Worst. Day. EVER. (Almost)

Dear Readers;

You seem to enjoy the tales of my many stupidity/enthusiasm-driven mistakes. For this reason, I have decided to unveil my second-most unfortunate story of all time (first-most unfortunate story to follow shortly - if I decide you are ready for it... )  Every word of this story is completely true-to-life (or at least my best recollection of it). I have not embellished a single detail (aside from adding exact times to events that were just a blur of stress and anger. Oh, and the part about the bagel. It may have been a croissant.)



I feel thoroughly confident that I have already experienced the rock-bottom of my life.

Any one of the events that transpired on that fateful day would have been pretty innocuous as an isolated incident. But put them all together in a string of odds-defying bad luck, and you will find yourself in the midst of a crisis that not even Jon Krakauer would be able to comprehend completely.

It all started with a guitar.

Just before my Junior year of college, I saw a guitar in a pawn shop and suddenly decided that I wanted to be a musician - a decision I undecided about 3 weeks later, but not before enrolling in an "introduction to guitar" course. The course seemed like the perfect way to launch my rock star career. I was positively batty over the idea - until I actually tried to learn to play the guitar.

If you have ever been forced to sit for an hour-and-a-half in a room full of 35 people plucking away on 35 out-of-tune guitars, you may understand why I reconsidered my musical aspirations.

Once I undecided my decision, it was already too late to drop the course without first filling out a "drop slip" which is a little yellow form, to be signed by your instructor and the dean of your department, detailing your reasons for dropping the class (ADHD, poor impulse control, lack of musical aptitude, chronically bleeding ears).

Being the responsible person that I am, I stopped attending class for a few weeks, then waited until the last possible moment to try and turn in my drop form.

To tell you the truth, I forgot that I even needed to turn anything in until approximately 2:00 PM on that blemish of a day. Boyfriend called to remind me that I had to turn in my drop slip by 4:30 PM or I would fail the course ("Personal Calendar" is just one of Boyfriend's many and diverse functions.)

Anyway, I was on campus, eating a bagel, when I got the call. I simultaneously choked down the rest of the bagel and sprinted to the bus stop so that I could get home and start rifling through the drawer where I shove all my "important documents."

The stupid bagel cost me valuable seconds. I got to the bus stop just in time to see the bus driving away.

I heaved a sigh and began the 1.5-mile trek home.

I arrived at my apartment, sweaty and disheveled, just a touch after 2:30 PM. I began frantically looking for that little yellow slip - the antidote to certain academic failure.

I did not find it.

I reasoned that maybe the slip was at Boyfriend's apartment, since I also had an "important documents" pile there.  However, boyfriend was at track practice already and he had his keys with him (I didn't have a set of keys to Boyfriend's apartment. He never got around to making an extra one for me and I didn't want to be that girlfriend and badger him about it).  I managed to call him just before he headed out for his run (my only stroke of luck that day) and he agreed to run the keys by my apartment.

I met boyfriend in front of my apartment at exactly 2:48 PM.  He handed me his keys and went merrily on his way.

I was starting to feel the pressure of the impending 4:30 deadline, so I rushed to my car.  I unlocked my door, bumped my head on the doorframe as I was getting in, turned the keys in the ignition and...

Nothing.

It was not the first time that week that I had left my headlights on. It was actually a pretty regular occurrence.

I blame it on my mom.

You see, my mom also drove a Honda. Hondas are equipped with a neat little beeping sound which is supposed to warn you when your door is opened and your keys are left in the ignition or your lights are left on. Growing up, I heard the sound whenever my mom opened her car door. The sound was meaningless to a child who did not yet understand the minutiae of operating a motor vehicle, so my brain learned to ignore it. I eventually became completely desensitized to it. Now, I have to rely completely on my own awareness to remember to turn off my lights, and my awareness really is not that reliable.

Sadly, no amount of blaming my mother would bring my car back to life.

