Absolutely no lemons in this lemonade.

I am generally a calm person. 

I’m a “meh” using, karma-believing, “I’m sure it will all work out” and “look on the bright-side”-saying person with a natural “que-sera-sera” attitude that would make a Zoloft-addict jealous. 

It takes A LOT to get me to a boiling point.

So it surprised even me when I hit 212 degrees last week.

And just what drove me there?

Oh, I’m so glad you asked—or, kept reading at least. 

Driving home last week, I was the victim of a random act of fate. Actually, it was the unfortunate act of another driver, and my car was the real victim. 

Some nice person stopped to let another driver make a left turn across a busy road. But said other driver failed to notice that there were two lanes of traffic.

So at this point, you’re probably thinking:

“Oh, a car accident. Yeah, dumb drivers make me mad too.”

WRONG

Accidents happen (Que-sera-sera), but what sent me into anger-induced oscillations wasn’t the inconvenience or the pain of seeing my poor car with a crumpled fender and hood. 

Nope.

It was the insurance people.

After the incident I managed to get my –what-I-thought-was-only-cosmetically-damaged car home and immediately called my insurance company like a good little girl.

The next day I get a call.

Have you heard from the other party’s insurance?

No.

So I called them and left a message.

The "Other-Insurance-USA" representative never calls.

I call back.

Rinse and repeat every two hours for an entire day.

Friday night (now two days after the accident), I got the call that pending final approval, my car—a 2003 Eclipse (the year before the tragic redesign)—would be actually be “totaled” because the damage actually was a lot worse than it appeared.

Can you feel the stress level rising?

What I thought was going to be two or three days of driving a cool rental car, is now going to cost me years of car payments I hadn’t planned on initiating for another year or two, or as long as I could get away with it. 

This of course sent me into a weekend-long Kubler-Ross spiral of the five stages of grief and by the Monday following the accident, I had reached the final stage of acceptance— including  beginning to consider my options—such as what to get as my next vehicle.

Monday morning I called the other driver’s insurance and left a message. 

"Please call me back at or shortly after two." (my awesome job may let me listen to music or audio books all day, but it doesn’t let me answer my phone.)

They call back an hour later.

I hide in the break room and call back—voicemail. 

"If I can’t reach you before then, please call me back at two."

On my lunch break I call this company representative, and apparently Every.  Single. Person (isn’t it funny how cathartic hyperbole is when you’re upset?...or...ever?) who could possibly help me is on lunch or unavailable, but they will be back in 30 minutes. 

“But my lunch break is over in ten minutes. Who can I talk to now?”

“Um…can I put you on hold while I try to find someone?”

“No.” *click*

By this point, I was beyond boiling point, hitting the roof, not seeing straight, or any other anger-related clichés you might want to dredge up. 

I went home "sick" and only five minutes out the door, I get a phone call from the one person I have been trying to reach since Friday morning. 

A full hour before 2:00pm, I might add.

I know that what happened to me or my car isn’t this woman’s fault. She wasn’t driving the car. She doesn't even live in the same state. She has her own responsibilities, problems and has to deal with stressed out people all day. Also, she has every right to her own lunch break and can't do her job on everyone else's schedule. I've done customer service before. I know this.

But when she acted as though I hadn’t left a single voicemail for her or her supervisor in that moment, I have to admit it. 

I kind of hated her. 

Just a little bit, I swear. 

I asked some questions, and finally got some answers. She asked some necessary questions took down some information and cheerily said good-bye.

This was all the exchange I needed to alleviate my aggravation.

Now that I’ve gotten to speak to an actual person, things seem to actually be progressing a lot smoother. "Other-Insurance-USA" has accepted the liability, the rental car reservation has been transferred off of my insurance to "Other-Insurance-USA" and as an added bonus, it turns out that my car will be having surgery instead of a funeral.  

The new parts have been already been ordered for my eclipse—which I will be renaming Steve Austin. 

…better…stronger…faster.

*cue the vocal stylings of Doris Day*

For those of you wondering who "Other-Insurance-USA" is… let’s just say that the only blue box I will ever let have anything to do with my mode of transportation, better come with David Tennant. 

Off and Running

I want to be a writer. 

Technically, I am a writer.  I have a finished draft of my first fiction novel, and I'm working on the next, but I would like to actually get paid to write.  Have an agent, a publisher, and a copy of my book hardbound and on bookstore shelf near you.

Before I know it, the awards will start coming in along with the money, the jealous haters, and the fans. 

Then it will only be a matter of time before my tragically-predictable death and the release of a final posthumous novel discovered in a filing cabinet full of pictures of my cat and prose written on used restaurant napkins— assembled and completed by a middle-aged son who always resented me for my fame. 

The ungrateful bastard.

Where was I?

I'm still working out all kinks (such as my own laziness and procrastination) in my plan to take over a small corner of  the literary world.  In the meantime, I need to starting building my empire and stretching my writing skills beyond work emails asking:

“Hey, what are you having for lunch?  I brought a lean-pocket, but I’m not feeling it.  What are they having in the cafeteria?”

I have chosen a blog in order to prepare myself for the scrutiny, rejection, and - ya’ know - the positive stuff that a future will bring as I attempt to scale the publishing mountain.  A personal journal won’t do because the only person who could possibly mock a personal journal is a little brother or sister, and alas, I have neither.

So, here I am throwing my hat into the blogosphere.

What can you expect to find here? 

• ·Random Acts of Writing
•  This could pop up as anything, but will most likely fall into these categories:
• Personal Rants
• Look for the word “douche” to appear often
• Stream-of- Scribbling
• Like those journaling exercises at the beginning of English class but with my own twisted take 
• Submit your suggestions to plotbunnyfoofoo@gmail.com with the Subject “Stream-of-Scribbling Suggestion” --try saying five times fast while you do ;) 
• Feats of Fiction 
• Short pieces of fiction or the occasional page or two from my Work-In-Progress (W.I.P) folder
• Book reviews 
• The nature of my job requires very little human interaction (yay technology!) so I get to listen to audio books all day and I have to tell someone what I thought, so why not you (feel special yet?)

Also, an  !! exclusive !!  behind-the-scenes look at who how my roommate and I are slowly aiding  the evolution of the English language by inventing our own words or annexing existing ones for our own unique applications.

(Announcer voice) All this and more! 

So please read and hopefully enjoy.  Spread the URL across the universe --and any other verses you may have access to (just in case Doctor Who or Joss Whedon are reading this)-- and comeback soon.  

                                                                                                              

                                                                                                              -Angela