No pressure: Just keeping it "wheel" after a really tire-ing day

It was one of those days where I should have just crawled back into bed five minutes after getting up. The kind of day where the planets, my back, and my truck were ALL out of alignment. But still, I persevered. 

Survived the workday to run my ka-zillion unavoidable errands afterwards. Made it to the bank TWO minutes after they closed at the very-reasonable, customer-friendly hour of 3:00. I calmly and quietly returned to my truck and drove at a safe speed to the nearby store to retrieve some photos I had ordered for a student who was moving...the parking lot requires a bit of negotiation and, as it was a bit full, I decided to (foolishly) abandon my ingrained habit of always backing into spaces as my husband has always encouraged.  Hence, the love my daughters and I share for the "pull-through." 

Ran in. Was in the store for less than eight minutes and then emerged to complete confusion. What on earth? WHY was there a tire WEDGED between the asphalt and the undercarriage of the Titan? My brain could not compute this scenario. I literally walked around the truck, crawling over the solid wall of packed ice and snow bordering the right of my vehicle (more on this later) and COUNTED my tires. One. Two. Three. Four. That seemed right. So what's with numero cinco? I've heard of a third wheel. Turns out the 5th wheel serves the same purpose except instead of just feeling "left out," you're left completely stranded. I glanced at my watch. My dentist appointment was in 15 minutes. Time to get hoofin'. Yup. You guessed it. In the rain.

Made it to the dentist "Amy, let us give you a lift back," Dr. Eric AND my dental hygienist Michelle offered. "No, thank you," I replied stubbornly, and stupidly stomped off...You guessed it. In the rain. Reluctantly called my husband who had to re-route his day even though I assured him that "I've got this."  Rarely do I ever "have this."  "It's the spare," he told me, clearing up some of the mystery, "the chain holding it must have snapped or rusted through." Hoping to fix this before he arrived, I dug out a cable and wove it through the wedged tire. I planted my posterior on the parking lot, placed both feet firmly against the bumper, and played tug-of-war with Titan. Not surprisingly, I lost. Okay. Plan B. Inspecting the space in front of the truck, again crawling over that rock hard wall of plowed ice and snow, I gauged how far forward I could inch to perhaps dislodge my bottom barnacle. I delicately moved forward, barely nudging the nose of the truck forward, trying to angle a bit of room. Nope.

Brad arrived and removed the obstruction easily with relatively little comment (just implied criticism). Fortunately, my husband is well-accustomed to being resented for his heroic endeavors. This knight in shining armor is rarely lauded with wreaths of roses and accolades...his good deeds are instead met with the silent treatment and sulking. 

And if all this wasn't bad enough, doesn't Brad have to pop the cherry on the top of this ship-show of a day by reporting the dinner-plate-sized dent in the front of Titan. I rolled my eyes. Brad is always SO dramatic. The next morning, I grabbed a plate as I left for the morning, to show him how ridiculous he is. After he received my picture, he texted back, "I see you were trying to prove me wrong using an actual plate. What a bowl-ed move."