I stood in the street flagging down motorists for nearly 20 minutes before some V-neck-wearing Bulgarian giant with dreadlocks and a bad case of B.O. was kind enough to stop and help me push-start my vehicle.

It was 3:16 PM when I finally started the drive to Boyfriend's apartment. This particular drive was nearly impossible to complete in a timely manner since my city's traffic management is run by - well, I doubt that it is run by anything because no human could possibly be that fallible.

I should have walked. The one-mile stretch between my apartment and Boyfriend's apartment took me nearly 15 minutes to navigate by car.

If I had walked, I may have avoided the ensuing drama entirely.

I was in a hurry when I pulled up to Boyfriend's place. I left my car running and dashed up the three flights of stairs to his door.

I was engulfed by panic when I could not find my form.

After tearing through the entire apartment, I finally decided to check my car...

...my still-running car...

...the one with all the doors locked...

...the one with the little yellow drop form sitting in plain sight on the passenger seat.


F*CK!!!! (but also yay?)


How did I not see it before???

I had a Hide-A-Key. It was in a little magnetic case. Stuck to the refrigerator. At my apartment. Who puts their Hide-A-Key on their refrigerator? Apparently I do.

I ran as fast as I could (barefoot, because I just happened to be wearing heels that day - I never wear heels, but for some ungodly reason felt it was a good idea to wear them on that particular f*cking day) back to my apartment.

When I got there, it was 3:57 PM. I sprinted up my stairs to find... yet another locked door that I did not presently have the key to. I kept my apartment keys on the same keychain as my car keys - like most respectable people - and I did not think things through to the point of realizing I would need my car keys to get my house keys to get my Hide-A-Key to get my car keys.

I slumped to the ground outside my door, face smashed into the disgusting carpet. The janitor, who was probably wondering if dead-body-cleanup fell under his jurisdiction, stepped over my limp form -- the janitor!!

I sprang to life (probably prompting the janitor to wonder if zombie-crisis-mitigation fell under his jurisdiction) and begged the janitor to use his skeleton key to let me into my apartment.

"You live here?" He asked.

"Uh-huh," I responded.

And just like that, I was granted access to my apartment. I didn't know whether to feel happy or scared for my future safety, but at least I was one step closer to turning in my godforsaken drop form.

It was 4:06 PM. I snatched my Hide-A-Key from the fridge and ran back to Boyfriend's place to retrieve my car and the precious form contained within.

I got there at 4:11 and unlocked my car. I got in, bumped my head again and sped off toward campus, which was two traffic-filled miles away.

I parked in front of the Registrar's office (not bothering to buy a .75 parking stub which ended up garnering me a $15 ticket) and sprinted up the stairs.

It was 4:34 PM. The Registrar's station was closed for the day and it was final: my grade-point average was going to be annihilated by a 3-credit music course.

As I was turning around to go find a bathroom to cry in, a tiny pink note taped to the Registrar's desk caught my eye. It had that day's date written neatly in the upper left-hand corner. It read:

Drop slips due tomorrow by 4:30!!!!

Abbott Street Culture Clash

This is a one-page jam comic I did with my friend Gabriel Frizzera a couple years ago. I just found it while cleaning, and figured I'd put it up.

Moving Time...

I know that most of you base your entire lives around when I will and will not be posting, so I figured I ought to warn you that Boyfriend and I are in the process of relocating.  This means that I will not have the internet for a few days (I'm going cold turkey).   I'll be back to my regular posting schedule in less than a week (probably even sooner, but I don't want to give you false hope in the event that something goes awry.)  If you absolutely cannot live without reading something new on my blog (who knows...?), I have prepared a little secret surprise for you to enjoy during my absence...

...But you have to find it (canadiandoubles, don't you dare tell anyone about how to get there!  Let them find it by themselves...)

Or you could just read and post tons of comments on my older posts to surprise me when I get back.  You have no idea how thrilled I would be if that happened.

Either way, I have not forsaken you.  I am just going out into the world to have experiences that I can later write about (I mean, you can't move to a new city without finding at least something to write about.  That sounded foreboding.... I hope I didn't just jinx myself...)

