Stranger than Fiction

I am having a weird day. It’s one of those days when I am pretty sure that the universe is trying to tell me something… I’m just missing the translation manual.

To begin with, I crawled out of bed this morning around 5:45, woke the two oldest kiddos, and trundled downstairs to begin packing lunches. I fed the dog and opened the slider, and he ran outside onto the deck… where he stood, stock still, staring out into the distance. After a few moments, when he was still there, I decided I’d better see what was up. I was greeted by the sight of my neighbors’ 45 foot tall, seemingly perfectly healthy tree, lying earthbound in my yard. Sticks and twigs are littering my deck, but thankfully, only the topmost branches hit our deck (which is above the walkout, and therefore a story off of the ground), and no damage was done.

That near-crisis resolved before I even woke up, I went back inside to continue my lunch making. Scheduling issues with twelve-year-old, problems getting a ride for 15-year-old, worry that no one will, in fact, be home when 5-year-old gets off the bus… All of these crises are solved before the first round of wary travelers leave for school/work. 

Second round awakens, eats, dresses, etc. and they’re off to school, as well. Once they’re dropped off, I head to the store to buy minutes for 12-year-olds phone… or else all of his scheduling issues may combine into one, giant, misplaced pre-teen with no way to reach mom or dad. On the way, my husband calls. He is on his way to sign the papers on the new warehouse we are buying. He just wants to let me know that the gate of said warehouse, which we have been renting up until, oh… today, is not working correctly. Awesome.

He signs papers. I arrive at the store, only to find that they aren’t open, yet. I drive to a different store. Second store doesn’t sell minutes, anymore, and by this time, the first store is open… so back to first store.

Sigh. Drive home. Start making my breakfast. It’s only 10 a.m., so still reasonably breakfast time…ish. But, I need to accomplish my to-do list, because I have to be at the warehouse to receive an order around 2:00, which has led to all of this afternoon’s finagling. Toast toasting, butter in pan… cell phone rings. 

“Honey, could you do me a favor? I locked my keys in the van.”

So, I turn off the stove, take the toast with me, and head to open the van for hubby. On the way, he calls me to let me know that the order that I’m supposed to be getting at 2:00 is delayed… until tomorrow. Then, the middle school calls. The track meet, which has necessitated a veritable army of assistants to get #1 son where he needs to be, due to a field trip, *might* be canceled… if we get the thunderstorms they’re predicting. So, can I just “play it by ear?”

But… I’m cheerful. I’m peppy (I *may* have drank a Red Bull because I didn’t have time to make coffee). I’m happy to do my job as chief chauffeur and crisis averter. I unlock said van, visit with hubby for a few, and head back home, hoping to salvage some writing time, today.

I’m almost T-Boned by a Suburban that can’t decide, despite his blinker being on, whether he is stopping/turning, or just psyching me out before he guns it through the light. I’ll break the suspense: the answer is “Punch it, Margaret.” BUT… I avoided his front bumper, just in time to see a silver trailblazer with a woman driving that looks a lot like my sister.

Can’t be my sister. She lives an hour away. I pull onto the street that I am NOT suppose to be on, save a ridiculous sum-total of coincidences and bizarreness, only to see my sister’s novelty plate, staring back at me.

I pull up next to her and call her cell phone. “I’m right next to you,” I say, and she replies, “Hey, what are you doing here?”

The universe is trying to tell me something, and if I wrote this many coincidences and oddly improbable scenarios into a novel, I’d be told that it was too impossible to believe, but there you have it. I’m just not sure whether to buy a Lottery Ticket or hide under my covers for the rest of the day.

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