All in a Day's Work

My day began the other morning in the typical manner: wake up, groggily get a cup of freshly ground and brewed coffee (mmmm), shower, get dressed, make breakfast (note, the last two usually occur simultaneously), grab the goodies and run out the door. And so began my adventures.  


Arachniphobicoffeeia  
 
I made my way east, continuing my routine with a coffee pick-up at a "local" Dunkin Donuts. It is at this point that I generally, uneventfully, make use of the restroom. This morning, as I was doing what we ("we" meaning "potty trained humans) do in the porcelain throne room, I saw him. Right in front of me and coming fast; large, black, and hairy, he was coming right at me.  
Faster and faster - it was definitely Aragog! I know they showed his "character" dying in one of the films, but he is out and about ladies and gentlemen!  
As he got closer and larger, it was all I could do to keep from shrieking and running out of the restroom into the parking lot, pants (with all of the attached equipment - those who know what I do know what is attached) around my ankles, hoping against hope that I wouldn't trip and fall and be woven into an intricate web of ARAGOG cuisine. I was, however, frozen, partly due to fear - mostly due to the fact that I really had to pee. I'm sure he smelled my fear. It was one of those moments where time seems to slow down, unfortunately it didn't slow for Aragog. He kept coming at me and I couldn't stop peeing.  
Closer and closer he came; he just kept coming. He was nearly to my right shoe, just millimeters away from my toes, when I finally managed to grab my belt and all it's attachments and leap to safety. I put myself back together faster than Harry can create a patronis charm, washed my hands and I was OUT OF THERE!  
I slammed the door shut behind me to make sure the 8-legged giant didn't come after anyone else. I am certain that the entire eastern seaboard was saved by my courageous act of door slamming. He was, after all, at least the size of a quarter!  


The Squeegee  


Fully recovered from the Aragog incident, I continued on my way and began my search for a squeegee. You see, there are not only gigantic (quarter-size or larger) spiders here in the great Garden State, but also humming bird (or larger) size flying insects which I am fully convinced are filled with tar and purposely fly into the car windshield. Due to the many miles spent traversing the roadways up and down the state, it became imperative that I locate a squeegee.
     I stopped at the first logical place I saw - a gas station.
    The 105 year old attendant was more than happy to assist me.
     I didn't see the usual squeegee on the pump set up, so I said, "Excuse me, Sir, do you have a squeegee?"
     He seemed to be looking in my general direction, so I took that to mean that he did know that a voice had spoken.
     "Hi", I said as I raised my hand in a friendly neighborly sort of way. "Do you have a squeegee for my window?"
     He made a motion with his arm in the general direction of the pump behind me as his vocal cords resonated with a low rumble. I walked toward the pump but still didn't see the squeegee. Meanwhile, the gas-man was assisting another customer with the refueling of his truck. I wandered aimlessly about for a couple of seconds, then decided to try again.
     "Excuse me, I'm sorry, I don't see the squeegee. Where is it again?"
     This time, the ancient fellow gestured toward the building.
     It occurred to me that I must have misjudged the direction of his first gesture, so I sheepishly made my way toward the doorway. I fully expected to find a squeegee and bucket right in front of me, ready for my tar-bug removal project. However, all I found were boxes and a broom handle, minus the broom.
     Now the frustration was beginning to set in. Was this guy just not understanding what I was saying, could he not hear me, or was he just toying with my emotions? Just then, the driver of the freshly fueled work truck piped in.
"What do you need?" he asked, as though he hadn't heard my pleading requests for a squeegee the whole time he was watching his gas get pumped.
     "Oh, I was just looking for a squeegee for the bug-covered windshield, but they don't seem to have one here."
     "Did you try windshield washer fluid?" He asked.
     "Huh?" I muttered intelligently.
     "You know, washer fluid? For the windshield? You put it on there and it helps clean the window?"
     "Yes, I know what it is", I retorted, "but I still need a long object to clean it. My arms just aren't that long." (For the visual, I was dressed in a business suit and driving a large SUV, so the option of cleaning the windshield without an extension of my arm was just nonexistent.)
     "No", he said, "I mean use the windshield wipers. You put the fluid in the tank, then you squeeze the little button and the windshield wipers clean it for you. Did you try that?"
     Unable to bite my tongue any longer, I said, "Sir, I'm not an idiot. I know how to use the windshield wipers and the cleaning function. I have tried that about 10 times and these tar-filled bugs do not come off that way. It will require some scrubbing."

     "Why would you have a squeegee? Is this your gas station? I mean, do you work here?"
     "No, I don't work here, but this is my truck," he said, pointing to the large work truck next to the gas pump.
Not completely sure how to respond, I said, "Oh, ok. Well, I certainly am not expecting you to have the equipment to clean my windshield."
     "Ok, let me see what I have." 
He said this with a tone of utter annoyance, as though I had asked him to use his tongue to clean the bugs from my windshield.  
"No, really sir, it's ok."  
"Fine, just a second, let me just see if I have any glass cleaner," he grumbled as he pulled open his side container door and began to rummage through is things.  
Still not understanding why my windshield project had become so personal to him, I assured him that there was no need for him to dig through is things and that I really didn't have time to continue my quest. He seemed very annoyed and frustrated, but I had no time to help him with that. I hopped back in the car and the tar-bugs and I quickly departed the scene.  
I have no idea why my inquiry into the existence of a squeegee caused such confusion with one (very old) man and such an attempt at martyrdom in another. All I know is that the next time the windshield is covered in bugs, I'm just going to clean it with my sock. It will be less stressful for everyone.  


Sock Puppet??  


Later this same day, the bugs and I and our passengers were stopped at a traffic light. I noticed that the driver of the car in front of us seemed to be in a heated conversation based on the movements of his head. I also noticed that there seemed to be no passenger, so figured he must be on the phone.  
Then, I saw what appeared to be a tiny head in the center of the car. A closer look, (aka, slight lean forward and a squint) revealed something quite interesting. I saw with a tiny bit of surprise and a large dose of certainty, a SOCK on the man's hand.  
Yep, I was certain that he was talking to a sock puppet.  
I stared, dumbfounded. Really? A person talking to a sock puppet? Alone, in the car? Did he think that would count as a passenger for the HOV lane??  
I squinted through the tar-bug splatters and leaned forward to get a better view of the puppet show. My line of sight cleared a bit as I leaned around one of the larger splatters and then I just felt plain silly and rather disappointed.  
There was no sock puppet. No puppet at all. It was just his hand and a cell phone. He may have been talking to the hand, but at least it was holding a communication device, not wearing a sock.  
Crap, I thought. If only that guy would have had a squeegee in his truck.......and then the light turned green.