Last night, not too long after I had turned off the lights, my doorbell rang. My apartment complex lies in a modest neighborhood but the complex itself shows signs of its age. Since the rent falls in the lower bracket, so does the tenant population.
I opened the door to a woman, who at first glance was a hipster. Jeans tucked into knee-high boots. Spiked blonde hair. She asked for a woman whom I was not. She told me she had locked her keys in her car and asked if I had a phone she could use. I brought the phone to the door and let her call her daughter in Perryton. She had no coat and I let her into the apartment to wait for the locksmith to arrive. Seeing her in the light, she must have been in her middle to late 50s.
I sat on the couch while she stood at the door waiting for the man to arrive. She talked nervously about how her 38-year-old daughter caused her trouble. Then she told me this was the third time in a month she had locked her keys in her car. She offered to pay me for use of the phone. Finally, the man came and the woman left.
I have energy to clean today, which means this ugly mess will soon stop hanging over me. I also have to track down my Tracleer shipment. Accredo scheduled the delivery for yesterday. Nope, did not make it. I called the complex office. Nope, not there. (UPS delivered my Tyvaso to the office this time. Accredo requires a signature. I wonder who signed?) I have noticed a new UPS guy, too. If I were to give him a grade: epic fail!! In the meantime, I have 1.5 days of Tracleer left. I have a FT friend who has an appropriate name for this situation: Helena Handbasket.
I am one lucky woman. I miss you, Dude.
Later.
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