My last post may have been confusing. So before I explain what the heck I was trying to explain, let me explain what I was doing Saturday night when I wrote this post.

I was drinking.

Was it obvious?

Lisa had classmates over Saturday night to celebrate the end of DIP week. Not sure why it is called DIP week, but the students don’t have class, and they spend all their time interviewing for internships.

So to celebrate the end of DIP week, I suggested we have a “dip” party. Lisa and her classmates loved the idea. It scares me when smart people think my ideas are good.

Don’t ask me what a “dip” party is, but that is what we did. I made a homemade spinach and artichoke dip, and everybody else brought various dips in jars as well as numerous bags of chips. There was also lots of alcohol. Myself drank Sailor Jerry and Coke.

My dear girlfriend did shots of Grey Goose vodka.

Somehow, I was the sober one.

So anyhow, later in the evening after all the drunk smart kids left, I decided to once again write about my broken car. I hadn’t seen it in a week, and was not quite sure what it is.

(Don’t worry, I wasn’t looking to drive it, just want to make sure it wasn’t towed somewhere).

However, last Thursday I had looked for my car, fruitlessly.

The last time I drove my car was the Friday night before, on my way home from work. Traffic was bad that night, and my transmission was failing, making for a very stressful drive. There were no parking spots open near our apartment, and after an hour long search, I found a parking space way, way far away from the apartment.

I had taken many twists and turns in my search, and was discombobulated after leaving my car.

I walked a few blocks before I realized where I was, and had my senses straight. Trying to note some landmarks so I could find my car again, the intersection of Catherine Street and 23rd Avenue stood out.

So that is where I started my search the next Thursday, nearly a week later, when I tried to find my car again.

Only this time it was 6:30 a.m. in the middle of a blizzard.

Ever since that harrowing Friday night drive, I have been taking the train to work every morning. I take the train to the Hammonton station, where my boss picks me up, since that station is on his way to work.

To make the train, I have to get up at 5:45 a.m. I got up even earlier that Thursday because of the snow storm, which turned out to be a 13-inch snowfall instead of the 4-8 inches predicted by the weathermen.

There were no busses or taxis running that morning, so I walked the 15 blocks to the train station (in my good work shoes). According to the message board at the station, the Atlantic City line was delayed. The lady at the ticket counter didn’t seem to even know the train was delayed, much less for how long.

So I waited to my pre-ordained time of 7 a.m. to bolt and move on to plan B.

Plan B was to drive my car.

Which brings us to the beginning of our story.

I walked from the train station another 20 blocks to Catherine and 23rd. The streets were blanketed with over a foot of snow, and the parked cars were like white Indian burial mounds.

There were several men with shovels, digging out the cars. One man asked me if I needed help digging out my car.

I told him I had to find my car first. Note: This interaction occurred at the corner of Catherine and 23rd.

I started a frantic search, from block to block, down alleys, through knee-high snowdrifts, all the while wearing my shiny black loafers. By 8 a.m., I had to pull the plug on plan B.

I had a photo shoot at 10 a.m. and I had to be there. The Atlantic City coast hadn’t received as much snow as Philly, and everybody else was able to make the shoot. Since I was the coordinator, I needed to be there to coordinate.

So I moved on to plan C: rent a car. (This was actually plan E, but for the sake of brevity, I will leave out plan C and D, one of which involved a sled, while another involved my warm bed and hot chocolate.)

In the end, I made it to work, and the photo shoot was as successful as it could be, with a coordinator covered in dry sweat and cringing from the massive blisters on his heels.

I did find my car, it wasn’t towed. In fact, the Honda was at the corner of 23rd and Catherine. Remember when I was talking to the guy with the shovel, who asked if I needed help?

We were standing right next to my car.