Last July, I took a huge step: I got on an airplane for the first time in my life, overcoming my fear of flying long enough to head out for a wonderful child-free weekend in Las Vegas. It was our first vacation since our honeymoon 9 years before, partly because I have always been so afraid to fly. It was high time I took the plunge.
As we were planning that trip, I found that just the thought of getting onto the airplane was enough to make my heart race and my chest feel tight. This went beyond the mental, I realized; I was actually starting to have panic attacks at the prospect of flying. I knew I would pull a William Shatner "There's something on the wing of the plane!" meltdown if I didn't ask for some help. I talked to my doctor, and with the help of some Xanax, I got through the flights to Vegas and back home just fine. I was still worried as the plane took off on the first leg that we were going to crash, but the little pill kept that worry from manifesting as physical symptoms. It was...almost fun. I even looked forward to the flight home a little bit and had the courage to switch to a window seat.
But when the Comair crash happened in Lexington just weeks later, the anxiety came back. We had been planning to fly to Orlando this summer with Ainsley for a family vacation, and I couldn't stand the thought. We decided to drive.
And things were going great. We booked the vacation, made plans to buy an in-car DVD player to placate Ainsley on the ride down, started thinking about all the things we are going to do...but panic has struck me again.
Apparently, the attacks I was having before our Vegas trip were not just airplane-related (though, don't get me wrong, I'm still convinced that airplanes are death traps.) I am afraid of travelling.
Last night at our 3-hour-long parent teacher conferences (which, since I only have 10 students working for me as aides, is a slow night for me) I went into MapQuest and Google maps and started looking at driving routes and possible stopping points and areas of interest along the way when all of a sudden, I started feeling woozy. I got light-headed and broke out into a cold sweat.I started having a funny taste in my mouth and my stomach began doing flip-flops. My heart was beating so hard and fast I could see it pounding under my sweater. There were a few seconds where I thought I was going to black out. I was having a little panic attack.
After I closed out of the roadmap of Florida I was looking at at the time, I started to feel a little better. Yet any time the rest of the evening that I thought about the 13-hour drive, or about that long expanse of interstate 75, my hands started to quiver.
It didn't used to be this way. I used to love long road trips. What happened? I've had no road traumas, no major accidents. Have I become that much of a home-body? Am I getting so introverted and stuck in my ways that I get physically ill when I'm outside of my comfort zone?
After some contemplation during a rather lackluster American Idol last night, I think I know why I'm flipping: because I am an overprotective mom. I am really worried about all the bad things that can happen to my child. As I've heard a million times when discussing my fear of flying, you are much more likely to die in a car crash than on a plane. We are going to one of the busiest, most crowded attractions on earth. In my paranoid, anxious, pessimistic mind, I see a million things that could go wrong. A million ways for this vacation to turn into our worst nightmare. My airplane anxiety centers around my fear for myself; this newest fear goes deeper than that to the core of maternal instinct and protection. And it's absolutely ridiculous.
So I will spend the next 3 months telling myself to look forward to the fun in the sun and not obsess over the danger lurking in every rest stop, lane-changing tractor trailer, and crowded photo op. I will try not to lie in bed every night and worry about losing sight of Ainsley in a crowd. I will plan for fun, not death.
Though Jason will be in charge of looking at all maps from here on out.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Out of the Mouth of Ains(ley)
A conversation between me and my little darling last night after bathtime:
"Come here, Ains, and let me put lotion on your back."
"It's Ains-ley!"
"Oh, I'm the mom and I can call my baby 'Ains' if I want to."
"Well, I'm the daughter and you can call me 'Ainsley'."
Okay, diva.
"Come here, Ains, and let me put lotion on your back."
"It's Ains-ley!"
"Oh, I'm the mom and I can call my baby 'Ains' if I want to."
"Well, I'm the daughter and you can call me 'Ainsley'."
Okay, diva.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Goin' to the House of Mouse
The Moores are going to Disneyworld! It's official. We have been informally planning it for some time, but finally got our act together and booked the vacation last night.
