This Time.

I have a habit of doing things too hard. I brush my teeth to the point where my toothbrush frays in submission. I've given myself blisters from mopping and sweeping and most recently from creating crumbs from the crust of old bread. I heft boxes at work all day, slamming them (usually by accident) onto metal carts and groaning counter tops. I trudge through errands in my steel-toed boots after work and I drive with my foot heavy on the gas pedal.

I've come to accept these things about myself and very rarely do I give it a second thought until I'm suddenly confronted by my own surprising softness. Softness at the point of the day when I knew I needed to be the hardest I'd been for the last 24 hours.

We've visited the hospital a lot in the last few weeks- mostly for knee-related issues that are routine and very non-scary. But then came the start of last weekend when I opened the door and was met with a husband-turned-stomach-migraine and we hit the floor running. ER, he needs fluids, he needs anti-nausea medicine, yes, we've been here before, yes we know it sounds awful, isn't there a room? oh, a hallway's fine, he doesn't like bags please give us back our bowl, here, let me interpret his sign language for you, more blankets please?

12 long hours in the hallway by the elevator.

4 IV bags of fluids.

An endless cycle.

And I'm hard throughout all of it- I know how this works, I know how this sounds, I know what to ask for and what to demand and when to tell the Dr how he's feeling and what he needs next and so on and so on. But when we hadn't seen a nurse for two hours despite being right next to the nurses' station and the Dr had left us with a vague admission promise and still I know how this works, that these things don't happen immediately because there is a procedure to follow but communication, ladies, to this tired wife who has kept vigil over her husband in case he should need another tissue or a hand to squeeze. Communication to a woman whose plan this weekend was to rest up because this week was long and hard and there's still a dog at home who's only been out twice today but we're weighing evils and he is so much more important but that doesn't make the guilt any easier. And when a nurse begrudgingly drags herself over here to the corner where we've sat patiently and quietly all I can do is cry because I don't want to leave but I haven't slept in 23 hours and I know I need to go home but she's confused as to why I'm such a wreck when he's pretending to sleep peacefully and I just wish she could have seen me four hours ago when I could have looked her in the eye and shamed her for ignoring us.

Soft when I should have been hard.

Blisters from crumbling breadcrumbs but tears when there should have been words.

Write #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

I write in fits and starts these days. Time seems to be slipping away from me when before I was drowning in it. It seems like it's feast or famine over here.

This is supposed to be the start of it all. This is the beginning of our real lives, our adult lives, our lives that don't revolve around school or splitting our focus on things that are more or less mandatory but holding us back from what we want to do.

And then the realization hits: I'm holding me back from what I want to do.

I want to be an employee not a temp. I want to help on movie sets and craft all of my Christmas presents for my friends and remember to take the dog for her walk everyday. I want to lose weight and I want to sleep in and I want to write like my life depends on it. I want to have kids.

But you can only pick two of these things (maybe three) and I'm taking the bits of me that are falling to pieces and sowing them in fields far and wide to see what grows. I'm working on my job like my sanity depends on it (because I think it does) and that leaves a tiny sliver of space, a crack, an opening for my words and my thoughts and my voice to thrive.

I'm writing.

I Need Help

This hasn't been the best month for me- and that's hard for me to say. I'm a mover and shaker; I make things happen; I pull up my big-girl panties and get to work and I really really don't like to listen to pity parties, but I seem to be throwing myself the biggest one ever.

Moving has been such a blessing for us. I was so scared to uproot ourselves and change our lives by moving to the city. I planned and postulated, trying to prepare myself for each possible pitfall. We scoped out neighborhoods months before we actually needed to move, just so I could see what Burbank was like. I had doubts even when we were signing the lease, but as soon as we stepped outside and saw the rain haphazardly misting around us, I knew it was the right decision.

Rain, in the summer, in Los Angeles. It was my sign.

And when the car broke down on Mr. E's first day at work- a job where he would be required to drive all over God's green earth- I had my doubts again.  We didn't have the money to fix our clunker and we didn't have the money for a new car. I was already beside myself preparing for our move by myself- packing and storing and donating and organizing while Mr. E was away. I thought for sure this was the straw to break my back. Mr. E and his brothers and his father came through- researching deals and plans and before I knew it, we were being handed keys to a new car.

That's when the rain started falling to calm my heart.

