My SF roommates had a party last night; one of the roomies is a chef and made shrimpies and risotto. It was very tasty, but I had several too many beers. The process of having too many stretched late into the night as I had to repeatedly beat my competitive chef roommate at Rummy, no small feat considering the beers and the shifting house rules.
This morning I woke late with a swollen head and had to rush off to work to sit in on a dull phone call about the new data center being constructed in some far-flung location and how the WAN configuration will affect latency times. Not even time for coffee.
(That’s Coit tower in the background; one of my favorite places to bait tourists and make noisy cell phone calls.)
I’m thinking I should go home early, do something for my aching head, and then go for a goped ride. It’s only one-thirty… I should wait at least another hour or two.
Tick, tick, tick.
Did I mention that we’re supposed to close on the house in Vermont next Friday? Back to paying state income taxes, hooray!
Tick, tick, tick.
So last night, one of the party goers brought her shiny nice BMW and parked it in our car trap. The car trap is a very steep short driveway with brick walls on both sides that leads to an unused garage on the basement level. It’s a car trap because once you get the car in, it stays… Or at least, parts of it stay. Everyone I know who has ever attempted to park there has damaged his or her car. I myself managed to scrape the rear quarterpanel clean off of a rental car a few months ago. Lovely company, Hertz. They just smiled and asked me if I had the parts. But I digress. Everyone knows about the car trap, but parking in SF sucks. That reminds me of a different story from last night where I was in the back of a car for twenty five minutes circling for parking at a bar about eight blocks from the house. But again I digress. So the woman put her car in the trap. She did a particularly bad job of getting in; she was about a quarter of an inch from the wall on the driver’s side and nine inches or so from the (nonopening) garage door. She was so close to the wall that I couldn’t see if the car was touching but assumed that there must already be damage to the car. She was somehow parked on a diagonal in such a way that if she pulled straight back, she would scrape the wall on the side of the car, but if she turned the wheel at all the front of the car would hit a brick outcropping. Somehow I had managed to get involved in the situation and was in the position of trying to help her work her car free. It was a bad scene and shaping up to get worse; I knew the car was going to get scraped on the way out and that the best we could do was minimize the damage and I was going to be the lucky one to try to lead the circus. The driver hadn’t realized about the impending damage yet and I preferred not to be the bearer of bad news. Anyway, just as she takes the brake off and starts to move the car, chef roommate says, hey, why don’t we call a towtruck (he’s the new roommate, but he seems to have several fine qualities). Well, it just so happens that my mom re-ups my AAA membership each year on my birthday. We trooped inside and I gave AAA a call and they showed up within about fifteen minutes. The tow artist couldn’t get the car out with a straight tow but was able to hook the car from the side and pull it away from the wall while it backed out under its own power. The car was completely undamaged. I was practically giddy with the elation of having avoided the icky scene I had envisioned and assumed to be at the end of events.
‘I felt better than pulling out of the station with a full tank.’
Tick, tick, tick.
Sure is pretty here (usual unremarkable beautiful bay-area weather). I hear it’s wintry back home in NH. Sure would be a nice day to go for a scooter ride.