Saturday, August 14, 2010
Whatcha Gonna Do When Karma Comes For You
I believe in Karma. You do good things and good things boomerang right back to you. You do bad things and, well, you have the sort of week I've been having.
I've been racking my brain trying to figure out exactly what I did to get Karma's panties all bunched up. Was it the bike thing? Because that's hardly fair. I had the emergency brake on and I can promise I don't have magical mental mirror moving powers. If I did? I'd do WAY better than taking out a lone bicyclist.
Was it that I threatened to drive my car off of a cliff a few too many times? Because that's not fair either. I have a $2500 hole in my bank account that says we are TOTALLY even. Actually, the car is winning because $2500 later, IT'S STILL NOT FIXED.
Yeah, THAT is the kind of week I'm having.
It wasn't until I was standing out in the yard talking to the neighbor that I figured out what's going on. I was explaining to him how my wonderful husband managed to lock his keys in his car. His only keys. As in, he HOUSTON, WE HAVE A PROBLEM. There is exactly one key that will unlock that car, and it is safely nestled into the seat behind a few thousand pounds of glass and metal.
The neighbor asked if Mr. Husband was going to try to break into the car, I confirmed that fact, and then the neighbor said he was pretty sure he could get in. Before my brain could analyze the words, I blurted, "I should have known you would be able to break into a car."
The look on his face said, "Did you just accuse me of looking like a car thief?"
The look on my face said, "Aw, hell. I just told him he looks like a car thief." He doesn't AT ALL, by the way. In fact, I kinda adore that neighbor. A lot. He's Mr. Husband's new boyfriend and keeps him out of trouble fairly often.
As I tried to dance my way out of the stupid mess my mouth made, it dawned on me that I am collateral damage. It wasn't me that pissed off Karma, it was Mr. Husband. She's throwing everything she's got at him this week, and I'm getting splashed like the bathroom floor in a bar. It's really, really gross down here.
After three hours of trying, Mr. Husband and his neighborly boyfriend never did manage to break into the car. I'm thinking that means Karma is still pissed. I'm stuffing a Dora doll in Mr. Husband's briefcase tonight and instructing him to throw it under a moving bus tomorrow. You have to do good to get Karma back on your side, and there is nothing better than ridding the world of a little Latina Whore.
