It started with a suicide jumper and ended with someone else's treadmill sliding down my porch steps.
This morning, my usual commute to work took me past a very unusual commotion on the Aurora bridge. Traffic heading southbound was at a near stand-still due to one lane closed off to all but a mass of fire trucks, police cars, and ambulances. This seemed too much for a typical fender bender and, knowing this bridge's history, I feared there might be a man or woman dangling from the railing. Sadly, there was. I looked away, tried to focus on the car in front of me, tried to focus on my exit at the end of the bridge. As I neared Gasworks park, a sudden loud procession of ambulances and police motorcycles raced toward the canal and one of the many water-side parking lots of Fremont where, as I understand it, the man landed. Very sad. Very, very sad indeed. I am reminded that while I am overwhelmed, exhausted, and too busy to have a social life, I am still fundamentally happy. For this, I am abundantly grateful.
On entering the office, I found all of my coworkers lounging on the cushy chairs and the (not so cushy) floor of our "waiting area." Our power was out. The Times later reported it was due to a goose in the lines. That goose, as they say, was cooked.
On arriving home tonight, I found a very giant, very wet box parked in the middle of my driveway. I was already a little miffed about this particular box being delivered to my home. My mother has a habit of having all of her packages delivered to my address, convinced that they'll be stolen off her porch but, for some reason, not mine. But at least they're usually small packages, easy to throw under the window in the dining room until she can pick them up. But this? This is a treadmill. Where, I ask you, am I supposed to put a gigantic treadmill-sized box? ("In your living room!" my mother tells me.) And, more importantly, how is a gigantic treadmill-sized box supposed to get back out of my living room? ("In your car!" my mother tells me. Because apparently my car is a tank.)
But, despite my misgivings, my mother's treadmill was delivered to my home, where it was left not on my porch, but in my driveway. Not undercover from the rain, but in my driveway. Not at the top of a flight of stairs, but at the foot of a flight of stairs IN MY DRIVEWAY. Angered upon hearing this news, my mother hopped in her car and drove right over to investigate. Turns out, the box was just as big and wet and immobile as I told her it was. Nevertheless, we struggled unsuccessfully to get it into my clearly too small car. Then we struggled unsuccessfully to push it up the stairs and into my kitchen. Then we stared at it for a while and cursed UPS. And at this, and this alone, we were unequivocally successful.
In the end, after an hour of shifting it ever so slightly to the left, and then ever so slightly to the right, we settled on leaving the soggy box precisely where we found it, but improved its situation with the addition of a tarp.
Hurray for Mondays.
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