It’s been an interesting few months living on an imaginary street. We park the car in a worm hole. No, really. The three-legged dog peed on my tire the other day.
Our street is a new, invented street which is basically a long driveway. The city refuses to put up a street sign even though they generated the address. The street does not show up in Google Maps. However, we are next to a fucking minor league baseball park and a landmark bridge, so most people can find it when you mention these things. The United States Postal Service can find my house. UPS can find my house. Fed-Ex can sometimes find my house. Last week, they delivered something one day, and then the next day they opted to foist an item back on the sender because my house had disappeared again. Whoops. It’s so hard to hit a moving target like a huge mill building. Verizon managed to hook up phone service in my house, except they have my address as “Building 17, Parcel something something” on another street entirely instead of the technical USPS-sanctioned address. The upshot is that people who want my money can usually make it by for a spell.
Last night we got shot down by a pizza place. A pizza place which must have previously delivered to this building since they managed to carpet the hallway with leaflets. They took our order, complete with an inquisition about directions and landmarks. Then the driver called from the car. He was down the block, and then he got sucked into the parking worm hole. He was so shaken that he had to turn around and take my food all the way back to the restaurant. Oh, nuh-nuh. He did! His GPS box on his dashboard said we were funnin’ him. The parasite put a foot through my esophagus in protest.
So I give up. I went to the damn store and bought “groceries.” I hate doing that. I hate being reminded of agri-business and seeing what other people wear to the store and place in their carts. I lugged the groceries home. I put them in the “fridge.” I hear this is how it’s done. Then I made a list to stick on the front of the fridge to let me know what was in the fridge. Opening the door is too taxing for someone who frequently gets out of the shower with conditioner not washed out of her hair. I need tool tips and maybe that little talking paper clip. I also cross-referenced the expiration dates to placate my old food phobia. You’ve won, Google Maps. See what you’ve done to me?