This Jew got her Christmas miracle

Adam took our sporty red car down to LA, so I've been driving Sherman. Sherman as in Sherman tank. Sherman as in the 1995 Chevy Suburban that we bought when we trucked out to Missouri for four months in fall 2011. He is a huge motherfucking beast, but I can usually parallel-park him pretty well.

Today was a bit tricky. I was parking on Piedmont Avenue and it took a little bit of jiggering. Then I got out of the beast and sure enough, there are scratches on the car in front of me. I don't remember hitting it, but ... you know, when you're driving a fucking Mack truck, you're bound to screw up your margin of error.

I walked into Gaylord's and it was packed. Only game in town on Christmas Day. By the time I ordered my drink and asked for a pen (because the writer never carries one), at least 10 minutes had elapsed. I scribbled a note of apology with my contact information and went outside to place it under the windshield wiper.

The car was gone.

No note on my truck.

No sign of whether those scratches had existed previously or not.

So, you know, it looks like I'm off the hook. And the boys are coming home today. And the future holds promise.

Good stuff.