I've sat in this house for a month now, unpacking and organizing and re-assessing. Sure, our stuff is technically in three places at once, and we fit now despite the doubts. It's cozy and welcoming, just the way I wanted it. I split my days in half: the first half on the computer looking for jobs and the second is cleaning and sorting while I play catch-up on TV shows Mr. E would never watch with me. I have all the time in the world and yet I feel like I have no time at all because I should be working working working and all I'm really doing is sitting like a bump on a log. I'm productive but not productive enough. I need help to see past this season of waiting, this period of uncertainty.

Waiting is not my strong suit.

Instructions on How to Move

Now that I'm all unpacked (say whaaaaat?), here are my tips. From a self-proclaimed pro with too much time on my hands.

Moving isn't easy, whether it's down the street or across the state (or country), but there are some pretty simple rules to follow to keep the stress levels down at a manageable level. Think "Eat my Feelings" vs. "Pull my Hair Out"

1. Move alone
That's right, first rule of thumb is move by yourself. In fact, the more selfish you can keep this act, the better. Not only do you know where everything is, but you KNOW EXACTLY WHERE EVERYTHING IS. Who needs a detailed box-by-box list of what is packed where? Only you can be blamed for breaking that family-heirloom deviled egg platter you've never used.

The best way to do this is to make sure that your significant other is working 60+ hours a week, driving an hour to and from work so that he (or she) is really tired when they get home. That way you're both so exhausted from working (you're packing and they're job-ing) that the SO physically can't help. At least that's what he said.

2. Wait until the last second to paint
Come on. You've been staring at those walls for weeks now, knowing that they need to get done, but nothing burns the fire under your butt like working on a deadline. Put all of those procrastination skills to use so that by the end of your six-coat work out, you're STILL able to see the blue glow on the wall- and it's not the reflection from your smelly tarp/dropcloth either.

3. Make sure you watch the entire season of something
 It doesn't matter what it is. Anything. You need something on in the background while you "pack"- by yourself. So dig deep and watch that show that you've never seen all the way through. My personal favorite was Charmed- good grief those ladies can't act.

4. Move on a weekday
Tetris-skills can be used in everyday life, folks! So when your current landlord has a fumigation appointment on the first but you can't hire a truck or corral people to help out until the third, that's when you've got to get puzzle-solvin' smart. Figure out which of your things are the most important and pack your new car with those things.
The rest can sit out in the fumigated garage.
That has an unlocked half door entry visible to the street.
Awesome.

5. Lose your momentum
No, really. Lose it. Lose it like your middle school diary. Lose it like that first pound of the new diet. Lose it like your cookies on a roller coaster. Because there's nothing better than wallowing in the middle of a paint-scented room, knowing that the carpet needs cleaning, the clothes need to be packed and all of your foodstuffs need to be mobile in 36 hours. That's the best feeling in the world.

FYI, someone needs to come up with that sarcastica font, ASAP.

Pre-Interview, Interview

Confession: I hate driving new places. I get some serious anxiety- my body shakes, I cry, sometimes I shout to myself. In fact, most times I shout to myself.

It's really not pretty.

Not actually where I was, but I drove by it enough times trying to find parking. via

Case in point, my job interview today- went fantastic for anyone who was wondering. But I broke the cardinal rule of interviews...

I was 45 minutes late.

Now, for someone who absolutely detests when others are late- this was a big deal. My entire moral system was crumbling. How can I show these people that I'm dependable? How do they know that they can rely on me? How will I get this job in the face of all these other applicants who are most likely ON TIME? How will we pay our bills? On and on and on.

It certainly doesn't help that the CD Mr. E put in the car to pump me up for the interview is a soundtrack- complete with suspenseful music, tracks 7-10. It doesn't help that I'm fairly sure this part of LA was birthed into this world grimy and run-down. The one way streets? The aggressive drivers? The sights and sounds of downtown? The creaking in the backseat I'm know is just junk left over from the move but sounds like my car is breaking down?

Deep breath in, deep breath out.

Of course I called ahead. Of course I had my GPS with me. And this was the only thing I had on the agenda today- so I was free as a bird to cower in my little apartment with the dog as soon as it was over. Which is basically what I'm doing.

Why, oh why, did an introvert and directionally-challenged individual like myself move to LA county?

For love.

Stupid, stupid, love.

LOVED This Weekend

I didn't love this weekend. Not at all. Not even a tiny crumb-ful.

First, this happened.

 Behind that giant tree is our new apartment.

