I was alone at the paper, though there were others on my floor. The car was at Goodyear, because the slashed tire was covered for the damage. They had my cell number.
The cell was out of service. Had been for two weeks. Out of service does not make it dead. It makes it a very expensive clock/calculator/phone book. By 7:00 I wondered about the car and called Goodyear. No answer. Didn't check my cell for messages because I never follow up. My OGM is to call my home number. So I walked the four blocks to Goodyear, where the Tracker was neatly locked away inside the building. When I tried to call Husband RJ, I learned the phone was useless. Returned on foot to the paper, where I called home and left a message for him that was never returned.
Last night was hellacious. Working alone with glitching software made for an busy, anxious night. So naturally I lost all sense of potty-training. No car--no quick exit. No RJ--no face-saving white knight. No cash (wedding planners are broke and debt-riddled)--no taxi (who wouldn't want me in his cab, anyway).
Just a bathroom stall and a packet of wipes. Took a half hour to make myself reasonably presentable, albeit faintly stinky. If the people sharing the floor, and those stopping by, noticed, they said nothing.
A coworker drove me home at midnight. I grumped at Husband RJ, who was blissfully asleep the entire four and a half hours, and went to bed.
Cripe. I can survive anything.