Once upon a time, I lived here:

I went to school here:

Which means, in short, that I was once within 50 feet of this guy:

And even peed in my pants when I got to see this guy in concert because he's so damn funny:

Which either makes me a cool motherfucker or a cool mamma jamma. I haven't decided which. Depends on what color pills I'm taking this week.

No Not really.

I DID, however, drive one of these:

The turquoise Geo Metro. Say it with me, AWWW YEAH, BABY.

And because I was young, and in Florida (where it was hotter than...hotter than...I don't know, arright? I'm a little annoyed. Annoyance stifles creativity. Sue me) , where it was HOT, I wore clothes like this:

Again with the sarcasm, because I am on FUCKING FIRE, I am I am. But not really. Truth? It was hot. I was young. I did wear minimal clothing. With minimal shoething to complement my "ensemble". And it was around about this time that I realized, as I admitted yesterday, that life should come with helmets and at the very least some kind of identifying bracelets for people like me.

Cue the scene.

It's hot and muggy and pouring as only Florida can do. As if the entire state is crying her eyes out because she is embarrassed by the inexcusably and disgustingly large number of strip malls littering her shores. Worse than motherfucking cellulite, strip malls. I'm driving to work. Listening and singing along to that girl, that Jennifer Paige's "Crush". Loudly. In the most spectacular William Hung fashion. Erratic hand movements conjuring visions of epileptic episodes included.

I circle around the parking lot, searching for a parking spot that matches my parking permit. It's more infuriating than trying to do the writing on the grain of rice with one of those tiny little brushes. I haven't tried it, but hey, I'm trying to be accomodating here. I see one. In a puddle. I think of this:

I am hesitant. I am late for class. I have a d from taking so many "road trips". I need to make it to this class. I remember when the Geo was flooded twice in New Orleans up to the dashboard with no mishaps and think I'll be okay. I negotiate the puddle and park the car squarely in the middle of it, ignoring the fact that water is starting to seep in under the door. I am a modern girl. I can handle these things. Looking out the window, I notice that the ENTIRE parking lot is like this. A veritable swimming pool. Not to be deterred, I check in the back and see if I have THE SHOES. My black platform shoes that not only make me conveniently 6 feet tall, but will also, by default, guarantee that my precious feet stay dry. You know, because I am so sweet I might melt. *cough cough bullshit cough cough vain cough cough* Patting myself on the back for being so SMART! for keeping my rain shoes in the back of the car, I open the door, still singing, take my flat sandals off, toss them in the back, lock the doors, stand up and shut the door ready to go to class.

NEW AND IMPROVED! THIS TIME ON TIME! BECAUSE I AM CAPABLE OF MAKING HIGHER THAN A 1.5 GPA.

I realize I don't have my backpack and turn and look at the traitorous GEO.
Backpack? In the car.
Keys? Inside.
Doors? Securely locked, thanks to a safety feature installed by Momma and Dad. Thanks, guys!
Lights? On.
Windshield Wipers? On.
Radio? Blaring
Motor? On.

Damnit. I was so angry that I was at a loss for words. I cursed myself out, keeping myself distracted from the fact that I was having to wade 10 million miles to the Public Safety Kiosk conveniently located in the center of campus (about 3 light years from the parking lot) to have somebody slim jim my car. Long Story short? 20 minute walk. In torrential downpour. Soggy Cheerios come to mind.

Trudging up the stairs to the largest and most echo-y building on campus, I look at the clock (because I was WAY TOO COOL TO WEAR A WATCH) and realize that I am fucked. I wonder if the professor would listen to me beg for just one more chance just one more time? Not bloody likely. But I'd have to deal with him later.

I approach the desk, a round one, with the security people in the middle. Apparently, they are a very popular place to be on a college campus. 50 or so people mill about, doing collegiate things.

Umm, excuse me?

Yes, can we help you?

I need help.

What seems to be the problem?

I locked my keys in my car.

What?

I locked my keys in my car.

No problem! We'll just call the shack that's closest to your parking lot. You can speak with them on the phone.

Okay!

Easy, right? NO. Not easy. Thus far, I had been able to muffle my answers and make sure that they only reached the intended ears, specifically, those of the Bea Arthur look alike behind the counter. Apparently the shack did not have such great echo-y acoustics, because those guys? They couldn't hear me for shit.

I'm sorry young lady, you're going to have to repeat your predicament.

(Imagine me yelling here) MY CAR! I LOCKED MY KEYS IN MY CAR!

Is it an emergency?

Yes, the entire car is running.

What?

YES! THE ENTIRE CAR IS RUNNING!

Ma'am? What do you mean the entire car is running?

THE CAR IS ON! THE RADIO IS ON! THE WIPERS ARE ON! THE CAR IS ON!

How will we know which car is yours?

IT'S A TURQUOISE GEO METRO! AND IT IS ON! YOU CAN'T MISS IT!

This, however, was not enough for the Public Safety Person.

Why are your keys in your car?

I LOCKED THEM IN THERE!

Why did you lock them in there?

I WAS PUTTING MY PLATFORM SHOES ON!

.....

I DIDN'T WANT MY FEET TO GET WET!

You do realize that it has been raining steadily for the last three days, don't you? Many of our campus parking lots are flooded.

I KNOW! I JUST WANTED DRY FEET!

What about an umbrella?

I DON'T HAVE AN UMBRELLA!

All right, all right. No need to get huffy. We'll need a description of what happened and why you locked your keys in your car before we can slim jim it.

I FORGOT THAT I HAD THE ENTIRE THING ON BECAUSE I WANTED TO GET ON TIME TO CLASS! WITH DRY FEET!

Did you?

NO! I AM LATE! I AM WET! AND MY KEYS ARE IN MY CAR!

I swear that Public Safety Person was put there soley to embarrass me. It's amazing how the voice carries when the 50 or so people who are walking about stop and stare at you in utter amazement. Even the little old lady behind the counter was busying herself with paperwork, trying not to laugh out loud at my idiocy. Synonymous with lack of helmet.

I can only imagine what type of picture I must have painted. Stringy hair, raccoon mascara, sopping clothes, shivering in the arctic climate of the building alternately yelling and pleading into the phone. Some samaritan soul stifled his "Oh my god is she that stupid's?" long enough to take pity on me and escort me back to my car. With his umbrella. He probably just wanted proof that I wasn't making it up.

When we got there, Public Safety was already there. They knew it was my car because it was the only one on in the entire byzantine maze of the parking lots with the wipers, lights, and engine on, blaring lollypop rock.

At least if I had had a helmet, my hair would've been dry.

And my feet? Got wet anyway.