My Tweenhood was a Haze of Baldness and Shame

When I was 13, I shaved my head.  Bald.

It was a quadruple-dog dare.  I didn't want to look like a coward.

It all seemed like a fantastic idea while it was happening.  I was the center of attention - especially in the eyes of the boy who had dared me to do it.

I really liked this boy.  I had liked him since the 5th grade.  He had always been cooler than me, which really wasn't very hard to accomplish.  I mean, I wore wolf T-shirts, had giant braces and thought that it was socially acceptable to own elastic-waisted jeans.  I don't know how I came to the conclusion that shaving my head would make things any better.  I really didn't think it through properly.  Like I said, I really liked this boy.  I thought maybe I'd look like Demi Moore in G.I. Jane.

I called my mom at work:

Me: "Hey mom, is it okay if I use the dog shaver?"

Mom:  "For what?"

Me: "To shave my head."

Mom:  "Um... (prolonged silence in which I am sure she felt torn between her duty to protect my self esteem and her duty to allow me to express myself)... It's your hair sweetie.  Do what you want."

Me:  "Thanks."

My mother passively taught me a very important lesson about thinking things through.

My friend didn't just use the dog clippers.  He braided my hair, cut off the braid, used the dog-clippers on me and then went and found my mom's razor in the shower and shaved my head until it sparkled.  Everybody laughed.  Allie is so crazy!  I laughed too.  Look at how silly I am!  I am out of control!  I am so extreme right now...

...My time in the spotlight lasted about 4 minutes.

That evening, I eventually got around to looking in the mirror.  I had never been very self-conscious - I didn't have the fashion sense to know what to be self-conscious about.  But I knew ugly when I saw it.  I spent about an hour transfixed in front of my hairless reflection.

I was confused.

I wondered why I didn't look like Demi Moore in G.I. Jane.  

Was it my jawline?

I calculated how long it would take my hair to grow back.  I started to weep. (You can laugh.  It's okay.)

The ensuing months were filled with the kind of life experiences that force a person to develop their "inside beauty" lest they become devoid of any value whatsoever.

For example, I was waiting in line for the next stall in a public restroom and a little girl started screaming "this is the girl's bathroom!" I soon realized she was screaming at me.  I looked her dead in the face and said "I'm a girl."  Neither of us walked away without significant psychological damage and gender confusion issues.

Despite having my gender-identity ruffled, my interest in boys began to intensify.  Looking back, I am so sad for myself.  The futility of it all was mind boggling.  My best efforts at attractiveness only succeeded at making me look vaguely like something you'd see in Cirque de Soleil.   Apparently, this wasn't what the boys were looking for in a girl.

My friends were getting into makeup.  Not wanting to miss out on the fun and hoping to disguise myself under a thick layer of feminine awesomeness, I joined in.

We were terribly misdirected in our attempts at looking beautiful, so I ended up strutting around town with whore-red lipstick (it was like a neon frame for my giant, gnashing braces!), bright blue eye shadow and a nice, shiny, bald head.  I think I may have been wearing my wolf shirt.

Sadly, my best attempts at looking feminine and smokin' were not convincing enough.

I had been selected to play the lead in the school musical that year.  However, the lead role was a woman and my appearance-altering decision made it difficult for me to effectively portray that.   My teacher gently requested that I give my part to a more "convincing" classmate.  Instead, I was to play a male role.  To make it worse, I had to sing.  Like a man.  All I remember is being up on a stage, fake beard clinging fake-beardedly to my face, belting out some annoying song in my best baritone and wondering how my life had gone so wrong so early.

My hair eventually began to grow back, as hair is wont to do.  First I looked like a skinhead or cancer patient, then like a Chia pet, then like a marine, then like Gary Busey and finally, kind of girl-like.  I got rid of my wolf shirt.  I started plucking my unibrow.

