bad things come in threes. or fours. (or maybe fives?)

(1) Last week, when I was feeding our neighbor’s cats (they were out of town for a wedding—the neighbors, not the cats) some bozos broke into their house and stole their flatscreen. No shit! The weirdest part (besides feeling extremely vulnerable and freaked out) was that I heard the whole thing. I thought it was the landscapers and their leaf blowers (yes, my neighbor’s have landscapers—oh, what they must think of our junk piles). But then there was this crash and several “Woo Hoo!”s and I thought, that’s odd. I was just gearing up to go check it out when they left (you can hear, but not see, now that the summer foliage has filled in). The crash, I realized later when I went to feed the kitties, was the Kwan Yin statue from the porch being thrown through the glass front door. I am so glad I didn’t wander over there to see what was going on. Wouldn’t that have added a layer of complication to the story? Complication I don’t need.

But it just goes to show, when the Goddess of Compassion smashes through your life, it may not be in the form you expect.

(2) This weekend, my site got hacked (again). But it was fairly low key on the life-sucks-o-meter, more annoying and boring than anything. I’m not sure this one counts.

(3) Paul jumped into the pond with his glasses on, oops, and lost them. Poor guy is wearing mine (I have contacts I can use) while he waits for his replacements. But my prescription isn’t as strong so, you know, he mostly can’t see, and he’s got this low-grade headache, which makes him crabby as all hell. I can understand, but still. I hope those glasses come today.

And then, as if all that wasn’t enough,

(4) I sprained my freaking ankle! That would be yesterday morning when I was taking the compost out to the chickens. I stepped off the deck and whammo! I go down like a jellyfish. And stay down. After consulting my Google Health Plan (first you google the diagnosis, then you google the treatment)(I know, I’ve used that line before, but it’s just so true) I learned that I have a Level 3 Medial Ankle Ligament Spring. Translation? I am totally screwed for about a month.

I spent the day RICEing my ankle and watching Spongebob with the kids, who took this opportunity to do massive body paint, eat a box of bunny grahams, and just generally be little hellions because, hey, what am I going to do about it? I can’t blame them, it’s a drag to have a mom who can’t do shit. Even still, Sophie got me things all day, and Luc picked me a flower, and they both kissed me and did laying-on-of-hands. I’m certain it helped.

Then it was time to milk the goats. “You’ll have to do it,” I say to Paul.

“No way. I don’t know how,” he says. “I’ll help you hobble out there.”

“No way, it’s too far.”

“Okay then, I’ll carry you.”

“You can do that?”

“Harumph. Of course I can do that.”

Me, grumbling, “All right, but you’re going to have to help me do stuff. You’re going to have to do exactly what I say.”

“Fine [grumble grumble].”

Me: EVIL LAUGH.

You should have seen us, me slung onto his back and whimpering, punctuated by the occasional, “Don’t jostle my foot! Christ! &#$!@” And him, swearing because he can’t see anything, and he says, “Is this what it’s going to be like when we’re old?”   

We started laughing so hard. I could totally see it: him blind, me lame, crashing our way through the end of our days, swearing, and I thought, this is what marriage is. But then I was laughing so much that I could barely cling to his neck, (“You’re choking me—” “I can’t help it, I’m slipping!” “I’m not going to drop you—” “ARG my foot—!”) and he’s swinging around with that crutch sticking out, slamming into things (“Watch out, watch out, watch out—!” “I can’t watch out, I can’t see!” BAM! “Ouch!!” ) and tears were just streaming down my face from the overwhelming insanity of it all by the time we arrived.

The goats, on the other hand, were completely silent. Instead of hollering at me to come feed them, they were standing on top of their bed like they were under attack, eyes wide, wondering what monster was coming to eat them. When she saw me, Fancy gave me this questioning m-a-a in her throat, like “Is it re-e-e-eally you?” But Lucy tossed her head and snorted, and got down off the bed. “What is WR-R-R-RONG with you people?” she said, and demanded her dinner.

Freaking A—what will happen tomorrow?