 Coming home from our new apartment (not home for much longer) we found the dog in the garage. NOT where she is supposed to be. She nearly gave us a heart attack when we opened the garage and found her tumbling into the daylight.

And then, this happened. 


And now I'm all out of happenings and excitement and all that's left in me is adulthood and boring-ness. Next is kids. Good grief.

Toughening Up

It wasn't that long ago that I was running exhausting games of tag, tumbling through grassy fields that stained  my toes and swaying to and fro on exhausted tire swings. I left the worries to someone older and wiser than myself, content and carefree. Then I grew up.

While the time may have come for me to put aside my childhood activities, it doesn't mean that I can't backpedal every once in a while for the sake of my sanity.

I ate pie today. For breakfast. For the third day in a row.

I gave piggyback rides and watched cartoons and sucked on cotton candy and played with Legos this week.

Stressful situations in our house are like colds- someone has it and the next thing you know EVERYONE has it. We're all snuggling into couches clutching our heads and drowning ourselves in water and Throat Coat.

It's easy to wallow. It's so easy to sit back and complain and throw out all the wrongs and the mistakes and the don't-feel-like-its. We carry a lot of weight on our shoulders- the expectations and obligations tugging us all different directions. There are some days when all we'd like to do is lay prostrate on the couch, allowing Netflix to touch our very souls and imbibe way more (homemade!) pizza than is normal for two graduated not-so-newlyweds.

Every inch of me is screaming for more sleep, more coffee, more time, and I'm carving out the moments I need to stay sane. This week those moments have been full of abandon, unrestrained or downright childish. I baked apple pie and ate it with apple pie goat cheese. Mr. E and I saw Monster's University, only to come home and disassemble his extensive Lego sets in our first step towards packing. 

I have been so preoccupied with the never-ending things that I need to do I haven't focused on the things I've accomplished. 

It's okay the dishes have circled that poor sink for the last two weeks. The bed was made today. It's okay our towels and swimsuits were thrown into a ball on top of the washer. We were below budget for our grocery trip this month. It's all a give and take, Mr. E and myself crafting our home and our lives, weaving an enclosure to shut out the harshness of the world.

We're stressed but we're working on it. We're feeling heavy with the weight of to-do lists and appointments but it's the beach days and the surprise parties and the movie nights that pull us together. Sometimes we just have to get in touch with our inner child and put all of those adult problems on pause, to play with the puppy and enjoy hot dogs from the grill, dance parties after a long day and stuffing ourselves with spiked smoothies. Before long this too shall pass and we'll be longing for when days were this easy.

Sweet Potato Cookies

These are the cookies that almost didn't happen. If I had had a worse day- one more sink of dishes, one more load of laundry, one more missed train- these would not have made it into the oven. I follow Blissful and Domestic and she raved about using sweet potato in a loaf of bread and then in chocolate chip cookies, which works perfect because I can never figure out how to keep my sweet potatoes from going bad before using them. Why does this happen? My potatoes are fine, but those big hulking orange tubers ALWAYS go bad and soft and squishy. 


So when I'm having a bad day, I resort to baking. There is nothing that can't be fixed with fresh bread. Or a good batch of chocolate chip cookies. On the flip side, if the cookies turn out wrong then the whole day is ruined and you may as well go back to bed.

I realized that I didn't have any of the flax seed and shtuff like Blissful and I really didn't want to add oatmeal (I was thinking chocolate chip after all, not oatmeal). So I searched the web a little bit and came up with this. Except that in my hope of being pro-active I melted some butter on the stove. Actually melted two sticks of butter into a beautiful yellow fatty pool on the stove. I cleaned it all up (squeezing it out of paper towels) and later realized that this recipe doesn't even call for butter. But that didn't come until later.

Realistically I sort of changed this whole recipe around because I don't like oil cookies. So this is my recipe. And gosh-darnit these are tasty.

Ingredients

2/3 cup baked, mashed sweet potato (pierce skin with fork and bake at 400 for 40 minutes on tin foil-lined baking sheet)
2 1/2 cups unbleached flour
1 1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1 baking soda
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon Allspice
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
2 large eggs
1 cup packed brown sugar (smells a little different but tastes great)
1/2 cup butter
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
1 cup 'fresh' chocolate chips  AS MANY CHOCOLATE CHIPS AS YOU FREAKING WANT

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease baking sheet and set aside.

