You know what's harder than driving in heels? Changing a tire. In heels. And don't think I'm missing the symbolism of the nail-in-my-sidewall being in the shape of a 6, either.

Funny thing, Adam was ahead of me in traffic. We were going to vote together before he went to work and I went to the coffee shop, but a couple of SUVs decided to cut in between us, and when I pulled off the road, he didn't see.

And y'know, today was the day when I didn't have my cell phone.

But meh. It was just a tire change. I came up with new and exciting profanity, ripped my last good pair of work pants and ended up covered in grime, but I got that bastard changed with hand tools in under twenty minutes. That felt good.

And then, just as I was turning around to get back on the road, I saw Adam zip by, and even though it was a split second, and he wasn't looking in my direction, and he was going a good 45 m.p.h., I could see he was worried. I tried to flag him down, but, he was already gone.

One bootlegger's turn later, and I followed him up to the house, where he came out of the garage looking completely worried and pissed off, and then he saw the donut and made the "oooooooooooooooh" cooing face reserved for small children with boo-boos or injured puppies.

Bucky's been changed over to a set of nearly dead Azenis as a stop gap measure, and a new set of Bridgestones are on order. And I'm back to being broke.

And listen, if I somehow become magically impregnated and give birth in the span of the next twelve hours, I'm naming the kid Damien. Or Rosemary, if it's a girl. But seriously. I wouldn't even be shocked.