7:34 AM: Stumble out front door, carrying purse and bag. Recall that committee hearing starts at 8:15; note that schedule leaves just enough time to get to work, make sure no one urgently needs anything, and get to seat with cup of coffee.

7:35: Notice car is covered with strange spotty ice-and-snow hybrid characteristic of freeze-and-thaw pattern overnight. Throw bag onto passenger seat. Start car, turn on various defrosters. Take telescoping snow/ice weapon from back seat.

7:36: Scrape side windows, covered with surprisingly stubborn clumps of ice, in turn covered with blobs of snow. Note stupidity of weather. Swear. Mutter to self. Think about moving to Florida. Decide California would be better.

7:38: Scrape passenger side half of windshield, clearing ice according to long-established standard known as "Mostly." Walk around car. Scrape rear windshield, rendered manageable by rear defroster.

7:39: Wonder whether dirty joke lurks in expression "rear defroster."

7:40: Finish clearing windshield. Open driver's side door, dumping snow from upper edge of driver's side door onto driver's seat. Brush snow off driver's seat so as not to flash-freeze ass any more than necessary. Sit in car, look up at windshield, note poor job of clearing.

7:41: Curse limitations of "Mostly."

7:42: Try to start windshield wipers, note that they will not run, due to encasement in blocks of ice lashing them to windshield. Swear.

7:44: Attempt to free driver's side wiper. Pull gently on wiper to separate it from windshield and break ice. Note how easily wiper blade separates and rubber portion used for actual windshield cleaning peels away from remainder of wiper blade to become long, skinny, spaghetti-like thread of uselessness. Swear.

7:45: Decide windshield is close enough to clear to make it to work. Screw windshield. Wiper blade is only half-destroyed. Perhaps remainder of day can be salvaged and blade dealt with later.

7:46: Remember forecast of three inches of snow during daytime hours. Swear. Remember previous experience with wiper blade refills, and accompanying discovery that for whatever reason, rather common make of car does not take wiper refills available anywhere except, oddly, Target. Remember repeated attempts and wasted funds related to non-fitting gas station refills. Determine not to repeat previous error of multiple fruitless gas station visits. Glance at clock, figure that quick trip to Target close to work, which opens at 8:00, will work if both refills and self are there when store opens. Leave, hoping for low occurrence of road splatter.

7:47: Begin experiencing road splatter during 5-MPH drive out of apartment complex. Wrinkle nose.

7:49: Figuring that car is fairly warm, see whether wipers will come free now. Destroy second wiper blade, which is similarly reduced to thread.

7:50: Plod along highway, noting Target is farther than it seems when windshield cannot be cleaned.

7:55: Arrive Target parking lot. Climb out of car, figuring that removal of existing rubber refills from wiper blades will speed later process of replacement. Note that nothing can be accomplished with mittens on; throw mittens on passenger seat.

7:56: Begin epic battle with ice formations holding rubber refills to wiper blades. Pick ice with fingers. Pick rubber blade with fingers. Pick ice with fingers. Break off large chunks of ice with fingers.

7:57: Notice that fingers are very dirty.

7:58: Notice that fingers are very red.

7:59: Swear.

8:00: Lose all feeling in fingers. Store opens; epic battle with ice formations continues.

8:02: Majority of ice removed; fingers entirely numb; refills pried free at last. Follow two creepy men into Target.

8:03: Hands and fingers go through traumatic readjustment to very warm temperatures inside Target. Pain and prickly feelings ensue.

8:04: Discover that Target has entire new wiper blades for sale, but no refills. Conclude that obviously, previous home-base Target a few miles away, where refills were purchased last time, is cooler than cheap-ass Target in city, and decide to head for home-base Target. Leave cheap-ass Target.

8:06: Note that Big K is across from cheap-ass Target. Decide that Big K should be checked before trek to home-base Target begins.

8:09: Enter Big K. Wander aisles briefly before realizing that Big K is going out of business, and is already half-empty. Find wiper blade refills at long last, but note that they are in giant tubs of randomly selected auto parts from remainder of automotive department. Find only ones labeled "Standard." Know that wiper blades on car are definitely not "standard." Leave.

