I Told You So

I just returned home from a torturously long appointment with my adorable little gay hairstylist (Can you wrap your mind around the atypical reality of a gay hairstylist?), to see my original copy of Marathoning for Mortals on the kitchen counter. I told you right in this very blog it would take ordering a new copy from Amazon to set the wheels of the lost-being-found principle in motion. Trust me when I tell you such things. With book in hand I hurried upstairs to ask Dana where she had found it, having already assumed it was to her credit, and not to Annie the house cat's, who is still very much alive and meowing. This simple inquiry led to the moment when my dear wife with more patience than anyone else I have ever known, the single most important factor that assures we will live out all our days together since endless patience is required to endure a lifetime with me, revealed that she had found the book in my gym bag while searching through the entire house to find the gym locker I had borrowed from her the other day with the absolute promise that I would return it to her immediately. When I tried to suggest that perhaps it had been divine intervention that had caused me to not return the lock so that she would be led to find my book, she simply muttered something about my faulty, full-of-holes theology and returned her attention back to her studies. Fine. I was wrong to not return the lock and more wrong still to blame God for having a hand in it, but still, I was right about the whole order a new book so you can find the old book thing. Tie goes to the runner. She shoots. She scores.

On another note, I channeled my car this morning. What I mean by that is I knew what my car was thinking and I felt it's pain. Let me explain. Oh wait....one minute. I hear the UPS truck. Just as I suspected. I now possess two copies of the same book. Convenient if my eyes ever row back into my ears and remain lodged there. Back to what I was saying. As Opie and I were heading down the freeway, Opie's my car but you already knew that, I saw it coming. It being one of the biggest rocks that has ever been propelled airborn by a semi-truck tire into unsuspecting traffic and in that dark instant before impact I could have sworn I heard Opie groan with resigned acceptance "Oh, this is gonna hurt." We wept together.

Who would have thought that the sound of a front windshield giving way to a hurling projectile would be reminiscient to childhood memories of a favorite breakfast cereal. Snap. Crackle. Pop. And so it appears both Opie and I will soon be developing a meaningful relationship with the folks down at Hank's Auto Glass Repair & Meditation Center.