to-bumper traffic...and I would totally lose it. Or I would direct my red-hot ire at the guy reading a book (while driving) whose automobile would erratically float across lanes, and...you know what? I'm sorry, I still think that guy should be shot.

But, I digress.

The point is, as I've gotten older my attitude has changed for the better. I rarely let "bad moments" become "bad mornings" and while occasionally I have crappy days, who doesn't?

So, yesterday morning, I got up, well-rested, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed...I didn't shave...and made my way to my car a little ahead of time. Ahead of time, you say? On a Monday? Mon Dieu!

And, whistling to myself, I tried to turn the key in the ignition. And it wouldn't start. Which car, you ask? The old car that I've been constantly complaining about? The one on its last legs? No! I'm talking about the brand new car that we've just invested our future baby's college savings in...the one I haven't yet made a second payment on...the one that's supposed to get me to work consistently. The one that I loved, and have even considered licking, up until yesterday morning.

But I now have a bruise the size of a quarter on the palm of my hand from where I was trying to turn the key for over an hour. I cried, I yelled, I swore, I pleaded, I accidentally set off the alarm, I stroked the dashboard like the sleek smooth hide of a dolphin. Nothing. The key would not budge.

I would have gotten Brendan up, but frankly Brendan is not all that helpful when he is sleeping. That point was driven home definitively two weekends ago during a thunder and hellfire rainstorm where at 4am someone began frantically pounding on our front door for ten minutes. He just patted me on the face and said, "S'nothing" and went immediately back to sleep while I lay there desperately listening for any sign that someone was trying to break a window/sharpen their razor fingers/pee on our lawn furniture.

And, as the pounding ceased, I became convinced that it was probably not someone trying to lure us to our own certain demise...but someone trying to help us and tell us our house was on fire, or possibly evacuating the neighborhood from a gas leak. So I got up, searched for a weapon, and made my way downstairs to confront the murderer/urinator/fireman while Brendan snored away.

With this episode fresh in my mind, I figured his "I'll get up and help you fix the car" spirit would sound more like, "Call mechanicpoliceharrypotter need sleepy." And really, after an hour of swearing and weeping...what was left for him to do? I called the dealership, ordered the tow truck, made all of the arrangements...including calling work to let work know my brand fancy freaking new car is sucktacular.

And then the tow truck driver, Angel (isn't that such a great name for a tow truck guy?) arrived, popped into the driver's seat, and like nothing...he started up the car.

Huh?

So, gaping, I asked him what kind of magic was involved and stared at his ears to see if he had Elfin blood. He smiled and pointed to the steering wheel, "You just have to weegle it. Si?"

There's no way I didn't "weegle" that f-ing steering wheel. I mean, right? Ha! Right? Didn't I?

I don't know.

All I do know is that this is clearly going to be a crappy week.