In large bowl, mix dry ingredients together. Set aside.
In medium bowl, whisk eggs and sugar together.  Add oil and vanilla; whisk again.  Fold in mashed sweet potato.
Add egg mixture to dry ingredients, all at once.  Using a spatula, mix until now flour remains dry.  Fold in chocolate chips.
Scoop cookie dough, by the heaping tablespoonful, onto greased baking sheet, 2 inches apart.  Bake for 10-12 minutes.  Remove from oven and let cool for 10 minutes before placing on wire rack to cool completely.

So what if my pureed sweet potato actually still had the skins on? So what if I miscalculated the direction of my Pam spray and sprayed myself? So what if I used oil the first time around, wasting two eggs and a cup of brown sugar? These cookies are soft and moist and remind me of persimmon cookies like Great Grandma Evelyn's but they have chocolate so they're a million times better.

Link up! House of Hepworths, So You Think You're Crafty, Chic on a Shoestring Budget, Frugal Friday, Craftionary, Foodie Friday, Friday Flair, Pity Party

What Happened.

My Tuesday was fluorescent lights and pink walls and garish 90's geometrical decor. It was heaving and ho-ing and straining and crying and exhaustion, flavored with a little bit of righteous indignation. The second day of my work week was spent working with my weak husband to bundle him and his bowl and his tissues and wallet and Gatorade into the car, navigating our way to the ER, to a wheel chair, to each waiting room, to an uncomfortable hospital cot and finally a fifth-floor room as gloomy as our feelings. 

I came home alone to a dog too-long cooped up, a pile of bedding that safely escaped Mr. E and an uncomfortable space next to me in bed. Ripley jumped into bed to sit at my feet, eyes wide open, ears alert and tail wagging, waiting for dad to come through the door just like he always does to tuck us in. 

Wednesday morning he felt well enough to text- hale and hungry. No bouts through the night and his elderly room-mate made more fuss than he did. Hours spent waiting yesterday bled into hours spent waiting today, our silence both comforting and uncomfortable. He's lost his voice, the blood vessels around his eyes have burst and I don't know what to say that hasn't been said already. I have no new stories. Nothing I did seemed to help. So we sat in each other's company, communicating with facial movements and gestures and soft soft kisses on his knees and fingers- the only parts I can touch. He's cold and I can't quite understand how my husband -who spends his days in tank tops or bare-chested if he can get away with it- can lack body heat.

Half the day passes before the doctor returns, only to berate Mr. E on the dangers of marijuana and the threat of cyclical vomiting. I almost laugh out loud trying to imagine Mr. E with a joint and when the doctor leaves I make light by insinuating that it must be the mohawk. He drinks his clear liquids, we wheedle a prescription out of the nurse and pass the time with Supernatural re-runs but our backs ache for home and our couch.

Once we've sprung the joint I plant him carefully on the couch, surrounding him with comfort. At this, at least, I can play nurse- better with recovery than emergency, I think. He smiles and snuggles but everything about him is so faint and feeble that I'm afraid to touch this man when before half of our relationship was based on physical contact. We make do and I let him do everything he wants: watch his shows, play his games, call his brother. I can deny him nothing because I'm too scared to see him unhappy again.

Finally we sleep, me first, as always, and he comes creeping in to his side of the bed, slides under the covers and reaches out to rest his hand on my hip. This man who has issues sleeping through the night with a tossing-turning bedmate, acknowledges all I've done by reaching for me at his most vulnerable and I know that he'll be okay. We'll get through this and get past this and re-learn this one touch at a time. 

Sick Day

 

I've never seen him like this. I'm not sure I've seen anyone like this, honestly.

He's lying in our queen size bed, arching his back and then releasing. What yoga pose was that? First the cat, then the cow. 

I've never heard a more heartbreaking sound. It's like the sound your dad makes when he's clearing his throat in the morning. The gross gathering of phlegm from the back of the throat, only Mr. E is gathering everything. He's summoning all of his muscles, all of his tendons and veins and arteries and lymph pathways for each push. He collects it all in order to expel it, but the effort exhausts him. And yet he does it again. And again, like clockwork or like breathing.

I was told, time and again, that this happened, so you can't say they didn't warn me. But in my naivete and with the confidence only the young and untried can have, I waved them back. It's all in his head, I assured myself. Somebody isn't doing something right, I preened. He wouldn't do that if I was taking care of him.

But here I sit, as anxious as he ever has been. I didn't think I'd have the stomach to face the contents of his. But I did. I didn't think the handsome strong man I married would be reduced to a shivering feeble mass, his eyes hollow and bloodshot. But he is.

