Tuesday morning was one confused day of the week. We were attacked by the missing Monday that we THOUGHT we skipped over thanks to Thanksgiving. Nope. We were not spared. It was a Monday by all accounts:
I ran out of conditioner.
I nicked my knee with my razor.
I got a run in my stockings.
I burnt my tongue on my coffee... but not before I ran out of cream.
Despite the attack of the Mondays, we finally got organized, and our trio (hubby, toddler, and me) made our way down to the parkade.
That's when I noticed that pirates had struck.
"Uh, honey, where's our license plate?"
"What do you mean?" hubby asked, peering over the piles of lunch kits, diaper bag and favourite blankee. "Oh #*@#!)" he muttered.
It was gone. Not fallen off, not hanging off. Not lying conveniently on the floor. Just.... gone. Upon closer inspection, it was clear it had been pirated. There were fresh scratches on our bumper, and bits of residue left where the dealer's frame had once protected our $18 licence plate. (Actually, I suppose that it was only worth $9, but when you steal one, the other becomes useless...)
My instinct was to check the car to make sure it was locked & that nothing was missing. My husband's instinct was to inspect his motorcycle (which I affectionately refer to as his first wife) to make sure she was unharmed. Luckily for us both, the pirate's booty was limited to our rear licence plate.
I was actually a little annoyed that only our car was targeted. Our neighbours' two vehicles, and the piles of furniture our new neighbour had stored temporarily in the communal parkade remained unmolested.
I called the police station, which advised me I had to fill out a report.
I dropped my husband at work, and went to take my son to his daycare.
Grandma's mini-van was not in the driveway.
I checked my watch: we were half an hour later than normal. What day was it? Monday of course - oh, wait, it was Tuesday.... and on Tuesdays Grandma takes the kids out from 9 til whenever.
I know this.
But the attack of the Mondays and the pirates in my parkade made it slip my mind.
Okay, off to the insurance place. Tap my foot, wait for the doors to open. We are greeted by the mother of my friend from grade 6. Thankfully, she doesn't recognize me, as I'm at once both bewildered and irritable. (A dangerous combination.) Little Man finds an inkpad in 3.7 seconds. Blue faced (his) and red faced, (mine) I explain why I need new license plates.
"No problem, ma'am. We'll just need the police report number for the paperwork."
Back to the car we go. Shuffling papers, I curse under my breath. Curse in French a little louder for good measure. Find the scrap of paper I'd scribbled the number upon. Return to insurance office. Thrust paperwork towards agent. She smiles "and is this little man the registered owner of the vehicle?"
"No, stupid," I felt like saying. Instead I smiled "My husband's at work. We share the car and today I'm taking it."
"Oh, that's too bad," she said in the least authentic voice I'd ever heard. "He needs to come and sign the papers."
Two hours later, after dragging my husband away from his work, swearing on a stack of Yellow Pages that he was who he said he was (he didn't have any ID on him that day), returning my toddler to Grandma's house (who was as bewildered as I felt as to why we were so late!), I finally got on the road to go to work.
Our receptionist greeted me with a smile when I finally crossed the threshold to our office "Good morning, Sarah" she beamed. "How are you today?"
"Grumpy!!" I replied. "It's Monday!"