My troubled child has been trouble.
My sleep has been scant.
My work has been excessive.
I have a small cold and a frog in my throat.
Last night I left work thinking of strategies for behavior management after a stupid conversation with the Early Intervention lady left me enraged.
Those well intentioned folks really only have one speed.
Family going through divorce?
Loss of a pet?
We are a pretty evolved and well trained staff, we coach children brilliantly on expressing feelings.
I have a lot of tools in my toolbox, when it comes to feelings.
Long story short, I was very tired and distracted.
When I fired up Sherman, a big electronic display popped up saying
DIMINISHED ENGINE PERFORMANCE!
Which startled me, and made me scared that we had another big car repair bill in our future (I am still paying off the last one).
As I drove away from the school, my nerves frayed and my mood soured and I felt sick inside, I also noticed I was dangerously low on gas.
So I drove home up 52nd Street, and stopped at Duke, for cheap gas.
Duke Street is part of old skanky Portland.
Ungentrified and funky.
The unpleasant gas fellow took my card wordlessly.
I buy gas from him each week and each week his scowls at me as if I were doing something terribly wrong.
He also never tells me when he is done pumping my gas, instead, does a little banging thing on the roof, the way you would spank the thigh of a horse to say "Giddyup!"
Last night, he was even more sullen, and cranky than usual, and I pissed him off more than usual by dropping my credit card when I handed it to him.
I was feeling nervous, because it is one of those gas stations where the traffic flows both ways, with no rhyme or reason, and there was a guy in a pickup pointing in my direction waiting for my spot, who looked like he could be kin to the attendant, same scowl.
Instead of going around and taking a spot in line behind me, he had pulled right up almost bumper to bumper with me, and looked down disapprovingly, as I waited for my gas.
After a few minutes, the gas fellow walked by and handed me my credit card, and did a little tapping on the roof of the car, and the pick up guy, backed up and off to the side, which in my mind indicated that our time together was through and I could leave.
So I drove off, slowly, because it was a jumbled mess of cars parked willy nilly, and as I did my little turn to get onto the side street, I hear the attendant banging on the passenger door and yelling, so naturally I stopped and asked him what the matter was.
He screamed "GIVE ME YOUR DRIVER'S LICENCE!"
No feelings card was necessary to know that he was furious, but I couldn't figure out why, until he said "YOU DROVE AWAY WITH MY PUMP!"
Which made me burst into tears and feel nauseated.
So I parked the car, and went inside, where a slightly less weird guy behind the counter made a copy of my insurance card and my driver's license.
Then I went home and cried for two hours and worried.
I worried for a very long time.
I worried through dinner.
I skipped TV to worry.
I chatted online with my friend Tamara, who assured me that I was not going to have a nervous breakdown, "because who would make the nametags for Thanksgiving?" which made me feel quite a bit better.
I worried a bit more, and wrote a haiku in German, which Rolf said was pretty correct, which made me feel even a little more better than the name tag thing.
I worried though two cups of tea and once glass of Calms magnesium drink, and chatted with my friend Doug, who said that it was an accident and that he was sorry that I was upset, which helped me feel yet more better.
Then I went to bed, and slept for two hours and work up really worried at midnight, about the gas station guys having a copy of my driver's license and was back to square one on the worry.
Mark agreed to call them for me in the morning and talk to the manager, to see what the procedure is when you are a super big dummy and break the gas pump, because your are overly stressed and tired.
Right in the middle of circle time today he phoned me to say that he had spoken with the manager of the gas station and that he was a nice guy.
It seems that driving away with the pump still stuck in your car is not terribly uncommon and that the manager thinks he can just reattach it, and if not it's just a matter of buying a new part.
Mark told the manager we would follow up in a few days to see where things were.
I feel much better, but not completely better.