Murphy Strikes Again: Why “What the frak” Fridays should be on Saturday

Another Bonus “What the frak…?” moment (WTFM) is brought to you by………..

Murphy and Me: Because sometimes Murphy needs a partner in crime.

I was nearly finished with Friday’s “What the frak?” moment.  A few more sentences, some proofreading, and I’d be good to go.

Then Lil Diva woke up waaaaaaay too early from her nap – an hour was not enough after rising at 5:30 AM that morning.  As fast as possible, I packed up the kids to haul them to the gym so I could shower.  I had two hours before The Tackler’s doctor appointment for a suspected ear infection – after complaining his ear “wasn’t working” on one side earlier that morning.

The first sign that something was wrong.

I clicked on the remote to slide open the van doors – like I always do – so The Tackler could get loaded up while I grabbed our bags.

Nothing happened.

I tried again.  And again.

Still nothing.

I reached for the the spare key and stabbed the button as though force was the only reason it refused to work.

Nothing.

Finally, I stomped into the garage and grabbed the light metallic blue sliding door as if to rip it off its hinges.

The second sign something was wrong.

It moved an inch.  Then stopped.

Dread pooling in my stomach, I flung open the driver’s side door and pushed the door control buttons there.

Nothing budged.

I glanced over to the interior light switch and its three settings: On, Auto, and Off.

It was clicked into the “on” position – exactly where I’d left it the previous afternoon.

Lil Diva had fallen asleep on our way home and I’d shut the garage door to keep the cold wind from awakening her.  To ensure the Tackler did not end up in a dark garage when the auto light timed out (I always lay her down first, because if he’s released, she will always wake up), I’d pushed the interior lights to “on.”

And then neglected to return the button to “auto.”

Twenty four hours later, and my van’s battery had about as much life as me at 5 AM. It was totally dead, failing to even give the slightest cough or whir when I used the key.

My children were already running amok and pulling toys into the driveway, confused why we had failed to even open the van’s back door. I quickly joined them and scoured the neighbors driveways in search for someone, anyone at home (the advantage of living in Texas versus Iowa – people use their garages at basements here and you can usually tell if someone is at home; unless they’re northerners like us who believe cars should go in them).

The only sign of life was tumbleweed rolling down the street.*

I quickly called CG, hoping the jumper cables were around and I’d find somebody to help me.

It went to voicemail.

Then I tried several stay at home mom’s in the close proximity.  No answer, or home without a car.

Ten minutes later, CG returned my call and I informed him of my predicament – and learned the jumper cables were in his car. At work.

“I’ll come home and take care of it.”

So I waited, passing the time in the sunny afternoon with the kids while we waited for Daddy to come home.

There were worse ways to spend the time, but my window to visit the gym was rapidly dwindling.

CG arrived and immediately had the Tackler as his right hand man in the quest to resurrect the car.

Lil Diva wanted to help to, by stealing the cables.

Finally, the van roared back to life – The Tackler was very proud of fixing the car.

I loaded up the kids and set off for the gym.

I only made it a mile before the Tackler had a meltdown because Cheerios dared taint his Kashi snack.

I turned around and headed back home – explaining that boys who acted like that, couldn’t go to the gym and play.

He stayed with CG instead – who intended to work from home with the little time remaining in the afternoon.

I set off again for the gym, this time with only Lil Diva for company – my goal to visit the steam room to clear my sinuses and shower while she played.  Maybe even write for a bit if I still had time.

As we pulled into the parking lot and I grabbed her, I realized I’d forgotten my bag – holding all of my toiletries.

Oops.

It was not my day.

But it could have been worse.

Had I not tried to go anywhere prior to the Tackler’s doctor appointment, I would have learned the car was dead right as we needed to leave.

It was the last appointment of the day. On a Friday.

That would have been bad. Especially as the doctor said his “working ear” was just starting to get infected while the other one was already very swollen.

So now, the Tackler is on antibiotics again, and twenty-four hours later, I finally had my shower.

Why, why, why do things always happen on a Friday, just after I’ve already written a post?  They make it very difficult to actually post a “what the frak” moment on a Friday.

Maybe I should move it to Saturday instead… or will that just curse my weekend?

I think Murphy needs to find a new place to hang out. Any takers?

And yes, I shoulder some of the blame as well, for failing to turn off the car’s lights.

What was I thinking! What the frak?!?

Have you had a “what the frak” moment this week?

*No tumbleweed was actually seen.  Had it been a movie, it would have appeared.

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About Kelly K @ Dances with Chaos

Kelly K has learned the five steps to surviving of motherhood: 1) Don't get mad. Grab your camera. 2) Take a photograph. 3) Blog about it. 4) Laugh. 5) Repeat. She shares these tales at Dances with Chaos in order to preserve what tiny amount of sanity remains. You can also find her on her sister blog, Writing with Chaos (www.writingwithchaos.com) sharing memoir and engaging in her true love: fiction writing. It's cheaper than therapy.
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5 Responses to Murphy Strikes Again: Why “What the frak” Fridays should be on Saturday

  1. Cori says:

    ugh…that’s an awful feeling, especially when you have to be somewhere!

  2. Briana says:

    Oh, that’s so my life. I feel for you! Don’t move it to Saturday, or you’ll risk ruining your weekends! hahaha

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