Does Richard Dean Anderson have these issues?

Ah. It’s thunderstorm season, and you know what that means!

Yep. It means that the transformer for my neighborhood blew with a spectacular, noisy pop at 8:20 this morning. You know, that time when I’m getting dressed and my hair isn’t quite dry?


I lit candles and navigated my closet with the help of my pink Disney princesses flashlight. I put on makeup by candlelight, but wisely decided to stash the mascara in my purse. I’d put it on in the car.

The car. The car that’s in the garage.

I put my stuff in the car, and used my industrial-strength, non-Disney princess flashlight to get a good look at the garage door. I put the flashlight on the trunk of the car and I twisted the thingy on the garage door. Nothing happened. So, of course, I twisted it again. And again. And then I put on a pair of gloves and twisted it again.

By this time, I was sweating, because it was about 97 degrees in the airless, windowless garage. I retreated back into the house and did the one thing that a liberated, educated woman could do in the situation: I called my boyfriend.

My Guy offered to come open the garage door … at lunch. Shaa! Right!

Instead, I had him talk me through it. Instead of twisting the thingy, I pulled the other thingy. And the door opened. But the track is so short that the door won’t stay up by itself. So, while on the phone with My Guy, I held the garage door up with one hand and propped a ladder underneath it with the other. And then 27 pounds of dirt rained down from the bottom of the garage door onto my head.

“Don’t worry – today’s going to be a great day,” My Guy said, completely misguided.

“You shut the fuck up!” I responded. With love.

And so I folded in my side mirrors and was able to feel my way to back out of my already tiny, narrow garage. Evidently, the dirt littering my hair and shoulders didn’t impair my driving ability. However, it had some sort of impact on my timing.

As I pulled into my favorite parking space at Corporate Behemoth, I noticed a line of five cars stopped behind some yahoo backing to park in the garage. And then I realized who the offending driver was: Creepy Rajeev!

Creepy Rajeev is the guy who wears too much cologne and undresses all women with his eyes, all of the time. And he was parked near me.

I dawdled at my car. I straightened my sweater. I dug around in my purse for some random thing that doesn’t exist. I let Creepy Rajeev get way ahead of me.

Except that he held the elevator for me.

Now, admittedly, I lucked out. Instead of getting a hug from Creepy Rajeev, I just got a handshake. But I was glad that I’d already planned on washing my hands due to the Garage Dirt Situation.

I got to my desk. My coworkers assured me that I didn’t look like I’d just MacGyvered my way out of my house. I calmed down.

And then I walked down the hallway and had the fortune to meet Creepy Rajeev as he exited the men’s room.

“Cha Cha!” he exclaimed. “Twice in one day – it’s the best day!”

Unable to find an escape hatch in the middle of the hall, I responded, “Yeah? Well, you should get out more.”

“OK,” Creepy Rajeev replied. Then, he positively cooed. “Just tell me when.”

And that was way grosser and more disgusting than having 27 pounds of dirt fall on my head.

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