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!