Monday morning started off great. I got to the office and checked my email as I always do. I left all the forwards to read and enjoy (which I do, I really really do – especially the ones with kittens in little outfits telling me about how much Jesus loves me) later in the day. But there was one message from someone (and I won’t name names, wouldn’t want to make him feel bad) that didn’t look like a forward.
So, my half-asleep, un-alert little fingers pushed that mouse button and opened the email that, unbeknownst to me at the time, would forever change the course of my week. It was such a sad email about a little girl who is collecting business cards and will get $2 from Bill Gates for each one she collects. And, of course, if I am a heartless soulless jerk then I will delete the email without forwarding it and thus, squash her dreams like a boot landing on a big juicy roach. But that’s okay, because the email said it was cursed and if I didn’t forward it immediately to 53 people then I would have bad luck and Jesus wouldn’t love me any longer so the little girl gets her satisfaction either way. (I can’t get no sat-is-fac-tion [something] I try and I try and I try I can’t get no… Oh admit it, you were thinking it too.)
Well, I deleted the email. Yes, you read me right; I highlighted that bad boy and then – oh horror of horrors – clicked on the trash can picture. Poor little Sally will not get $2 because I am a heartless soulless person who couldn’t take 2 minutes to forward her kitten picture (and it was a cute one, she was wearing a pink tutu hanging from a tree limb) to everyone I know. That’s when things went downhill.
Not one hour after I deleted the email, my phone rang. It was my neighbor. Another pothole had opened up on our street. Now, when I say “pothole”, you might be a little misled. It’s more the size of a small pond. Or a minor continent. Last time I drove down my street after dark, I got pulled over for excessive swerving (I only get pulled over for excessive swerving and not the regular kind because all the police in my town know that I am a terrible driver and that the regular swerving doesn’t really mean anything). When the officer asked if I had been drinking, I responded, “Do you really think that any drunk could navigate these potholes as well as I am?” Seriously, they are so bad that the neighbor’s cats are forever getting lost in the bottom of these things. She wanted to blame global warming for our new road structure so I was left with no other option but to tell her the truth; ’twas all my fault. I deleted the email, I caused the new pothole.
Shortly after that, my co-worker came in flapping his arms and screaming. He got the blue screen of death. Apparently, when you download low-budget porn to your computer, you risk getting a virus. Or, as I like to call it, a Cyberually Transmitted Disease. (I love sentence fragments; they are so dramatic.) Once again, I was forced to make my embarrassing confession to the boss, it wasn’t my co-worker’s low-brow porn that destroyed his computer, it was my complete and utter lack of social awareness.
Do you think that was the end of my bad day? Do you think I said, “It’s no use, I’m going home and getting back in bed.”? If you said yes to either of those questions, then you, my friend, would be sadly mistaken.
That’s the point at which my preacher called me. Apparently, when I went into the sanctuary last Sunday, I singed the door frames and he was calling to request that I pay to replace them. Now where the heck am I going to come up with $3492.12 to replace singed door frames? And, really, I think the doorframes were way over-reacting. The only bad thing I’ve done in a month is to not forward poor little Sally’s request. I mean all the poor thing wanted was another two dollars of Bill Gates’s fortune. Was it really too much to ask of me to send her pitiful email on to my list? All I would have to do would be to click a couple of boxes and voila! Just like magic, she would get another $2. Plus all the dollars from those people forwarding them on. Shoot, they could even forward my forward back to me and then I could forward it back to them and poor little Sally would have made $4 off of me alone. But, no, I was too busy to stop and smell the kittens like she begged me to do. I was too busy to read the story of how her ice cream cone saved another woman’s soul. I was too busy to let Tweety Bird give me some much-needed sage advice.
To add insult to injury, when I got home that night, there was a large wire protruding from my front yard. I thought, “Self, what the heck is that?!” I wandered over and realized that it was the neighborhood phone line! Oh gee whiz. You see, the easement runs right through my yard, which wouldn’t be a big deal except that my husband is like any normal red-blooded man and he loves to dig. I mean any excuse is good enough for him to start digging. So I hit speed dial 3 on my phone (I make this call so often that it behooves me to have it on speed dial). “Hello, it’s me.” “Well, hello Mrs. [last name]. We haven’t heard from you in awhile; we thought maybe you got tired of digging up our phone lines. How’s the family?” “Oh, thanks for asking, the family is great. I’m going to need you all to come repair a line.” “My computer shows that the line is just fine.” “Well it’s sticking up out of my yard.” “I’m sorry, but you surely know the policy by now. We cannot request a service call unless our computer shows that the line is not doing fine.” “What if my neighbors call and holler at me?” “I don’t see how they can do that since the line is broken.”
The final kick in the pants was this picture that sharp eyed reader named my friend Shelley sent to me. It may look like a Mexican man riding his bicycle through a creek to the under-informed layperson; but, my trained eye can tell you (actually my trained eye can only see, it’s my trained mouth that will have to tell you) that is far from the truth. He is actually a top secret government operative named Miguel Jose Martinez. He was sent to keep an eye on me. I thought I had lost him somewhere between Orlando and Biloxi. But, alas! I guess I always knew he would find me again. It seems I am getting more elusive though, it took him a long time to find my ranch this go-round.
Here is another example of Miguel’s uncanny ability to blend in with his surroundings and to remain inconspicuous in any situation that may present itself. Notice how expertly he pushes his bicycle out of the roaring river. The kids think that he’s just one of them out for some Sunday recreation. That, my friends, is one more example of our tax dollars hard at work. When you think about it, it’s really a bargain – all that money for top-notch secret operative training of US spies. It doesn’t bother me at all to fund that, unlike street projects which I hate funding because the more money I send to them, the bigger the pot holes get; almost as if my tax dollars are their fertilizer. I think there’s something crooked going on. Maybe Miguel can enlighten me.
My week really looked up, however, when I finally got to the Liquor Barn for my Boone’s Farm this afternoon and the woman who works there cooed over my baby. I always love it when someone coos over my wee baby. Hey hey hey! Don’t judge me! Boone’s Farm is the best value in wine there is! Oh sure, some “experts” will tell you that quality wine can’t be made from oranges or strawberries; but what do they know? The truth is that Boone’s Orange Hurricane is ripe, rich and round, with lots of spicy, earth-scented orange, black cherry and berry flavors, hinting deliciously at strawberries and old memories on the smooth finish. So don’t be ashamed to raise your glass of Boone’s and toast salud! You should only be ashamed for actually using the word “salud”.
On a personal note, our thoughts and prayers will be with you next week, Jennett.