Do The Math!

Did anyone notice that in my last blog I mentioned that bad things come in threes, but since I’d experienced six bad things, that timeworn adage was obviously incorrect? Did anyone else notice that I’m incapable of doing the math? I am betting all my former breakfast, lunch, and dinner partners (and my math-centric husband) are laughing themselves silly over this faux pas, because they’ve experienced first hand my excruciatingly slow bill-splitting and tip-figuring routines at the end of each meal.

I admit it. I didn’t double-check my work, even though my teachers told me to when I was their nightmarish math disaster student, gazillions of years ago. If I’d paid more attention, I’d have easily figured out I experienced two sets of three bad things, and that…bzzzzzz…oops…time’s up. Papers and pencils down.

The multiplication police just arrived, and are going to take me away. They say I’ll have to stand in front of them and recite my times tables (neatly written on 3x5 cards) until the cows come home. Or the sheep stop needing to be counted by twos.  Or my second grade, tenth grade geometry, and eleventh grade trigonometry teachers stop tossing and turning in their respective graves. (See, bad things once came in threes for me!)

It's a Bird, It's a Plane, It's THE FLY

My attempts at casting my invisibility safety net and projecting a glass is half full juju failed, y’all, because:

(1) My daughter’s seven year-old car broke down a few hours after she and my son-in-law left Seattle, thanks to an air conditioner compressor meltdown. This derailed their journey and cost gobs of cash to replace.

(2) My stove went haywire and started beeping uncontrollably every second. I called its 1-800 repair number and was informed you have to turn off a circuit breaker for five minutes, not on and off for a second (like I did at first) if you want to reset a stove’s computer. So far (knock wood), it cancelled out that awful high-pitched beep, beep, beeping.

(3) The washing machine leaked all over the floor, the second time in a year, for no apparent reason. When I spoke with the salesman who sold it to me and asked him why, he replied with one of those, “Huh? Why this has never happened in the history of Bosch washing machines” numbers on me, then started to fill out the paperwork that would net the company $135 for a repair guy (who also claimed he’d never in his entire life heard of such a phenomenon). That figure was just to come out and take a look. A look? “I don’t think so,” I sighed. “I’ll wait until there’s a leak number three, thank you very much.”

(4) We have a mysterious infestation of big, black cluster flies in our kitchen. They seem to be magically and often invisibly popping through the kitchen screens, one after another, even after we closed the windows. Last night when we got back from picking up Harper the Granddog, there were more than I could count, so I’ve had to turn myself into a swatting, killing, vacuum ‘em up machine – just comin’ to get ya.

(5) This morning I slipped off the exercise ball in class, backwards, while holding two eight-pound weights (one in each hand). Both elbows came crashing down on the hardwood floor. Yes, ouch indeed. I iced, I took Motrin, and now I’m crossing my fingers that nothing terrible will develop (especially with the right one, which is the sorest right now). I called the orthopod and will be seen tomorrow at 1:00, thanks to Aunt C., who made me promise I’d be proactive instead of kvetchy and woe-is-me-ish.

(6) Harper the Granddog, who’s staying with us for an undetermined length of time while the kids stay with a family friend until their apartment is ready, is on a hunger strike. He refused to eat either dinner or breakfast. He smells terrible, is sad because he misses his mommy, and won’t play fetch with his favorite red Frisbee, no matter how much I beg and plead.

And you thought bad things came in threes? Ha! Count 'em up: Swat! Vroom! Swat! Vroom! Swat! Vroom! Swat! Vroom! Swat! Vroom! Swat! Vroom!

Shades of Blue

Exactly one year ago today I wrote my first blog because I was sad, miserable, lonely, and blue after my daughter and her new husband packed up and moved from New Haven to Seattle. I missed my sweetie pie so much I fantasized that writing would help dull my sadness and, perhaps, erase it. I also imagined that blogging would bridge the vast three-hour time delay I was having so much trouble bridging (math has never been my strong suit).

Well, guess what? Fifty-seven blogs later, it worked, because as of September 1st, she’ll be baaaaaack. Yep. She and her husband are moving to New York, only 1 ½ car-driving hours away, where I’ll be able to see her in person, instead of in my imagination.

The movers arrived today and packed up their stuff, then the kids, Harper the granddog, and their computers and smart phones left Seattle late this afternoon. They’ll be driving like the wind for the next few days towards Chicago (my son-in-law’s home sweet home). When they’re done visiting The Windy City, they’ll snake their way further east to Bronxville, NY, their new home sweet home.

I’m wishing for a safe journey, a job offer for my daughter (she’s waiting patiently for a teaching position to open up), and some juicy blogging material. Oh how happy [she has] made me.

FYI: Surprise! Our chimney was repaired, and nothing terrible happened. Take that Friday the 13^th! The damage wasn’t as bad as the mason thought it’d be, so he’s going to charge us less than he originally estimated. Therefore, the glass has gone from half empty to half full. Next up: outdoor porch column repair. Are you surprised I’m expecting the worst? Please - don’t be.

Nightmare on Foxcroft

It’s Friday the 13^th, so I’m trying not to let that scare me too much, even though I’m so easy to scare it’s almost funny. You should see me, slumped behind my computer, hands held in front of my face to ward off the evil spirits, waiting for the band to play, goo goo g'joob, as I wait for the mason and his sidekicks to arrive to repair my leaking chimney. I’ve moved the car into the street, cancelled my swim date, and am sticking around, just in case they mess up and need my help, should anything, God forbid, go wrong.

My husband thinks I’m nuts for staying home, because he’s a glass-is-half-full kind of guy who doesn’t believe, like I do, that everything can go wrong, no matter how vigilant you try to be. I am incapable of hiding this negative thinking (and its antecedent, my pretend invisible safety net) from him, because there’s always something there to remind me.

Oh, goody, the first bad news of the day just rolled in: our dinner out has to be cancelled, due to some excuses which I couldn’t really hear, because they were told to me in what came across to my deaf ears as a whisper. I didn’t want to shriek, “Speak up, I can’t hear you!” like I did the other day to a caller I thought was my husband, but turned out to be the mason, because I heard enough to get the picture.

Darn. Now I’ll have to forage for vittles later on today and cook my own dinner. There’s no rest for the weary. No time off for good behavior. No end in sight. No pain, no gain. No sleep, no dreams. No time like the present. And no offense taken when none [was] meant. I’m an idiom machine this morning, oh yes indeedy do I am.

They just arrived - I’ll keep you posted.