For those of you following along, the car I mentioned that hadn’t been moved in well over six weeks IS GONE. The day after I’d idly threatened to soap its windows I was out with the dogs and beheld a big, rattley tow truck idling in the street. Could it be? I thought, clutching my chest and wondering if the imminent removal of this petty obstruction would bring a swift and merciful conclusion, not just to this chapter in our condo association’s story, but to my wretchedly pampered existence as well.

Not to put too fine a point on it, or anything.

With the help of a therapeutic dose of nitroglycerin, a sword disguised as a cane, and several raccoons harnessed to a lawn chair, I made it upstairs and looked out the window. A young woman I’d never seen before spoke briefly with the tow truck driver and then opened the car’s driver’s side door and tried the engine. It wouldn’t turn over. Looking sort of apologetic, she got out and then stood on the sidewalk while the driver attached her car to his truck. I don’t know what happened after that, I was too busy alerting Reuters and the Associated Press.

So! Car not stolen: hooray. Car possibly left in the same spot for nearly two months because owner can’t afford to have it fixed: boo.

In other news, I went to an informal blogger meet-up the other night. Leah was all, “Hey, all these people are going to get together, you want to come?” There was something in her e-mail about “Orange County” and “leaving at 2:00 to beat the traffic” that didn’t initially sink in. There was also something in my head about not drinking anymore on account of imminent heart failure and not being as entertaining in person as I am online, drunk or sober that didn’t really rush to the surface, either.

Nevertheless! I made my way down to Leah’s and then we had an incredibly pleasant and chatty drive through pre-rush-hour L.A. traffic. Since we made it to Newport Beach a healthy two hours early, Leah settled in at the bar with some work and I walked to the mall across the street to relieve my wallet of some excess birthday money. A low blood sugar-y feeling overtook me in Macy’s Gwen Stefantastic shoe department, so I found a place that served broccoli-cheese soup at the exact temperature and consistency of Hell.

While I was Googling local emergency rooms on my phone and trying to bathe the third-degree burns on my tongue with my own saliva, I heard a voice say, “You look familiar!” THIS is why you post pictures of yourself all over the Internet, people, so that Brandon can walk up to you, look deep into your eyes, and say, “Next time that thing happens with your heart, just bear down!“

We made our way back to the bar and I succumbed to two pints of Newcastle, I believe it was, and had a lovely time drinking water shots and ogling Danny’s buttery nipples until I realized that I’d been up since 5 am and still had a three-hour drive home. So, not wanting to bring the party down just because of my advanced age and craving for death bed, I took Leah’s car keys and ditched her. (No, Joe was there, he drove her home, sheesh, I may be devoid of human feeling but I’m not a complete monster. And just because I stiffed everybody doesn’t give you the right to JUDGE ME.)

UPDATE: It’s back! The car is back! In a different spot, though. I’m toying with the idea of putting chalk marks on the tires to track if she’s moving it, as befits the role of neighborhood busybody I’ve begun to assume. I’ll also be out measuring the height of the grass with a ruler, yelling at drivers to slow down, and ratting on the kids who keep putting dish soap in the Jacuzzi.

Getting old is AWESOME.