Gradually, I began to fit into society again.  I almost learned how to put on makeup.  I bought a dress.  I even got my first boyfriend.  I think he turned out to be gay, but whatever.  If I was going to look like a dude, at least he reassured me that I looked like an attractive dude.

The important point is, I made it.  I survived the catastrophic ugliness that once shrouded my future in uncertainty.  And I learned an important lesson about being mindful of the consequences of my actions.  
Kind of.

Okay, so here it is in all of its blurry, hairless, dog-presenting glory:

P.S.  I think my dog (who was usually a morbidly obese chunk of pure disobedience) won that ribbon only because the judges thought I was a cancer patient.  After the competition, my mom overheard them talking about the "poor girl with no hair... what do you think she has?  Do you think it's terminal?"

My mom interrupted them and said "you must be talking about my daughter.  She did it on purpose.  There's nothing wrong with her physically."

I like how she included the word "physically" to insinuate that yes, there may be something wrong with me mentally but I definitely didn't have cancer  :)

I Am Destroyer

Prelude:

I just wanted a cup of tea.  How could I have known that this simple desire would lead to such utter chaos and destruction?

I was staying with a friend's parents while traveling in Oregon.  They were kind enough to feed me dinner AND dessert.  They cheerfully complied with all of my food-allergy demands.  They let me sleep on their vintage leather sofa without a protective bed-sheet underneath my filthy, drooling head.  And I destroyed their home.

I knew that I had to leave very early the next morning.  I would need caffeine.  I should have just gone to a gas station, but I didn't.   That night, I asked my hosts if I could brew some tea before I left in the morning.  My friend's mother showed me how to work the immaculately crafted and expensive-looking marble stove.  There was a teapot sitting inconspicuously on the counter.  I assumed that it was the vessel in which I was to heat my water.   Seeing no further need for clarification, I bid my warm and friendly hosts goodnight.

Chaos:

4:00 AM:  My cell phone heralded that fateful day with a salsa-inspired ringtone.  I groggily shuffled into the kitchen, turned on the stove and placed the teapot upon the right rear burner.   I didn't turn on a light because I wanted to be as unobtrusive as possible.  I sat down at the kitchen table, waiting for the telltale whistle of my boiling water.

It was about 4:07 when I first noticed the smell.

My sleepy brain slowly began to realize that there was something wrong.  "Burning plastic is not a normal household smell..." it thought to itself.

I got up to investigate the source of this noxious odor, thinking that maybe the oven had just been cleaned and I accidentally turned it on instead of the stove.  Oven cleaner can sometimes smell like burning plastic.

When I got closer to the stove, my theory about the oven cleaner was thoroughly debunked based purely upon the raw strength of the smell.  This was no ordinary scent.  Something epic had occurred to produce this vile trespass upon my nasal passages.

I probably should have turned on a light, but I didn't want to alert my hosts to the presently unidentified disaster in their kitchen.  I figured that I would identify the disaster, act quickly to control the problem and clean up any evidence before I went merrily on my way with no one the wiser.

Except that's not how it happened.  Because I didn't turn on the light, I had to rely on my sense of smell to locate the source of the problem.  Unsurprisingly, it turned out to be the teapot.

"Oh," I thought, "it must be a new teapot.   Maybe they didn't take off the price sticker and now it is burning."

If only that were the case.

I went to grab the teapot off the stove.   When I lifted it up, a plume of chemical vapors erupted into the air.  At this point, I was thoroughly confused.   What the hell?  Why was this happening?  I was starting to panic.

I turned off the stove and poured water on the chemical-spewing teapot because I figured that the problem was most likely burning-related and water fixes burning.  I thought I had the problem solved.

When the cloud of toxic fumes responded by growing in magnitude, I began to grasp the severity of the situation.

The adrenaline coursing through my veins finally succeeded in waking up my brain.  I opened the microwave to cast some unobtrusive light upon my predicament.

Destruction:

Holy sh*t.  Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw.

The teapot had been reduced to a smoldering lump which was presently oozing outward in all directions, destroying everything in its path.

