Day Fifty One: Worst Day Ever

Calling today the worst day of my life is definitely an exaggeration. I can think of a few days in my life that were much worse. Among them are:

1. The day that I "borrowed" my parents minivan to drive to the gym and crashed into a light pole, causing it to jump out of the ground and land on top of said van, turning it into an aluminum taco. And, just in time for everyone who was driving to school in the morning to witness me sitting on the curb, crying, being interrogated by a police officer.

2. The day I worked two double shifts waiting tables, two days in a row, then in a delirium left a wad of bills that represented my rent and utilities in the console of my car, with the doors unlocked, in Crackhead Central, Santa Ana.

3. The day my hamster, Scamster, died.

4. The day that I realized that I would never be a supermodel.

5. The day I got into a car accident (which was not my fault) and smashed my face into the steering wheel, turning me instantly into Qausimodo's doppleganger, then having to play a gig with my band at the Whiskey-a-go-go in LA, because they have no mercy.

So, in hindsight, there have been worse days. Still, somehow the remembrance of past humiliation and despair does little to alleviate my current sorrows. Whats wrong, you ask?

This morning, Tom was leaving the house to go spend a beautiful Sunday with daughter, Madeline. He left with a spring in his step, knowing that today was the day he would see Wolfman (On a sidenote, does everyone from the Midwest pronounce "WOLF" like "WOOF", because I think it sounds pretty funny). I was excited because it meant a whole day of painting, of getting in the zone. No interruptions whatsoever. Alas, things do not always happen the way you want them to.
No sooner than I had settled into my studio, whimsically applying gesso to a new canvas, Tom bursts through the front door saying, "The van is gone." He said it in the tone of voice that someone might say, "Its cold outside." or even, "I'm craving doughnuts." Cool. As. A. Cucumber.

Of course, he was probably shaking in his boots outside the front door, psyching himself up for his entrance back into the apartment, knowing that he would incur the wrath of Shiva upon telling me this. And incur the wrath of Shiva he did.

Frankly, I would have welcomed the theft of the van itself, as I truly despise it. It is about an arm's length longer than a retard bus, but only half as pretty. It's impossible to drive, its impractical, and it drinks like a fish.
What upset me about the alleged theft of the van was that I have at least ten, maybe more, paintings in the van. All of the paintings that I've made this year are inside it, excepting a few, and at least five others.

I have a slight tendency to fly off the handle when confronted with a problem that is outside of my control. I'll admit it, I'm scary. The good news is that this does not happen often, and when it does, it is usually for less than an hour. Usually.
Much to our dismay, we turned to the incompetent, yellow-bellied Santa Ana Police who told us that someone was driving it, but they think that it may have been impounded. They weren't sure. After jumping through the flaming hoops of bureaucratic bullshit that are prerequisite for finding anything out from the police, we got our answer.

Yes, they have the van. It is in the impound. We can come and get it, they don't
know what is inside of it. But wait, there's a catch. In order to get it out, we have to pay unpaid parking tickets.

I know, I know. You are thinking to yourself, "What unpaid parking tickets? I mean, you can't have that many, right? You've had that van since when, November?"

Think again. Tom likes to play cat and mouse with Officer Diaz, a nasty woman who rivals the Wicked Witch of the West in her diabolical cruelty, patrolling our street at five o'clock in the morning, gleefully giving out dozens of parking tickets. Tom thinks that he can outsmart her by parking on the red curb at night, and then getting up reeeeally early in the morning to move the van, evading the inevitable morning ticket distribution. The result? Probably at least 7 unpaid parking tickets, half of which I'm sure have doubled.
So, tomorrow, we will go give our pound of flesh to the DMV. And I'll see if my paintings are gone or not. If they are, I've already decided that I'm not going to be depressed or angry or even vengeful. This is a learning experience. I am light and love and this experience is a bright white ball of healing light. And tomorrow, Tom is selling that god forsaken van. Hallelujah.