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.
We have a traditional around these parts that is as American as apple pie, as boring as Pirates baseball, and as regular as grandma after drinking five gallons of prune juice. It is the annual Alexis-with-daisies portrait.
Every year I go out in my garden and pick a bunch of daisies, dress the kid in a white dress, and haul her cute little butt to Picture People to have her portrait taken. It's all a very carefully thought out plan, one that I will continue for as long as the kid will let me.
Last year I had trouble with the dress. It was truly ridiculous how hard it was to find a simple white dress in her size. This year I scored one a wee bit early. Let's just pretend that I didn't practically tackle the rack holding the white dress way back in March. Although, I did. Ahem.
This year I knew the challenge was more likely to be around the daisies. While I did transplant some from our old house to here, I didn't expect that there would be much in terms of bloom action. I was right. Honestly, though, I didn't think much of it. After all, they're just white daisies. I should be able to find them absolutely anywhere that sells flowers, right?
It took six grocery stores, two florists, and a HELL NO to spending $40 on them online before I finally got lucky. It's all water under the bridge, though, because I finally found them (at the first grocery store I ever checked, no less). My mission is complete and I now have these five portraits hanging together in my dining room: