A week ago last Saturday (August 5), my air-conditioning quit working a few minutes after six in the evening. In Georgia. In August.

I called the folks I have a service agreement with, but it was too late for emergency service that day. I decided to  tough it out until an already-scheduled service call Monday afternoon. I wussed out Sunday morning when I woke up and the house was eighty degrees. The service call cost me $300.

Perhaps from sleeping with the windows open and a fan blowing on me, I picked up a bug. It started with a scratchy throat and a cough, but by Sunday night, had acquired various other symptoms that left me feeling like shit. I dosed myself with Nyquil and went to bed.

Monday I had to cancel my first appointment with the new retina specialist. The old one retired and will definitely be missed. I’m anxious to meet his replacement, but was too sick to go.

For three days, I hardly got out of bed except to give Toodles her insulin. I didn’t feel like eating. All I wanted to do was sleep.

Tuesday it became clear something was wrong with Toodles. She stopped eating or drinking water and yelped whenever I touched her. A friend dropped her off at the vet for me.

Feeling like death warmed over, I drove up to the vet’s office that afternoon to pick her up. A broken tooth is causing all the issues. He gave me syringes of pain medication to shoot into her mouth twice a day and charged me almost $200.

Toodles was better Wednesday. Me too, a little. I ventured out to Chick-fil-A for a large chicken soup — the first food I’d eaten since Monday. It tasted so good, I asked a friend to come over and make me a pot. He did, and I ate on it for the next three days.

Thursday the vet called to check on Toodles and we scheduled her to get the tooth removed. She goes in Thursday of this week. The estimate is $450.

I began to feel human again — enough to take a shower. Feeling clean and fresh improved my outlook. In case you hadn’t picked up on it, I don’t do sick very well.

Friday I was feeling almost good. That evening, I was hungry, but out of chicken soup and not in the mood to cook anything. I ordered a pizza from one of the smaller chain s– for something different.

The young man knocked on my door with the pizza about an hour later. Rain was coming down in buckets. I added a tip, signed the slip, and took my pizza. I hadn’t even sat down when the guy who lives across the street was at my door, asking if I’d seen what the delivery dude had done to my garage.

I had not, and the driver didn’t mention it. It’s not like he didn’t notice….

 

The manager told me he’d send the driver back. To apologize. And then we could work it out.  I’m like, oh hell no! My problem is with you. Your problem is the driver.

But I was wrong.

Yes, folks. It’s true. If a pizza delivery driver damages your property, it’s between you and the poor driver. Begging to differ rather vehemently made the manager cry, so she handed me off to the assistant manager who promised they’d make it good if I dropped the estimates off.

Right.

That’s when I called the cops. The dispatcher fussed at me for not calling them in the first place since the driver left the scene of an accident. They talked to me, my neighbor who’d witnessed the bang up, and then went to the pizza place. Later, they called to tell me the driver’s insurance info was on the police report.

Meanwhile, I can’t get my car out of the garage. I called a repair company. He was buried but promised to come out Saturday afternoon. He got here about seven p.m. and said the door wouldn’t go up enough to get my car out. It’s there until he comes back first thing Monday morning to replace my door. Total cost: $750.

Yes, his insurance should pay for this. But I’m out of pocket until all the paperwork is done.

When it rains, it pours.

Did I mention it’s rained every day this week? My grass is knee-high, and my mower, of course, is in the garage.