I picked up what used to be the teapot by its cord and threw it in the sink.  If you were paying attention, you may have noticed that I said "cord."  The teapot was not meant for stovetop use.  It was a plastic plug-in teapot.  "Was" being the operant word.

I don't know what this f**king demon of a teapot was made out of, but whatever it was, it had a remarkable capacity to keep burning despite my best efforts to put it out.  Also, adding water seemed to simply exacerbate the gaseous cloud that was beginning to form in the kitchen.

I took the object formerly recognized as a teapot outside.

By the day's first light, I could finally see the consequences of my actions clearly.   The charred relic of a teapot dangled limply by its mangled cord, winding in and winding out on itself as if it was shaking its head disapprovingly, saying "look what you did!"

I set it in the grass and hurried back inside.   I opened all the doors and windows.  I turned on the fan.   I quietly closed the door to my hosts' bedroom.

I could then turn on the light (why hadn't I done this earlier??)

I died a little inside when I saw that the previously immaculate stove was covered in a tarry, bubbling layer of super-plastic.  I stood, eyes transfixed on the spectacle before me, contemplating my escape options.

Action:

I could leave right then and let them try to figure out what happened.

I could tie myself to a chair and pretend that marauding anti-teapot extremists had ravaged the now-defunct piece of kitchenware as I watched helplessly.

I began frantically searching the kitchen for an answer.  I found a spatula.  I used the spatula to scrape off the worst of the mess.  It didn't really work.   I just destroyed the spatula too.

Applying my knowledge of chemistry, I began rifling through the bathroom drawers, looking for something that would dissolve plastic.  nail-polish remover!  Acetone will dissolve plastic, or at least loosen its grip on other substances.

I took the nail-polish remover into the kitchen and applied abundant amounts of it to the charred remains of the teapot.  (I don't even want to know what kind of damage my lungs were suffering form all these noxious vapors.)

It actually worked fairly well.  The stovetop was devoid of any stuck-on plastic.  If I tilted my head just right, I couldn't even tell that it was irreparably damaged.

I cleaned up the rest of my mess, and packed my things.

Atonement:

It was a Saturday, so I felt even less keen about waking up the proprietors of the household I had so nearly destroyed.

I opted to leave a note:

"Dear J_____ and J_______:


First of all, thank you for opening your home to me.  I truly appreciate your hospitality.  I am sure you are wondering what that smell is.  I regret to inform you that your teapot has perished at my hand.   I didn't realize it was an electric teapot and I put it on the stove.  I googled "burning plastic fumes" and, luckily, you guys should be okay as long as you don't get a really bad headache or start throwing up.   If you do, go to the doctor immediately.  I tried to clean up the stove.  I had to use nail-polish remover to get the plastic off, so that is why your entire house smells like acetone.  Don't worry, it'll burn right off when you turn on the stove again.  The remains of the teapot are out back, airing out.  I checked to make sure it hadn't set  your yard on fire before I left.  Enclosed, please find $20.  I know that the damage I have caused to your stove is far more costly than this meager amount could ever hope to atone for, but it is all I have.  It should at least be enough to buy another teapot.  I have some stuff that I could sell, so I should be able to pay you back in full at some point.  Once again, thank you for your hospitality and I am sorry that I destroyed your teapot and stove.  Please forgive me.  


Sincerely,


Allie"

Epilogue:

My friend's parents are wonderful people with a good sense of humor.  They said that they understood, and his mother actually blamed herself for not telling me where the real teapot was.  She said she was impressed with my ingenuity in regard to cleaning up after myself.  Sadly, all the ingenuity in the world cannot make up for a total lack of foresight.

2 NEW COMICS!

Here they are, Space Jet #7 and I Come In Peace! On sale TODAY at the Comic con at Heritage Hall in Vancouver on Main & 15th! Bring your walking shoes! It's Car-Free Day, and the streets will be closed off for your benefit!

zooom!

long time no post here's another one from the desktop