A perfect storm for white t-shirts.

I am trying really hard not to be grumpy about my night. I got of work a little late, which made going to the gym impossible. Not too big a deal normally, but I just renewed and want to make a fresh go of it.

Got home, checked in with family. My aunt’s triple bypass got rescheduled to tomorrow morning, but is expected to go off without a hitch. Finger’s crossed.

I decided that even though my documentary going pal Ronnie is currently in Isreal and unable to go with me, I would go see The Corporation alone. I checked the Reader and got on the train around 9:30 for a 10:30 show. I get to landmark and the snotty ticket guy explains that the Reader got it wrong. The 10:30 show is only on Fridays and Saturdays. Grrr. Of course there isn’t a 10:30 show of a documentary on a TUESDAY night. And I’m a loser for going along to a late night show on a Tuesday.

So now I’m hungry and my plan to eat at the concession stand has been dashed. Where can I eat? I start walking north on Clark and end up at a Subway with a TV. So I eat and watch Jay Leno and hear a crash of thunder and the other patrons start talking about the rain.

Shit.

It is pouring rain and I am at Subway alone and there is no way I’m paying for a cab. So I put on my trusted Neighborhoodie and start walking to the train in the pouring rain. That is when it hits me.

This is one of those storms that you run into, wearing a tight white shirt, no bra, and run across the neighborhood to your jilted lover’s apartment. When you get there, he takes care of the soaking wet part and then your problems are magically solved. A la “As good as it gets.”

I was wearing a black shirt covered in cat hair and $2 flip flops with no where to run. So I came home and gave Spidey some catnip. Time to curl up with Dr. Drew and Adam and crash.