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What a strange week it has been.  As I mentioned before, I wasn’t too shocked with the news that I got on Tuesday, but it’s still an adjustment.  Wednesday, I was at Gentleman Caller’s house for a while, eating dinner, and distracting him from school work, then I left to meet friends for drinks.

I got outside, and couldn’t find my car anywhere.  I walked the length of the street over and over, eventually punching the panic button repeatedly just in case I had forgotten what it looked like.  The car was gone.  I called Gentleman Caller and said, “I feel like I’m losing my mind, but my car seems to not be here.”

He came outside, looked around, and announced, “Well your car can’t have been stolen, this is the East Side.”  I gave him a dirty look for that comment, and then he called his cousin who lives across the street, to see if she knew anything. “The white car?” she asked, “yeah, it got towed.”

It seems that I was blocking someone’s driveway, and they had my car taken away from me.  Let that be a lesson to everyone out there– don’t do that.

Gentleman Caller and I went to the police station a couple blocks away, where we found the door locked, and a tiny, blonde policewoman affixing giant sanitary napkins to a parked car.  I pretended not to see what she was doing for a moment, and asked her where my car would wind up after being towed.  She gave me a phone number, pulled the backing off another giant pad (with wings!) and slapped it onto the passenger’s side window.  “Are those adult diapers?” I asked her, “or just giant pads?”

“Just giant pads.” she said and then started telling a story about revenge.

The person who answered my phone call inquiring after my car, promptly muttered something I couldn’t understand then transferred me.  The next person looked up my plate, told me that yes, they had my car, and muttered that I would have to go somewhere to get it.

“Well, where is that?” I asked.

He sighed heavily, and muttered “hfjh.lf.lknmlEWR Washington Street.”

I cannot understand anything the police in this state say. It’s uncanny how ALL of them seem to have the thickest Rhode Island accents ever.

Gentleman Caller is really supposed to be using this time to write a paper that can determine the fate of his academic career, but I persuade him to drive me across town using the reason that I would rather not pay to have my car held overnight, and I cannot drive both his car and my own.

It has started raining heavily by this point.

Finding the proper building is a bit of a challenge since I couldn’t understand the number that the man on the phone had told me, and once we found the building, I had to make a phone call to Jewish Friend trying to figure out which door to go into.  After I got the release for my car, I had to then call the tow company and arrange to meet him fifteen minutes later after he finished cleaning up an accident.

By this point, Gentleman Caller has become anxious, “I don’t have time for this.  I’m sorry to be an asshole, but I really don’t have time for this.”

My agreement that I too, do not have time for this sounded a bit hollow since I was merely missing a night of drinking with friends.  Jewish Friend was called upon to relieve Gentleman Caller in the “get Andria’s car back” adventure, and he went back home to achieve.

45 minutes, and $125 dollars later, I have my crappy Malibu back, and Jewish Friend and I are eating pastry.  I mentioned to the tow-truck fellow that I had been laid off the day before (which I will be telling everyone who gives me goods and services for a good long while), and he talked the police officer out of ticketing me, saving me a cool $30.  He also informed me that I was barely blocking the guy’s driveway– he could have easily gotten around me– but apparently this guy is a total douche.  Speaking of revenge…

Then the following day, I rode to Kingston with Jewish Friend to work on my finals, forgot that I had driven to her house in the morning, and when she brought me to my place, my car was not there.

My heart stopped, and I was certain that the tow-truck guy was getting revenge on my for some imagined slight– I hadn’t been gracious enough about the ticket, I hadn’t looked properly horrified when  he told us the story about his niece being molested, I hadn’t said anything nice about his dog etc.

Since I locked my keys in my car the week before this, and now I keep misplacing my car, I will be fully paranoid for at least three months, perhaps longer.  At least now that I don’t have that job in Newport, I can almost stop driving completely– except now it’s cold out, oh bother.

When I was in Jr. High, I found myself in the rather ridiculous predicament of always being home sick when the Jehovah’s Witnesses showed up.  The doorbell would ring, and though I tried to be sneaky, they always caught a glimpse of me, so I had to open the door.  The second time they showed up, they actually remembered me, and asked “did you have a chance to read the literature we left you last month?”

When I mentioned this to my mother later on, she advised me, “just tell them that you’re perfectly happy with your own religion, and tell them to have a good day.”

This didn’t sound like anything I would ever say, so I decided then and there that I would just stop answering the door.

A few years later, I was living in Fargo, and I came home to find The Book of Mormon and an assortment of pictures of Jesus spread out on the coffee table.  They were spread out in such a way that it made me feel like someone had broken into my house to arrange them nicely, and was interrupted. When then-boyfriend came home and I asked him what the hell Jesus was doing all over the coffee table, he informed me, “Some Mormons stopped by, so I argued with them for a while, and they asked if I wanted a free copy of The Book of Mormon.  It was free, so I said ‘of course’.” He then shelved it in the office in between The King James Version and Ken’s Guide to the Bible and exclaimed how well-rounded we were. “Now we can make fun of almost everything.”

Later, my brother told me that if Mormons come knocking on your door, you can ask them to do chores for you.  I’ve never tested this theory, but it is interesting– seems like kind of a dick move though, and I’d probably feel guilty.

Lately, I’ve noticed that at my house in Providence, people have been ringing my doorbell a lot.  At first I thought maybe I’ve been home more often, and this is what goes on while I’m at work or school, but I’m really not sure.

About a month ago, at 1am, there was a cop ringing my doorbell.  When I asked him what he wanted, he asked me if I’d called him, and said he’d received a call about loud music from an address that was not mine.  I told him that that wasn’t my address, but he said he couldn’t find the one that the dispatcher gave him.  It was very strange, but I told him that I hadn’t been bothered by any music, and thanked him for his vigilance.

A little later, it was two guys who wanted to sell me on upgrading to FiOS.  When I told them that I have neither a landline telephone nor cable and quoted them how much I pay monthly for internet, they glanced down at the sign-up sheet and said “ok.”

Then another FiOS guy showed up, and when I told him that I’d already spoken to some people about the service, he still tried to sell me on it.  Then when I told him that I’m poor, he offered me a job selling FiOS door-to-door.

Yesterday, it was a guy asking if my apartment is for rent, and today some chick for whom I did not answer the door, but I think she rings my doorbell every day cause I know I’ve seen her before.

The problem is, that I always think it just may be important, and it never is.  Maybe is the back of my mind, I’m expecting a stranger to show up and give me a box of money, but that’s very unlikely.  I think I’ve finally perfected the art of peeking without being seen, and I’m not answering anymore unless it looks like a delivery person.