"So let me get this straight," Chris said.
"You were at a red light, and an old man in a scooter ran into your car."
"Yes," I said.
"A handicap person. Like that kind of scooter?"
"And you sent a handicapped, old man to jail and pressed charges," he continued.
"You're totally screwing with me," he said. "You're making this up."
I wasn't making it up, but I will explain later. My whole day has turned into what I would confidently refer to as a "cluster-foogaysie."
It started off promising. The boys and Chris had gone up to Tallahassee the night before and were at the Florida State vs. South Florida game.
Although baby M had woken up with a fever this morning, it was low-grade . She was content to sit by me as we watched "New In Town" with Renee Zellweger (of whom I have decided that I don't particularly care for ~ if I have to watch any more squinting or mouth puckering I think I will vomit).
We finally received our "Your Baby Can Read" package in the mail, so I excitedly tore into the kit and began the first video. Being quite lethargic from her fever, she was quite receptive.
It was at this point, I began to get a uneasy feeling that perhaps I should take her to urgent care. I would explain that, although I am not one of those neurotic mothers who takes her baby to the doctor at the slightest hiccup, I was more concerned about this fever because her brother had just recovered from the swine flu.
The tests were done and she was a positive.
"She lit right up," announced the doctor who looked a tad like Santa Claus. He charged back into the room fifteen minutes after the insanely long q-tip was shoved up her nose (she had to have this done TWICE because she flailed so much the first time, she knocked the q-tip out of the nurses hand, and it had landed on the floor).
"It wasn't a slow positive, like some are," he explained. "So, I am usually hesitant to put kids this young on Tamiflu, but I think that I am going to prescribe it for you, anyway. You can talk about the side effects with the pharmacist and decide for yourself whether it is something that you want to give her," he said.
Quite encouraging, really.
Flustered, I drove the Walgreen's pharmacy and argued with the snippy girl at the window who informed me that my insurance card was "useless," because it had no information on it.
No one else had had issue with it before, and we had been with this particular insurance company since May 1.
I pulled up to a red light after a quick visit to the grocery store for juice, hand sanitizer and disinfectant wipes.
As I rolled to a stop, I glanced over at a little man in a scooter who had begun to cross the street. I instantly noticed that I was a little farther out in the crosswalk than I should have been.
I waved my hand and nodded in a manner of contrition that had, sufficiently (or so I thought), indicated that I was, indeed sorry.
It was at that moment that I realized that he had flipped me off.
He made a rude gesture and screamed something at me that sounded a bit like "f**ing a**hole." I checked again; I wasn't THAT far out into the crosswalk.
There was a sound of impact and I realized that he had ran into the front of my car.
"Oh, my God!" I shrieked as I hopped out of my car.
I drive a 11 year old SUV and don't care about what it looks like, but this poor guy had ran into my car with his scooter and I felt horrible. I wanted to make sure he was all right.
It was at that moment that I realized he was swearing at me. I mean, like, REALLY cussing me out.
It was a dialogue full of f-yous, a-words, bastards, b-words, you name it. I was in shock. "Are you all right," I asked, stupidly.
"It is not necessary to use that language, really," I squeaked.
I realize that I had never, ever been spoken to this way. Except, perhaps, by an ex boyfriend who although it took me several months, I managed to dump and move far, far away from.
I used the time with him as a important life lesson.
At a loss, I tried to be the bigger person, "Well then, God bless you," I said, ridiculously.
"F*** you, b***h," said the man in the scooter, holding my license plate holder and sporting military gear and American Flags. I think I heard a Neil Diamond song coming from the boom box in this little basket.
" Fine, you know what? I'm calling the police," I said. Let them deal with this nut, I thought.
I answered all of the questions the 911 operator shot at me.
"Oh, yeah," he said. "We know exactly who you are talking about," he told me as I described the man in the scooter. I turned around to describe him.
He had already crossed the intersection and was scooting along the boulevard north at a surprisingly speedy clip.
After much roundabout pf "should I's, or shouldn't I's" with the responding officer, I decided to press charges.
The deputy rolled his eyes when I explained what happened. "He has your license plate holder," he said after he got off of his radio. "He keeps that sort of things as a souvenir. He does this all the time," he explained.
In the meantime, I had called a friend of mine in town, since the boys were still on their way home from Tallahassee. She had shown up almost instantly at the scene.
She nodded as she listened to the police officer. "I've seen him before," she exclaimed.
"I know EXACTLY who you are talking about. I saw him pound on the hood of some one's car once," she noted. "He looked completely insane."
Historically, I have had a very, very limited contact with the police. However, I understood what was described as a "public nuisance."
I filed charges with the full intention of dropping them in the near weeks ahead, because, really. I am too lazy to follow through and don't want to go to court.
After I filled out the police report, I stopped to pick up the baby's prescription. "Does it need to be refrigerated," I asked the snippy girl at the window.
"No, they are capsules."
What the eff. Seriously?
"She's seventeen months old. She can't take capsules."
"Oh, I'm sorry. We don't have any liquid available," she said to me.
I was banging my head on the steering wheel.
"Really," I asked, thinking back to the difficulty we had filling Wes' prescription two weeks ago. I should have known; it had been too easy.
"I'll be back in the morning. Figure it out," I said. Upon receiving a positive nod, I sped off, keeping a closer eye out for crazy men in motorized wheelchairs.
"Do you want that double bagged," asked the Middle Eastern woman at the counter of the liquor store.
"No, it's okay. Really," I said as I cradled my big-sized bottle of cheap wine, and walked out of door.
"Just hold the bottom," she warned,
"I wouldn't want my cheap wine breaking," I laughed as I continued out the door.
I imagined the $7.00 bottle of desperation and frustration breaking into a zillion pieces in the parking lot of Publix.
It has been one of those days.