Party of One

On Friday the carpet suckers (a.k.a. ServPro) showed up at the beginning of their two-hour window to reinstall my downstairs carpet. (They finally showed. It was a miracle!) It had been a week and two days since a burst pipe flooded my rec room—something I thought I could get wrapped up in a couple days. Ha.

Also on Friday afternoon, the plumber showed up right in the middle of his four-hour window. Consequently, his visit overlapped that of the carpet suckers. (I'd assumed he'd come at the end of the window or later like the Cable Guy.) Hence, the carpet suckers sent my nice plumber away to come back later.

The plumber, who was a jolly young guy with a great sense of humor, was able to come back later that day to replace the busted pipe. He cut out the narrow pipe and showed it to me. It only had a hairline fracture, which wasn't visible without extreme twisting. The pipe seemed so small—maybe a half inch in diameter—and it was still filled with ice. I was like, "That little f---er is what caused this mess?!" He laughed, "Yup, that's the little f---er all right." So he got his job done, I paid him $225, and eventually everyone left.

What a relief that was. All I had to do was let the freshly cleaned carpet dry overnight, and I could put my rec room back together in the morning. I was so worn out that I went to bed at 7:30 Friday night and stayed there for 12 hours, dead to the world. I think I'd had enough. The next day was just like moving in all over again (like I haven't done that enough).

Unfortunately, the relief of "getting settled" into a home for the umpteenth time came at an unexpected price (and not just the $500 deductible): back pain. I think it was caused by a combination of moving furniture and books and DVDs yesterday and the long-term stress I've been under since I sold my downtown Bellevue townhouse in January 2004. The worst part is that most of my stress of that past few months has been from my job, not my unsettling home life. Let me tell you, very little is more distressful than having to deal daily with a jerk who (for reasons unknown) would like nothing better than to get you fired. Well, there is one thing worse: when he succeeds. But I'll save the axe-grinder story for my memoirs.

Luckily I had survived nearly ten months without back pain—a record for me. Before my disc replacement surgery, I never went 10 weeks without back pain, not since the late 80's anyway. It had been so long since I had back problems that even the Vicodin in my cabinet had expired 14 months ago. The good news is that the expired Vicodin actually still worked. The bad news is there were only four pills left in the bottle. :(

I wasn't going to let it get me down, though. I had my TV room back—a room I could relax in! I spent a lot of time with my heating pad yesterday after I was done with the "moving" and cleaning.

For a brief moment I considered that maybe—just maybe—thing things would turn around for me.

Ah, but it truly was a brief moment, a moment that lasted right up until I checked the mail. The envelope marked "Howard County Police" worried me, so I opened it outside in the freezing cold on my way back in from the mailbox. (Why couldn't my Chinese mailman have sent that one back to its sender?)

I'd been ticketed. By a camera.

There on the piece of paper were three consecutive photos of me running a red light the previous Friday evening after work on my way to the mall. I remember it exactly. I was heading to Sears after another raunchy week at work but decided to swing by Dave's Organic Market first. The winter sun, low in the sky, was blinding. I was afraid I'd missed my turn but wasn't exactly sure. I was trying to pinpoint the turn for Dave's Market when I realized that I was driving right under a red light on the mall road. Whoops!

My first reaction was that of anyone else—a quick 240-degree check for cop cars. All clear. "Whew!" I sighed in relief, "No cops. How lucky. I can't believe I just did that." It truly was an accident. And I truly thought I'd gotten away with it. But Howard County couldn't care less that I didn't intentionally run a red light like most the Speedy Gonzaleses around here. Dang! There was nothing I could do but write them a check for $75. I'll think of it as community service.

You see, I'm not kidding that I'm having this relentless bad luck streak. My sister-in-law Judy emailed, "You're the only person I know that has gotten at ticket from a camera!" Naturally.

The sad thing is I only touch the tip of the iceberg of my bad luck in my blog. You would not believe the mountain of crapola I've had to deal with at my contract job over the past few months—and it's been enough to make me wish I'd never moved here to take that job. There are some malicious people out there, let me tell you. And it really sucks when you have to work with them. It's gotten to be way too much drama for me. But that's another story.

I admit, it's hard to not feel sorry for yourself at times like this. As my physical therapist (Lisa) in NY once said to me in a sing-songy restaurant hostess voice as I whinced in pain, "Pity party, party of one!" To this day her matter-of-fact statement makes me laugh. Once you put it that way, it's tough to keep taking it all too seriously. . . .