...I hate Oakland.

I do. I really do.

here's my day:

I wander into the kitchen for to find food.

the counter is moving. why is the counter moving? Oh. the ants are back. joy. and it's a food preparation surface, so I can't really spray the happy ant death upon it. and they're coming in behind the stove, so I can't really get at their point of entry. joy. oh well. windex! and I'll deal with it after dropping The Boy off at the BART station.

so The Boy and I attach the bike rack onto the car and drive to BART. I pull up to the wait/dropoff line and he stays in the car while I go get my bike, so we don't get a ticket.

I walk to the rack. no bike. I gaze at the racks. nope, definitely didn't lock it elswh-oh. my gaze travels downward. ah. a lock. my lock. my "secure for areas of moderate to high crime" with a 9 out of 12 security rating- one lock down from their New York uber lock.

yeah. that lock.

it's been cut, and is dangling forlornly at the bottom of the rack. I head back to the car, send The Boy off to his train, and go trolling for parking spots. after an agonizingly long time, I find one. I walk back to the rack. unlock my poor bike lock, go to the attendant, who smiles sadly at me and points to the BART cop standing next to her window.

we chat. I'm pretty much screwed, because I don't have a serial number and that's really the only thing that can help me. where's the serial number? I don't know. hopefully Mom's Uterine Tracking Device has better luck. the Decorah Police didn't have it, and the bike shop I bought it at...at least 6 years ago...is out of business. can I get the $2250 insurance from Kryptonite? not without that serial number.

was the bike locked with one simple U-lock? nope! I locked the rear wheel to the frame with a cable lock and the front wheel to the frame with a Masterlock Street Cuffs lock. and then locked the whole thing to the rack with the U-lock.

the sole saving grace to all this? I hadn't yet put my christmas presents on it (nice front/rear lights, and the rack for the pack over the back wheel. (heh. rackpackback), so at least I still have those.

I drive home. I cry. I whine. I put ice on my bruised knuckles. (don't punch streetlights.) I force Kateswiegehts to listen to whining. I whine at Ingebjørg.

I still have to do laundry. and kill the ants. and clean. and figure out what to do. and figure out how to replace the bike and pay rent at the same time.

and figure out how to avoid running away to Puerto Vallarta, hiding out until the RCS gets into port, and stowing away on her before jumping ship on a certain island where no one will eeever find me.