Am I cursed or am I just being tested?

September 7, 2008

We all have bad days on occasion and sometimes we even have a couple of bad days strung together in succession. Well, this is my story of a couple of bad days.

“Hey Honey, there’s a storm a-brewin’!”

We recently bought a boat- a beautiful 2005, 21ft, center-console fishing boat. Before my male readers start congratulating me for “Being the Man!” and asking me questions such as “How did you get your wife to agree to such a financially irresponsible purchase?”, let me admit that it wasn’t my idea. The boat idea was 100% Connie; I was nothing more than a reluctant accomplice. Like every good husband, I kept my mouth shut, most of the time, and helped my spouse navigate through the painful boat research protocol that commandeered every free moment of our lives for a period of no less than three months. I was less than excited about being a boat owner, but damn it, we’re a family and if one of us wants to invest in a giant money-sucking hole in the water, then we will all march into financial ruin together.

So we bought a boat, had it for a week,  and got it out on the water four times. Right now, it’s Saturday morning and we are prepping for the first of a series of hurricanes/tropical storms/tsunamis all aimed at destroying our quiet little corner of Maryland. I’m not sure if you know this, but boats don’t do well in severe storms. In fact, they have a tendency to fill up with water and sink or, even better, get picked up by monstrous waves and thrown against other high value items such as homes, cars, bigger boats and an occasional unsuspecting pedestrian. Where was all this happy news in the “Maryland Boater” propaganda magazine that the dealer gave us?Even doctors have the decency to warn you that the routine surgery you’re about to undergo could kill you, but not boat dealers, hell no, they’ll send you right to your death (physical or financial) without even batting an eye.

So I sit here in my kitchen waiting to see if my boat will pass through my front yard. I imagine it will look like “Katrina” footage, boat floating by, most likely capsized, with a family of strangers pushing it along with garden rakes while waving at helicopters in the hopes of being rescued. I know this sounds extreme, but let me explain the rest of my week and maybe you’ll agree that this is a likely scenario.

“Keep your hands to yourself”

Every mechanical thing that I touched this week immediately ceased to function. I got to the office on Tuesday, turned on my computer, and was greeted by the blue screen of death (B-SOD). The B-SOD was nice enough to inform me that all of my physical memory was on its way to the dump and that I should prepare to recreate, from scratch, every item that I had worked on for the past 3 months. Oh happy day, what good news. I immediately picked up the phone to call the Pentagon tech department (resident computer hostage negations team) to see if they could convince the B-SOD to takes its ugly business elsewhere, but alas, the phone decided to join forces with the computer and boycott Shane for the day. I picked up the stapler to bludgeon my phone, but it sprung open and spewed staples across my desk directly into my coffee cup. Feeling as if I was about to lose control (as if beating my phone with a stapler was not evidence enough), I pushed away from the desk and walked away. I decided a brisk walk to the bathroom would help me regain my composure plus afford me the opportunity to relieve my bladder (I’m a multi-tasker). Not going to lie, after the computer, phone and stapler, I wouldn’t have been surprised if my junk fell off the minute I undid my fly, but some risks are necessary so I moved forward as planned. I took my position in front of the self-flushing urinal and the minute I began to relieve myself the urinal sprung into continuous flush mode, quickly overwhelming the urinal basin and flooding the immediate area. I rapidly moved over to the sink to avoid the ankle deep water, waved my hands in front of the faucet sensor, but nothing happened. I stood in front of six sinks before I found one willing to cooperate. I turned to the automatic paper towel dispenser (you’ve got to be friggin’ kidding me), looked at it with disgust and despair, and waved my hands in front of it. I stood there for 5 minutes waving my hands frantically in front of the damn sensor thingy, but it simply would not budge. Eventually the gale force winds created by my flapping arms were enough to dry my hands and the pool of water created by the urinal that I had offended minutes before. I walked away dejected.

I survived the rest of my day by steering clear of anything mechanical. I left as early as I could and jumped on the first extremely crowded train that I could find on that sweltering 90 degree day. My uncanny ability to stop things from functioning must have applied to deodorant as well because I didn’t run into a single person who smelled even remotely human. Well, at least I would have the solitude of the car ride home to decompress before seeing the boys.

Yes, Officer, of course I locked my car…

So I jumped off the train smelling much like the homeless wino who occupied the same square foot of space as me for the 45 minute train ride. I walked over to the parking garage where my Dodge Ram was quietly awaiting my return, trotted up the three flights of stairs to my regular parking space, walked over to row 3B and found nothing but an empty slot? That’s strange, I must have been more tired this morning than I thought. Why don’t I just wander around the parking garage for 30 minutes or so and look on every floor for the car that I am certain I parked right in this spot? My search was in vain. My 2005 Dodge pickup was gone- I had been hood-winked, bamboozled, violated- someone stole my damn pickup! Either that, or my truck heard about my luck with mechanical objects and, in the interest of self-preservation, had decided to drive as far away from me as possible. Along with the pickup, they also got (2) green folding camp chairs, (1) booster seat, all my country music CDs, and Mack’s Tony Hawk skateboard. Whoever did this better hope that Mack never finds him; he is beyond livid. As a side note, Cayden offered to scratch and bite the perpetrators if I could locate them. I guess he was a little upset as well.

The officer I spoke to was very nice. That’s a plus. I told him he should canvas every gas station within a ten mile radius as my truck only gets 3 miles per gallon. At least I had that going for me. Whatever idiot stole my truck just chained himself to a gas pump. Have fun, buddy; next time steal a Prius, moron.

The insurance lady was nice too- so nice, in fact, that even after she told me that I would not be reimbursed for rental car expenses, I still wished her a great weekend. Why not, let it go. I am good; I have a full jug of Mr. Rossi sitting on my counter at home; I got some healthy kids torturing each other in the basement, a hurricane is a-coming, but at least I don’t have to worry about my truck being damaged. Ha! I wonder if the knucklehead who ran off with my truck knows he did me a favor?

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Pammy posted the following on September 8, 2008 at 9:05 pm.

I guess I can’t top that day. It’s gotta get better man.

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