February 11, 2010
Oh, you mean THIS gate key
“Give us the gate key.”
“I have no gate key.”
“Fezzik, tear his arms off.”
“Oh, you mean THIS gate key.”
The above is apropos of absolutely nothing other than that my arms want to remove themselves from my body and then beat me. With… themselves. Which, if you think about it, means that they’d wind up feeling even worse.
In short, I did a LOT of shoveling this morning.
See, a friend had borrowed my trusty front-wheel-drive, heavy Avalon that’s too old to care whether you’re driving it through 5″ of slush or getting salt all over it, and returned said trusty vehicle to my parking lot just after the snow started on Tuesday. Except…
Except that nobody could see the numbers on the parking spaces, and what with mountains of snow covering half of the spaces at the very end of the lot, my car wound up parked in someone else’s space. Thankfully, it seems that my inadvertent lack of good-neighborliness didn’t inconvenience anyone, as there were no passive-aggressive notes or, indeed, cars parked on either side of mine.
Still, I felt bad. So after shoveling the entirety of my un-parked-in space so I could move my car there, I cleaned the borders of the space I HAD been occupying. It seemed the right thing to do – sort of a rental payment for the time I’d spent in someone else’s space, you know?
At least, it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Now. NOW, it seems like an idiotic venture guaranteed to keep my arms from any semblance of usefulness for at least 72 hours. Maybe more.
They’re really unhappy with me.