And it's nobody's fault but an imbalance of pesky hormones, those tiny proteins that are known for things like sex and sports. So I'll sit here and wait for the next round because I'm too scared to move dishes or doors in case he's fallen asleep and the dog's head bounces on my wrist as I type because she can't let me out of her sight. Just like him and I.

Let's Turn This Day Around, Shall We?

This day is not awful, it's not going places in hand baskets and it's certainly not the worst I've ever had. But it's not the most productive, either. I am a staunch believer in productivity. If I can cross something off my to-do list or run an errand or three before my coffee buzz wears off, I count this day a success.

Work...just wasn't working. 
Mr. E will be working late tonight.
And the sky outside has the most beautiful shades of gray.

Not actually where I am, but where I wish I was...

Let's just snuggle and watch Doctor Who, mmmkay?

We don't have to think about the three scarves I need to crochet. Or the cross-stitch I should finish (x4). Let's put aside the duvet I plan on making this weekend. And we'll just close the door on the housekeeping, the laundry (always.the.freaking.laundry.), the dog walking, the dishes and the birthday cards. The reading, the Kindle-fixing, the iPod backing-up, the pizza dough making. The return to Target (for vacuum bags, hallelujah!), the grocery run for essentials (eggs, milk, veggies, cream) and the dinner with work friends can all wait until I have the mindset of a sane person again.

In other news, I was featured on Blogher again! My post is titled "Ender's Game is My Favorite Book But the Author Disappointed Me".

I'm not kidding. 

I didn't really pick that title, but I couldn't decide on my favorite way of rhyming Ender and same-gender marriages. C'est la vie.

Court Date Revisited.

There are days that you feel overwhelmed. When you can't move because you're paralyzed with fear, with guilt, with consuming dread of the things you have to do that day.

I do not like these feelings.

In fact, I dislike them so much that I will actively do the things that need doing, just to avoid feeling like that.

I pride myself on being a strong person and getting things done, but sometimes there's that one thing that knocks me on my butt. That makes me wish I had my mom (but I'll settle for a husband too).

I don't know what it was about fighting this stupid train citation, but I was shaking uncontrollably as I exited the courtroom this morning (victorious!). As I looked around at my fellow infraction-committers I wondered where I had gone so wrong as to be stuck here. What a strange group. 

It reminded me of those times that I got in trouble at school and had to sit with the delinquents. Those kids who were always breaking rules, picking fights and talking back. 

I don't do that. 

I'm quiet in public. 

I try very hard to follow rules. 

So why was I here?

The courthouse itself is nothing note-worthy. Dirty, outdated, cranky sheriff officers; it's the same everywhere. My  husband, bless his sweet heart, offered to go in with me- to drive me there and sit with me in the courtroom so I wouldn't feel so alone. 

I took his hand as a lifeboat- the growing anxiety of getting in trouble threatened to swallow me whole. I was even ready to pay the fine (until I realized it could be upwards of $200). I imagined the anxiety building so high that I would finally jump out of my seat- Katniss Everdeen style- and volunteer to pay just to get out of there. But my husband whispered sweet nothings and silly jokes in my ear, telling me it was going to be okay.

And I wonder- I hope- that I'm there for him in this way. That when his panic attacks and spells of anxiety threaten to overtake him, that I could be his shelter and his refuge. I owe so much to this man for helping me see the true priorities in life.

In the end it was anticlimactic. They frog marched us to the front podium, the "referee" listed our issue and offered us 4 options. When I whispered told him that I did indeed have the ticket requested, he waived his hand and told me to be careful. "They're relentless," he said to me.

And that was it.

How did I ever get onstage and act if I couldn't even face court by myself?

But it was over and done with, fee free, and nothing changes your day like Disneyland.

Lab techs rock.

Court Date

Some days you strangle the anxiety and the neophobia and you get stuff done.

Other days odds are against you.

But ultimately it's how you deal with your problems that counts.

A few months ago I got a citation from riding the Metrolink without a ticket. I had one...but I forgot it. I could win awards for forgetting things. Regardless, I was asked by an officer to present it, and as I was unable to, promptly cited. 

That in itself was stressful- I was embarassed for forgetting, I was flustered because I KNEW I had bought a ticket and the officer was incredibly nosy. As I was trying to show him all the other ticket stubs I had, he was trying to peer into my bag, pointing and gesturing that I should show him all these things. 
My wallet. 
My lunch. 
My cross-stitching. 
My feminine products. 
Are you happy, Mr. Officer? 

