I get it a lot. (I also get Alyson Hannigan.) Half the time, there is a connection. Other times, I swear I have a twin out there.

Then there was the night I wish I had a twin.

Back story: After I wrecked my car in July, I  decided to drive my old car. Because it hadn’t been driven in several years, it needed new tags. I went through a huge hassle getting new tags involving lots of red tape and three trips to the DMV. To top it off, the old tag had literally rusted to my car, so I had to go to an auto body shop to have it removed. They cut it off in pieces. I didn’t ask for it back. Didn’t seem necessary.

On my second trip to the DMV, I was very excited because I had  finally completed all the steps necessary to secure my license plate. I was told I need to produce the old plate.

Well, I replied to the lady, that would be impossible because I cut it off. Or rather, I authorized an auto shop to cut it off. Same difference.

Well, she told  me, I still need to file a police report for a missing plate.

You are telling me that I need to go to the police station to file a report against myself for authorizing the removal and disposal of my  tag?

Yes, that’s what she was telling me.

I’m not going to lie. I kind of lost it. You know when you are turning into a crazy person and there is nothing you can do about it because that train has already left the station? Yeah, that was me.

Me: Wow. I didn’t know the DMV was in the business of TRASH collection. Because that’s what it was. TRASH. And if you all need trash so badly, I certainly have some trash I could bring you. LET ME SPEAK TO YOUR MANAGER!!!!!!

Needless to say, I left the DMV that day and went to the police station to file the report to an officer who thought it was as ludicrous as I did.

I wish that was the end of the story, but sadly, it’s not.

Because last week at a dinner party hosted by the boyfriend for his high school buddies and their significant others, a girl tells me I look familiar.

And we started playing the game. Where do you hang out? Where do you live? Where do you work?

She works at the DMV.

The boyfriend then turned to me and said, “Babe, you didn’t go off on her that day in the DMV, did you?”

I turned as white as a ghost.

It was her.

I wanted to die.

Half- asleep, I almost didn’t notice it, but Gertie went straight to her water dish and wanted, guess what? Water. I sleepily turned on the faucet and poured water into the special Gertie water pitcher I keep for such a task. When I leaned back from the sink, I noticed my t-shirt (one of my favorites–pink ring neck with a bedazzled tummy Buddah that reads “Buddaful”) was covered in what I thought was water.

What the heck?

I automatically looked up. Clearly my neighbors must have a leak that is seeping water down into my kitchen. Grrrr.

Hmmm…..that’s odd.

Then I realized, with horror, what it was.

Oil.

Canola oil to be precise.

The entire bottle of it.

The bottle that I placed on its side in my cabinet last night to make room for all my other groceries.

Oil, oil everywhere.

This was not good.

An hour and a half of sopping it up with paper towels, mopping on my hands and knees with liquid dish soap and warm water and throwing out msc…oil soaked items (including my toaster — hey, bright side, more counter space!), it’s still not completely gone. But at least I could leave the apartment with Gertie in it and not worry about her safety.

I decided that there was another bright side.

Living alone means that no one can get mad at you when you do really stupid things. It’s kind of nice.

But then again, there’s no one to help you clean up your mess either.

Oh well.

I’m not even going to begin to tell you all of it, but let’s just say I had to visit Ernie today and it was not pretty. 

And then there was some other stuff that sucked.

So I went for a run, which I made myself do, because I really just wanted to skip the run and jump straight into the bubble bath with the bottle, I mean glass, of wine. But I ran, and I wasn’t feeling like it, but I did it. As I was trotting along, Gertie at my side, I felt an odd sensation around my waist. It confused me, until I realized what it was.

It was my shorts. 

They were well below my butt by the time I realized my drawstring had completely failed me. As in malfunctioned. As in it was completely broken. (It has a plastic device that is supposed to lock the string into place, but that piece apparently is shot because it stopped locking and started sliding.)

And there was a runner behind me.

And apparently a biker too, because it went flying by and suddenly Gertie jumped in front of me, which she does when she’s terrified. 

Then I tripped over her, while trying to hold onto my shorts. And her. And not fall.

To top off this fabulous day, I learned, according to a friend’s facebook status that  Jesus is returning soon. (I went to an Christian college, so many of my friends are conservative.) 

If I could have my say in this matter, I would really rather Jesus return on Friday night when I have had a good day and we can have a beer together and laugh about this awful Monday.

Consider the following:

Quick Trip 12:30 p.m. in the 816 where gas prices dip a little lower in this town.

More cars than pumps.

Cars line up behind cars, while others lurk further out, completely blocking the flow of traffic.

At pump no. 10, I see a woman sitting in her car. I zip in to wait behind her. Then I realize, she’s not “plugged into” the pump. There is a total on her payment screen so I assume she’s already filled up and is waiting for her passenger.

No problem.

I’ll wait.

I mean it’d be nice if she would pull up to the parking spots and wait, but maybe it will just be a second.

De de de…

Finally passenger returns, yacking on her cell phone, carrying misc. treats and beverages. She then goes around to the driver’s side (is she handing over the food before she gets in?) and driver gets out and passenger gets in driver’s seat.

Maybe it’s a slow-motion Chinese fire drill with QT snacks involved?

The driver then leaves the car area entirely to go into the store.

By this time, I’m already assessing my options for other pumps because tick-tock people! But really? Really?

Out of my rear view mirror (because I have now moved, but am watching this scene unfold from another pump waiting zone) I see the new driver (former passenger) waiting for her friend. More cars have lined up and she just sits there.

Finally, driver #1 returns and passenger returns to passenger’s seat (still yacking on her phone, by the way) and driver returns to driver’s seat and they speed off.

Madness. Absolute madness.

The first spider.

And it’s a doozy.

Drying my hair this morning, I look up and see a spider so large I think it has its own shadow. And it’s high up toward the ceiling. Great. Maybe it will just wander it’s way out the window.

But if not, it could get in my bed….

So this is bad, I think. I’m just going to go to work now… (First stage of grief is denial.)

At lunch, I returned home and it was still there. Larger than life. Mocking me.

I consulted with my mom.

Mom: Well, you just have to kill it. I had to kill some big spiders in England.
Me: Maybe I could call hot neighbor and have him kill it.
Mom: No. That is pathetic. Don’t go to that level.
Me: It’s not even like that. It is just about the spider.
Mom: Still pathetic.
Me: Fine.

Not the motherly advice I was seeking.

I went around and tried to get some advice from co-workers. One co-worker said, “suck it up.”

Well now that was harsh.

No, she meant literally, “suck it up” with the vacuum.

Hmmmm…something to consider.

To be continued….