Over the summer I went, kids in tow, to meet a friend at the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden. It was a show stopping July morning. Even better? My girl was bringing me Starbucks. #butfirstcoffee. This wasn’t some nose wiping, diaper changing, soggy goldfish cracker eating playdate. No. This was getting together with my single independent girl friend! Maybe I’ll even feel like my old self and slap on a crop top for the occasion. Just kidding guys! Leopard sundress it is. *winks*
We strolled around the sidewalks admiring all the large sculptures. I briefly wondered where people came up with this stuff. Hmmm. Then I moved on to more important things: Who was my friend dating? Was he a “swipe right” dude? When was her last drunken night? What spontaneous vacation does she have planned? (Of course she had one set.) Greece, at that! Can you blame me, guys? Let this mom live a little. Vicariously anyhow.
Maybe I painted that picture to sound like a peaceful morning? Sorry to kill your buzz, but remember, my toddler came with. She spent her time practicing parkour over the various monstrosities. She quite literally only removed herself from the above pictured sculpture to pee behind it.
As much as I would have loved to sit and drink a bottle of chilled Rosé, reminiscing about our days when we drove our dad’s lifted trucks (hers bright red Dodge pickup, mine Hummer H2) on lunch break from high school, waving at potential boyfriends, I had to get the toddler home. Because #NapsSaveLives. I hug my friend goodbye and we go our separate ways. As I approach Black Beauty (my suburban), I dig around for my keys to get her unlocked. Beep-beep! I get all my baggage packed up, hop in the driver seat and…KEYS NOWHERE TO BE FOUND. Why me?! Why me?! Can I ever do anything seamlessly? I feel like I literally search everywhere possible. My kids are starting to freak out. I call my friend. “Hi. It’s me, obviously. Yes, problem. No keys. Bring wine.” She drives back and meets us.
During this time I continue to scrounge around for those priceless jinglers. I FIND THEM!!! In my diaper bag pocket. Where I always keep them. SMH. Sweet relief anyway. I slide the key in the ignition. Tick. Click. ITS DEAD. My truck is freaking DEAD.
The way I’m parked up against gardens and sprawling groomed grass there was no way to get a jump with cables. Note to self: always back into a parking space. Much to my chagrin, I dial up husband aka my ” #1 emergency responder”. He says “Sorry, Hily. Can’t help ya.” he was basically in Wisconsin, bringing home the bacon. He does remind me however, “call the roadside assistance!”.
They arrive with a fancy-schmancy little jump start thing. My girlfriend and I both ask where we can get one of those. Turns out we’d have to be prepared enough to keep the device charged. Yeah, not happening. Way kill our mellow, Progressive Roadside Assistance Man.
Are you seeing a theme with my Hot Mess stories? Yep. I wouldn’t be opposed to anyone starting a Go-Fund me for a luxury car upgrade with keyless entry and start. Or perhaps, a personal assistant that is strictly responsible for my keys. Birthday gift?
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