I get a call from the Hubby this morning. The airplane is a very shiny thing, so I can go ahead and wire the money into the guy's account. I call the bank. Can I do this with a phone call? Oh, hell no; I have to come down and personally sign stuff. Guess it's a good thing I didn't go with him to Iowa. We'd have been sort of screwed.
I didn't shower today. Yayness.
Well, we want to get it done ASAP, so I forego the shower, hop in the car, and head to the bank. The routing number isn't coming up on their system. Yayness again. They call the Help Desk, which is actually helpful, and we get that. Fill out the paperwork, I sign it, we're good to go and ready to launch. I leave.
Now, keep in mind that the Purple Cruiserberry is nearly out of gas. I was planning on getting some on my way home.
You know what they say about "best laid plans"?
So, I'm sitting at a light, and I check the paperwork again, just to be sure. CRAP. The account number is wrong. I should not be doing these things when I'm tired and hurting, no I should not.
Alas, it is no easy thing to get back to the bank. I have to actually get onto the freeway and make this huge-ass circle. But I make it back to the bank before they've done the wire transfer, so, disaster averted; we've just avoided putting over $60,000 into the wrong bank account. I leave. I attempt an (illegal) left turn out of the bank parking lot.
Yeah, remember what I said about being nearly out of gas?
The car dies right in the middle of the road.
Out of the aforementioned gas. Yayness, yet again.
Fortunately, I'm on a slight incline, so I can back it back into the bank parking lot in neutral, which I proceed to do. One of the super-nice folks at the bank gives me a lift down to the Chevron station on the corner, where I have to blow five bucks on a gas can. I buy a gallon of gas, she drives me back to the car. I manage to get gasoline on myself while putting it in the car. Yet more yayness.
Have I mentioned that Da Boy is with me, and he's being a royal pain in my ass? Yeah. That.
I get a couple more gallons of gas on the way home. Whee. The gal asks the standard "How are you today?" I smile weakly and say "You really don't want to know the answer to that question." She is sympathetic, bless her. I love living in Utah. People here are actually nice. I ask myself if the day can get any worse.
Never ask that question. You'd think I've watched enough Joss Whedon shows to know that by now.
So I get home. To find that the city, in their infinite wisdom, has picked Labor Day Weekend to dig a two-foot-deep hole directly in front of my driveway, nearly all the way across it. "Didn't you get a notice?" the workmen ask. "Um, NO." Crappity. "When's this going to be fixed?" "Tuesday." "SHINY." Not. How the hell am I supposed to get into my garage? They haven't even left anyplace to park on the street; they've dug out in front of EVERYONE's garages--except for the neighbor that got tired several years ago of the puddle in front of his driveway and fixed it himself.
However, the people that lived in the house before us put cement where a grass strip used to be, and the curb is more of a wheelchair-friendly incline than anything else, and my driveway is rather huge. So, I manage to drive up onto the sidewalk and only get a little bit in the grass (hoping I didn't run over the sprinkler head) and pull into the garage.
Then I come into the house and collapse into a puddle of goo.
Da Boy was upset because he missed Thomas today. I told him to suck it up; we have a DVD from the library. Grawr.
And now, I'm going to bed. I will be taking kradical's "Dragon Precinct" with me. It's an enjoyable read so far.
To put the icing on the cake, the CAP on my day? When I went to preview this entry, my browser froze up on me. Thank the intraweb gods for "autosaved drafts."