The Glamorous Life I Lead, Part II

I earmarked today to work in New York. I planned to work the first half of the day in my old New York City office stomping grounds. My Manhattan work homies and I planned to have lunch together to ring in the holidays. I then scheduled to take the afternoon off to go to two doctor appointments and to get my beleaguered Angus serviced at its birthplace, the Manhattan Honda dealership.

I got off to a rough start. I left my apartment at 6:30 to fetch Angus and drive to 51st and 11th to get my steed serviced. When we bought Angus, we purchased a 30,000 mile service plan and trust me, I use it. It doesn't stop the service department representatives from up-selling on additional services and if you're a woman, they focus their pitch on fear ("You don't want your brakes going out on you so you should replace the brake fluid" etc). Fuck them and their patronizing approach. My Dad was a good teacher when it came to this, so usually I know exactly when I need to pay a C-note for new brake fluid.

Today, Hector in the service department of the Honda dealership tried to add on differential fluid (that would be another C-note). When I questioned him on it, he says dismissively, “You’ll need this in the car since you’re almost at 30K miles.” When I protested that I have already had the transmission and brake fluid replaced on the 20K visit, he reiterates “Trust me, you’ll need it.” I didn't believe him, but since I didn’t know what this particular fluid did, I did SUCH a chick thing. I called Fang. He said, “You don’t need THAT—that’s for 4WD and the car is not 4WD.” Oh, Hector. Here comes your bitch slap. I did not get the differential fluid.

That surly transaction completed, I walked out of the garage. Owing to the sloppy wet and icy weather outside, there was water all over the floor (which is painted so it’s already treacherous) and the exit is on a 40 degree slope. As I’m inching my way out in naturally impractical shoes, I slipped and go down hard on the concrete on my bountiful ass. So not only is my backside hurting, it’s soaking wet as well.

But wait, there’s more!!

After a fun ride on the subway with 300 of my fellow New Yorkers in one small car, I arrived at the office, my pants still stuck to my backside like Saran Wrap. I walked into the New York office, but my entry card isn’t working. I’m locked out. I picked up the phone and started calling people to come and retrieve me. No one answered. I furtively banged on the glass. I waited a few minutes. I checked my blackberry, drank some coffee, banged on the glass again. 10 minutes passed. I finally went downstairs and asked the front desk security to let me in. He started calling around the office and finally found ONE person to let me in. I go back upstairs and finally, I’m granted entry. Me in my half damp, sweaty, crunchy state. And it’s only 8am.

I was there in the office to have lunch with my NYC homies, but even that's not happening. Two of them are sick, one of them has severe back pain and the balance saw this as an opportunity to complain about their pains and worries. Lunch today is off and has appropriately been tabled for January. I work till 1:30 pm.

I dashed off for my various appointments at which I glean the following:

1. It’s probably not good when the optometrist says, "You can't read THAT?"

2. I need to let the our primary care magazine know that I have a new submission for their medical mysteries column since my new GP was utterly perplexed at the genus of a charming cyst nesting in my right armpit. I believe a lancing will be involved next week.

3. When I picked up my car, Hector said snarkily, “You shoulda got the fluids.” I shoulda said, "You're a fucking jerk."

Oh my God--such a dazzling life, my friends.