And to be fair, being married to J., and living the weird-ass triple lives that we do, we do end up with more than our share of "Oh shit, the cat is hiding up the chimney" type stories than your average bear.
But this was actually very mundane. One of my current meds has apparently made my hair very resistant to bleach. So my hairdresser, who is awesome, was trying to do my typical style of dark brown with bright red black widow stripes. And the red would. Not. Take. We tried three times before giving up, staying at the salon until after midnight. My hair is mainly a uniform gorgeous black with a few red strands in it at the moment. So I start heading home, half-asleep, and whilst turning onto the on-ramp to the freeway I clip the curb and my tire goes flat. Keep in mind that I found my hairdresser while working in a totally different city, and she is so awesome I now exclusively go to her, but that means her salon is a 45-minute drive from home. No way I can limp in on a flat.
So I pull over into a cinema parking lot and look at it. I can't see any obvious damage, so I hope against hope that maybe a sharp point on the edge of the concrete just made a pinhole. I bust out my can of Fix-A-Flat and screw it onto the valve and hit the button.
As it turns out, there was a sharp shard on the concrete, but it had cut a clean slice into the tire right at the hubcap line where I couldn't see it. And due to random happenstance, when I parked, that slit was angled right at the crest of the wheel.
So I lean down and hit the button on the can. Gelatinous goo surges out, into the tire, out the slice and directly onto the front-top of my head and my face, like a hideous tire-kakke fetish video.
So I am sitting on my ass in a near-abandoned parking lot, exhausted, frustrated, and yelling 4th-level insults at an inanimate object when headlights hit me. My first thought was "Great, it's a cop asking me to clear out since I'm not a customer." Instead, it turned out to be two true Southern Gentlemen who helped me wrestle the tire off and get my spare on. I thanked them profusely, because goddamn. We need more of those.
So I managed to head home (while periodically slapping myself across the face to stay awake), and didn't notice the full extent of the Horrible Goo in my forelock until the next morning.
I've since managed to comb the larger rubber-cement-like wads out, so now there is just a thin silicate residue coating the hair directly in front of my face, which I am eager to remove without cutting it off.
So yeah, probably didn't live up to the epicness that people expected. But it still improved my mood immeasurably that you all expected it.
We're going to NOLA tomorrow night. Epic tales will definitely follow. Y'all deserve it.