First I should point out that the third word in the title is actually pronounced [ar-karz] and is obviously taken from the roots: our and cars.
Yesterday, Amanda, Mikey and I were getting ready to go downtown to take part in a fashion show for a breast cancer fundraiser. No, me being in a fashion show is not exactly what I meant by the first word in the title; although, as is common in writing, sometimes we writers write in layers we didn’t see coming when first we put pen to paper, but they end up working. It adds nuance, mystery and facets. When you add up a bunch of facets from a piece of writing, you end up with a multi-faceted work of literature. The technical term, I believe, is “layering it on thick”.
But I digress.
So I was trying to walk off some nerves before taking a shower and razing my legs so if this tree fell in the forest of the fashion show at least I wouldn’t be embarrassed about my smoothly shaven, not to mention toned (from the intended 6-mile walk) legs. Two things strike me about this as I reflect upon it today. The first is that I didn’t succeed in walking off said nerves. I don’t know if that is because I only walked four of the six miles or if my nerves are just superpowers left over from my last MugaScan? The second is that only today, have I come to realize, and appreciate, the sheer brilliance in whoever named “The Razor”. Whoever you are, you called it. Literally. Kudos.
Meanwhile, Mikey and Matt were waiting on a pair of boxers to dry. (I won’t mention whose because I’m not the kind of Mum who gets a kick out of going around and embarrassing her kiddos.) They were going to the club to work out. Mikey was to model tennis apparel that evening, so mere walking was not going to cut it. He was going to have to lift some barbells to accentuate those biceps when he took off his headband to flick it into the crowd.
In Clifton, Amanda was also taking a walk. Looking for her car. Which she couldn’t remember where she parked last Sunday night.
This is where the collision we like to call our Comedy of Errors began.
It was 2:40p.m. when I received that first foreboding tweet from Amanda: “Where is my car??”
I immediately called her and told her this was not helping my nerves. Which I’m sure helped her own stress, immensely. We hung up, and she called her daddy, who thankfully, played the role of “good cop” in this act, and in the end, her hero. But lest I give away spoilers to the story, we’ll fade out there, as the phone rings.
It was Mikey, and he and Matt had just made it to the club, only to realize that there was not enough time to work out. He was wondering if he should come back home with Matt, or if he could stay and work out, and could I pick him up in an hour?
It was 3:24p.m. I was weaving my way back to the Evanshire when I got another tweet from Amanda: “The question isn’t wherd I park, it’s who stole my car?” (I left the original typos in the preceding tweet, without [sic] comments because I didn’t feel like adding insult to injury.)
Quickly, I phoned Mikey back and told him to come home with Matt because Amanda’s car had gone missing.
It was 3:29p.m. This walking off the nerves thing wasn’t work wasn’t working. There wasn’t enough road. In frustration, I grabbed my iPhone and twittered: “Amanda’s car is not where she parked it on campus Sunday night.”
Mikey and I arrived home pretty much simultaneously. Now, we were in rush mode. To get ready and now, pick up Amanda on our way downtown. We were supposed to be there at 5p.m.
Before I jumped into the shower I called our insurance company to see if they had Amanda’s license plate number on file so she could properly fill out a police report when they arrived on the scene of her missing car. The super friendly and helpful receptionist said she didn’t in a way that made me feel lucky she carved out the time in her day to take my call. And then she even went above and beyond the call of duty by letting me know, just in case I might be thinking of making further claims on her time, that Amanda’s car only had liability. The commercials call that being “in good hands”.
When this story began, Amanda was on her way home to do our nails and don her high heels, which were in a box somewhere amidst her stuff in our storage room. The change of plans had Mikey playing the role of Prince Charming and searching for Cinderella’s shoes to bring them to her.
Leaving, take 1. Mikey and I jump in Rocinante (enter, my car, a silver Mini Cooper with a black racing stripe) and head off into the intense sunshine. We get to the end of our street only to realize we forgot the shoes.
Meanwhile, enter Dave, who has just arrived at Amanda’s to continue the search for her car while she waited for the real cops to arrive to fill out the missing car reports. Also meanwhile, exit Matt, stage right, to go pick up his girlfriend for a date. Then a tweet with happier tidings, from Amanda: “Found the car-freaking thank God”. It’s 4:56p.m. and things are looking up and the while doesn’t seem mean at all.
Leaving, take 2. Prince Charming grabs the shoes and we are on the road again. This time we make it to the left turn lane which is the entrance of the highway when we notice Rocinante is blowing heat instead of A/C. And I think I smell a burnt bread odor I distinctly remember from my childhood as radiator troubles. We check the gauges on the dash, and sure enough, poor Rocinante is overheating. Less than a mile and only three minutes into the drive.
I called Matt and asked him to meet me at the Evanshire so I could borrow his car. Then Mikey and I prayed we could coax Rocinante home. We rolled down the windows, blasted the heat, which is just what we needed, and after a series of starts and stops, made it back into our driveway.
Leaving, take 3. But first, we tweeted. It was 5:29. Mikey had about had it. He tweeted: “Can anything else go wrong?” I was not backing down. I twittered: “Some days are a Comedy of Errors.” At which point, Amanda chimed in on my twitter that she was, and I quote: “I’m struggling to find the comedy in it”.
It’s true what my friend Will said about all being well that endeth well. Or something like that. Well, this tale of our cars does have a happy ending. It is, therefore, a comedy, in the classic sense of the word. Which brings us back to the beginning of this Comedy of Errors; and thus, the original intent of the first word of the title.
We did make it to the ball on time. Cinderella got her shoes. The cars all stayed in the form of a pumpkin, which was an interesting twist to the story. But all in all, minus the plucking of my eyebrows, a good time was had by all, and more importantly, much good was done for a very worthy cause. Which was the whole point.
And now, I must bid you, adieu.
Really, good night. Farewell. End of story, people. No pictures, please.
Oh, all right... maybe just one then:
But that's all and this is really the end.