His little nugget of information bequeathed to me as he left: "Bring your ticket and the citation to the court date and the judge will probably waive it."

Back to today.

I live less than 10 minutes from the courthouse and since my citation said 8am, I figured I would have this all resolved in time for me to get to work just a little bit late, with hopefully no one the wiser.

Oh, what a sweet naive world I live in.

I left at 7:30 and promptly remembered I hate driving new places. I get frustrated and confused and embarassed about my old car. Also, downtown is crazy crowded at 8 in the morning. And every single building looks official enough to be a courthouse. 

So I'm racing past these buildings, hoping that the directions I remembered Googling were right. Hoping that each parking lot I pass isn't the one I should be parking at. 

I find a lot that pays with plastic (I can barely remember the last time I carried cash regularly) and park. Next to a law library? Whatever- I'll find a map and figure it out, right?

Naive. SO. NAIVE.

I find a map, but I have no idea what my orientation is. Regardless, my citation has an address and a room number. Funny thing is, the room number matches a building number on the map that is titled OCTA. Which is what I want, right? I'm running late, but instead of letting that get to me, I give myself props for getting all the way down there on my own and get on with my task.

I walk my poor frozen feet in what I think is the right direction and quickly realize that I'm walking an urban obstacle course with checkpoints at each map.  I cross the street and grit my teeth past the homeless people milling around the map. Yes, they give me the heebie-jeebies; yes, I wish that I had money to give them; yes, I grew up learning to avoid eye contact and keep my valuables close. It's then that I realize that my bright yellow wallet is clutched in my hand in full view of everyone.

Grit your teeth and bear it, girl. Walk with purpose.

I find the next map and realize I've walked the wrong way down the street. About face. 

The building I'm pretty sure is the right one is shaped funny- sort of oblong and round rather than a square. No matter, I can smell victory. I'll just go in, flash a smile, say how truly sorry I am for not having a ticket and be on my merry way with a reduced fine.

However, this building hates me. Its address on the side is the address I want...+20. But I'm in the right area. So I walk around the building, hoping for an entrance, a receptionist and some clearer directions. The door I find is labelled "Health Care". Not quite the "Transportation" I was looking for. I walk in and realize the building directory has NOTHING to do with public transportation.

So I turn around and keep going around the building. There was no receptionist and no one in the lobby, so I figure I'll do better on my own. 

I walk around that building TWICE more before I find the address I want- and the sign saying that the "OCTA" part of the building has been closed since 2008. 

It's about this time (when I can't feel my toes anymore) that I start muttering to myself. This does not help my mood as I'm starting to blend in to my surrounding peers...only I smell much better.

I walk into a building that looks official and ask the officers behind the glass exactly where I'm supposed to go. They tell me that I've mixed up "room" and "building".

Oh. Did I mention I'm a college graduate? I am what discourages earlier generations.

Swallowing tears of frustration, I don my sunglasses once more and head in the general direction they've pointed me to. And then I realize that the walkway they've mentioned is filled to bursting with homeless people. 

It's like in the movies when the hero must literally face her fears by  trudging through them. Chin up, boobs out, I walk through, almost tripping because I can't feel my toes in my heels anymore. Did I mention that I'm now 45 minutes late?

I get in a line to get inside the building I think I'm supposed to enter, only to realize that it's the juror's entrance. And it's that last straw that does it for me. I am so frustrated and confused at this point that I would rather pay the darn ticket. After all, when the Officer wrote my information down, he wrote down almost everything wrong. No driver's license number, my name, address and birthdate were all incorrect...I start wondering if I'll even hear from anybody about this.

So I left. Let's keep things real: I gave up. Maybe not my finest moment, but some days it just doesn't work the way you want it to. Obstacles are placed in your path and you are continually discouraged. But regardless of how my day started, I am determined the rest of this day will work out.

I will be productive, both at work and at home. 
I will not let my bad mood affect those around me, no matter how much I want to.
I will move forward and learn from my mistakes.
I will take care of this another way. Instead of completely ignoring this and hoping it will take care of itself, I am calling the DMV to see if I have any fines or citations on my license. 

So in the end it didn't work out exactly how I imagined, but I compromised with myself, set a goal and powered through the rest of my commute to work. 

County system got you down? Day didn't turn out exactly how you planned but you feel triumphant regardless? Today I need your support.