Please find enclosed one of your “Hippity-Hop Lucky Rabbit’s Foot” key ring charms, listed on the tag as “Lot 351 Tahitian Purple”. I recently purchased this item in the sincere hopes of turning around what has come to be a life of misfortune, accidents, and sincere bad luck. You see, I was born under an unlucky moon, in an unlucky hospital ward, on an unlucky morning. I am certain you hear that quite often considering the nature of your business, but I must assure you that my particular bad luck is unique:
It. Never. Ends.
When my husband proposed to me, I said, “I need to get this out in the open before we go any further. You ARE marrying a bad luck charm. I bring a pox to every household I enter, every project I touch, every person I meet.” He sweetly patted my arm and said, “I don’t believe in luck.” I snorted in hysterical laughter and retorted with, “You will.” After a particularly unlucky stretch, I happened into a gift shop and noticed your “Hippity-Hop Lucky Rabbit’s Foot” display rack. The sign promised to “offer good fortune and protection to anyone” and “turn bad luck into good fortune”. With my history of jinxed automobiles, mysteriously exploding appliances and illnesses whose diagnoses can be summated by a doctor scratching his head and pouring over medical books with beads of sweat running down his face, I was skeptical that any rabbit’s foot could turn that kind of luck around, but I decided to give it a try.
I got up this morning and was in the bathroom trying to get ready for work. I flushed the toilet and noticed a really weird gurgling sound and the shower was barely a trickle. I called out to my husband, The Yankee, "Be careful when you flush the toilet; we have no water." I could hear him say, "Great". He goes under the house to find out what's wrong with the well pump, but can't find any problems. I got my daughter, Buttercup, up, dressed, and on the school bus while The Yankee is getting madder and madder and blaming me for everything. "I wanted you to call the warranty company MONTHS ago but NOOOOOOOOO you forgot AGAIN." (Like if I called the home warranty company and said, "Do you cover well pumps?", then our water wouldn't have been acting up today ... whatever.) So I go in the house and read the fine print on the policy. No, they don't cover wells, pumps, pressure tanks, bladders, underground or outside plumbing, or anything else that isn't a bathtub elbow pipe. Period. Well, this gets him even madder, "We're getting another warranty company!" he bellows. I tried to calm him, "They all have limits on what they cover." "NO THEY DON'T!!!" he screams. I don't argue with children so I went back in the house to call my dad. I tried not to be angry with The Yankee. I told myself he's upset about yet ANOTHER thing going wrong (which brings our grand total to about 452,581,898,747,852,541,599,985,264,653,115,022 over the last 10 years. I could kinda understand his irritation.) So he's going on and on about, "Now we gotta hire a backhoe to come dig up the well pump." I said, "You don't need a backhoe. You can pull it out from the top with a winch." Well, that got him on his "Me-The-Man-You-The-Woman-What-The-Fricken-Fracken-Mother-Father-Firetruck-Do-You-Know-About-Squat" soapbox again, so I just made my phone call.
The Yankee is barking at me in one ear and my dad is asking me these technical questions in the other ear like, "So when you pull the top off the shazzmafrazz and look down the glocken-morley, what color is the tape-orfen-jollynot that is attached to the wire coming from the horlen-fritzy-jay? And if there isn't a wire coming from the horlen-fritzy-jay, then there's probably a switchboard hossen-feeler that's on the opposite wall of the schmarlen rickta-frazz, so tell me which way the hortzen is pointing."
I finally said, "Dad wants to talk to you."
Long story short, we finally got water at 12:15. I took a shower and made myself half-way presentable and left for work. I get on the Interstate and called my assistant to tell her when I would be there and she says, "I hope you're not taking the Interstate because a tractor-trailer accident has both lanes blocked and traffic is backed up for 12 miles." So I get off on the very next exit and take the back roads in. The traffic was nuts but I made it. I stopped at the hardware store and picked up some spare parts for the well pump and when I was leaving the parking lot, the power steering stopped working on the car. So, I get some fast food, have to work the crap out of my biceps to turn the steering wheel, and finally get to my office. Running for the front door, I twist my ankle and my food goes flying across the parking lot, dirty little chicken nuggets bouncing down the hill in a mocking tango that fairly screamed, “Take that.”
So, here I am, ankle throbbing, stomach growling, and dreading having to tell The Yankee that the power steering is gone and, thanks to a free diagnosis from the mechanic next door to my office, we need a $4,000 engine block. With my fabulous luck, the house will probably be a smoldering pile of rubble by the time I get home. I would have thrown the “Hippity-Hop Lucky Rabbit’s Foot” in the trash, but I’m afraid it might come back from beyond the beyond and twist my other ankle. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be hobbling my way to the break room in hopes of finding some salt to throw over my shoulder, and hope I don’t slip in it on the way back.
With fingers crossed,Bertha
© Bertha Grizzly 2011. All Rights Reserved. No duplication or distribution.