8:10: While exiting, confront surly man by automatic doors who snarls, "Didn't find anything you liked?" Look up at surly man. Snarl back, "You didn't have it." Leave some more.

8:12: Take off for home-base Target. Realize on-time arrival for work is hopeless; call office to provide warning of late arrival.

8:22: Remember that downtown traffic is hellish, and makes trek from cheap-ass Target to home-base Target harder than recalled.

8:40: Arrive at home-base Target. Walk to automotive section, located on opposite corner of store from front door. Note that display looks disturbingly similar to cheap-ass Target. Pause to wonder what caused Target to change corporate policy regarding wiper blade refills since last visit to home-base Target, when refills were available, as home-base Target also has no wiper blade refills at all. Resolve to research matter in old issues of BusinessWeek.

8:46: Leave home-base Target. Decide to travel to second Big K of morning, located near several gas stations as well as friendly old Goodyear available to serve as backups. Also near Caribou Coffee. Remind self that Caribou Coffee is not relevant to quest.

8:56: Arrive at Big K II: The Return Of Big K. At Big K II, note large selection of wiper blade refills. Hold up old, dead refill to one in package labeled "Narrow" (as opposed to "Standard"). Decide that potential replacement is same size as old refill according to reliable old standard, "Mostly."

9:03: Return to car with new refills. Note strange man sitting in van beside where car is parked. Watch strange man in van is playing with pens. (Yes, PENS.) Wonder whether strange man is creepy. Decide that sharp metal parts of wiper blade refills will make good weapons, if necessary. Attempt to slide refills onto wiper blades.

9:04: Wonder about meaning of "Mostly." Swear.

9:05: Spot Goodyear across vast Big K parking lot. Mutter "screw it" under breath. Drive to Goodyear.

9:07: Stroll into Goodyear. Declare self stuck; throw self on mercy of Goodyear. Beg for help. Explain about being late for work. Explain about quest. Mr. Goodyear is unimpressed by quest, but happy to replace entire wiper blades for small fee. Sigh. Agree. Leave to walk across vast expanse of strip mall to Caribou.

9:13: While walking in freezing cold, call office to report that further car tragedies are occurring, and arrival at work is not imminent.

9:15: Arrive at Caribou. Order coffee and lemon scone. Wonder how many calories are in lemon scone. Look at hands, notice they are still disgusting, wonder how much road grime will be on lemon scone by the time it is eaten. Wonder how this will affect calories.

9:23: Arrive back at Goodyear. Go in grungy bathroom to wash hands in order to facilitate eating lemon scone. Note that hands come approximately 50 percent clean, falling short of well-established "Mostly" standard. Sit in Goodyear waiting room and watch approximately ten minutes of "Divorce Court," resulting in net loss of 4.3 I.Q. points. Eat half of lemon scone. Discard remainder, sighing as if other half of lemon scone is precious artifact.

9:33: Receive good news from Mr. Goodyear that car is ready to go; total price only $25. Thank Mr. Goodyear. Curse self for helplessness during departure.

9:38: Fire up new wipers. Note that new wipers rule, and would kick butt of old wipers in deathmatch. Take as positive sign.

10:00: Arrive at work. Walk toward office. Swear. Enter office. Check voice mail. Wash hands again. Swear. Wash hands again. Swear. Wash hands again. Look down at hands, notice that hands are red, sore, and dirty. Mutter, "This is why people get boyfriends." Hate self intensely for embrace of stereotypes.

10:45: Finish telling story of tragic morning for sixth time. Write email to friend Pool Boy; explain about ice, snow, and pathetic quest ending at Goodyear. Reveal disgusting "boyfriend" remark as mark of shame.

11:30: Receive reply from Pool Boy, explaining that hypothetical boyfriend would likely have (1) been equally incompetent in handling problem; (2) resented being burdened with problem; and (3) responded by inventing equal and opposite problem to foist on helpless girlfriend for revenge. Note that Pool Boy may be right. Look down at hands. Wonder if hypothetically incompetent boyfriend could at least help with Band-Aids.