Alexis blogs

So I was turning onto Forest at about 2:30 a.m., and a little bit of something white caught my eye.

BANG! BOOM! Rattle. BANG! Lurch. BOOM!

The bottom of my car hit something hard, and with all the grace of an overweight elephant with vertigo, Ulysses heaved its way over the thing. (My car’s name is Ulysses. Long story.)

I stopped by the side of the road. I looked in my rear-view mirror trying to see what the hell I just hit, but instead just saw the police car that just happened to be around coming to a stop behind me.

I got out of the car and said to the policeman now examining the road, “What did I just hit?!”

At least, I think that’s what I said. That is, I’m pretty sure I did manage to keep phrases like “the fuck” and “the bloody goddamned hell” out of my question, which were more along the lines of what I was thinking at that point.

“Looks like a block,” he said.

And it was. A concrete block, painted white, at least a foot long on its longest side, was sitting smack dab in the middle of Forest Ave., just waiting for the next unlucky sedan to come clunking along.

We examined Ulysses for damage and didn’t find anything immediate. He asked if I wanted him to fill out an accident report in case I did find some damage, and I said that was probably a good idea. He asked for my license and registration.

It takes a policeman asking for my registration for me to discover just how much junk I have shoved into my glove compartment.

While he filled out the report in his car, I fished a Meijer bag out of my back seat and started filling it with piles of paper from my glove compartment. I think that rush of adrenaline put me in cleaning mode. I threw away Mapquest directions to the homes of very nearly everyone I knew, some people I don’t even see anymore. I found directions in there for routes I’ve had memorized for years.

So the officer finished and I went on my way. That block is probably still there. The officer just kicked it to the curb (ha) near the bus stop.

I’m okay, except maybe for a little stiffness. Plus it’s now almost 4:30 in the morning, and I’m still inconveniently wide awake.

So. The question of the night: What the hell was that thing doing there?

As you may know, I started this blog as part of a class assignment. To finish off the assignment, I wrote an essay on my blogging experience.

Read the essay >>

The Lord of the Rings ads on TBS.

“Frodo” is my favorite.

One night last week, after getting out of class in the evening and realizing how hungry I was, I decided that I was thinkin’ Arby’s.

I liked Arby’s a lot. My love affair with the chain sort of ended after they stopped selling jalapeño poppers, but I still occasionally had cravings for their yummy roast beef sandwiches and such. So I went.

This particular location was already kind of seedy. It was kind of a rotten customer service experience from the start. I had to correct the cashier several times while he was taking my order.

Cashier: “Would you like the combo?”
Me: “No, thanks, just the sandwich and the potato bites.”
Cashier: (Pushes a button, looks up.) “Did you order the combo?”

But that was okay. Sometimes you space out and forget customers’ orders. I did it all the time working concessions at a theater. Whatever.

The total was four dollars and some change; I handed him a five. He gave me my receipt. I blinked at him for a moment and then pointed out he hadn’t given me my change. He blinked back at me, pushed a few buttons on the register, then said, “Um, I’ll have to give it to you after these next people order.”

Well, that was annoying. Oh, well. Some places require manager approval to open the register. So I waited, got my sandwich, and saw that the same people were still standing at the register, apparently still deciding on their order.

Well, that was really annoying. So I left without my change. Just a couple coins. Whatever.

On the way home I thought to myself, “Come on, guys. Don’t make me hate Arby’s. I like Arby’s. I don’t want to hate the roast beef sandwich place.”

So I got home, sat down at my desk, unwrapped my sandwich (I got chicken this time - something different), and took a big bite. Mmm, food. Food good. I took another bite.

A shadow of movement caught my eye. Still chewing, sandwich still held at the ready, I looked down at my sandwich wrapper and saw a live beetle.

I’ll repeat that, because this is kind of a long entry and I don’t want you to miss the point.

Ahem. I looked down at my sandwich wrapper and saw a live beetle.

I stopped chewing and, as I watched the beetle skittering about on the silvery paper, slowly pieced together the situation.

Beetle. Sandwich wrapper. Beetle. Sandwich. Me eating sandwich. Beetle.

You probably get the idea.

When I returned to the store, quietly explained the situation to the manager and asked for a refund, she gave it to me immediately. I didn’t have to show her the now-brutally-squished beetle I had left in the crumpled sandwich wrapper out in the car just in case. So the situation was resolved, I guess.

When I made the silent plea not to hate Arby’s, I didn’t think anything could actually happen to make me truly hate the restaurant.

Boy, was I asking for it.