Am I a bad person if I say I'm not really looking forward to it? I mean, on the surface, what's not to love? Our little girl is going to be surrounded by princesses and talking animals and loving every minute of what really is a rite of passage for American children. But here's the thing: I HATE amusement parks. I find them...not amusing. Throw the Big-Brotherness of Disney into that equation, and I could almost go into a panic attack. Top it off with a 13-hour drive with a 4-year-old, and you've just created a recipe for my insanity.
The amusement park thing comes from my pre-teen years when my mom and sister decided we needed season passes to King's Island. We went almost daily one summer. It was fun at first, but there's only so many times you can get your face rattled between the safety bars of the newfangled (at the time) King Cobra stand-up roller coaster before the rides and cutesy theme-ness of the park lose their charm. As I grew older, I found the ugly underbelly of humanity observable in any large crowd not worth the few thrills I got from the rides. And then there was the ill-fated King's Island trip that coincided with the remnants of Hurricane Opal trekking into the Ohio Valley, dropping over 5 inches of rain over our heads in one 12-hour period. That sealed the deal and I haven't been back.
If I could visit a theme park with just my family, a la the Griswolds in the first Vacation movie, I would love it. But seeing as how I'm just your average middle-class American mom, the best I can offer my child is the mandatory summer trip to the Magic Kingdom.
I only plan on doing this once, so we're doing it right. We're spending 6 nights there, with two days alloted for the Magic Kingdom; one day for the Animal Kingdom; one for MGM Studios (we weren't going to go here, but then we heard about the Playhouse Disney area, and we MUST go meet the Little Einsteins); and one day at one of the waterparks. The first day we're planning to chill out in our cabin in Fort Wilderness (tagline: Not Nearly As Rustic As It Sounds) and lounge at the pool. That will probably be my favorite day.
In the next couple of days, I will be synching up my cell phone to official atomic time so that I can call at precisely 7am exactly 90 days in advance to try to get Ainsley one of those coveted spots at a Cinderella's Castle's princess character breakfast. (Celia Rivenbark has a wonderful take on the whole character-breakfast craziness in one of her books.) Yeah, I can't believe I'm doing this, either. But if the stars don't align and I can't get us a spot, no biggie. I refuse to let The Mouse completely dictate our vacation. I will not drink the sparkly-pink Princess Kool-Aid the evil Disney empire serves up. I will not be one of those moms racing around the Magic Kingdom with a copy of The Unofficial Guide to Walt Disney World in one hand and a cheap plastic tiara in the other, knocking other moms out of my way to get a FastPass for the noriously long-lined The Many Adventures if Winnie the Pooh so that my daughter can ride it sometime before she reaches menopause.
No sir, I won't be one of those moms.
Now, out of my way so I can rush home and program my phone for the Cinderella Breakfast Hotline.
Am I a bad person if I say I'm not really looking forward to it? I mean, on the surface, what's not to love? Our little girl is going to be surrounded by princesses and talking animals and loving every minute of what really is a rite of passage for American children. But here's the thing: I HATE amusement parks. I find them...not amusing. Throw the Big-Brotherness of Disney into that equation, and I could almost go into a panic attack. Top it off with a 13-hour drive with a 4-year-old, and you've just created a recipe for my insanity.
The amusement park thing comes from my pre-teen years when my mom and sister decided we needed season passes to King's Island. We went almost daily one summer. It was fun at first, but there's only so many times you can get your face rattled between the safety bars of the newfangled (at the time) King Cobra stand-up roller coaster before the rides and cutesy theme-ness of the park lose their charm. As I grew older, I found the ugly underbelly of humanity observable in any large crowd not worth the few thrills I got from the rides. And then there was the ill-fated King's Island trip that coincided with the remnants of Hurricane Opal trekking into the Ohio Valley, dropping over 5 inches of rain over our heads in one 12-hour period. That sealed the deal and I haven't been back.
If I could visit a theme park with just my family, a la the Griswolds in the first Vacation movie, I would love it. But seeing as how I'm just your average middle-class American mom, the best I can offer my child is the mandatory summer trip to the Magic Kingdom.
I only plan on doing this once, so we're doing it right. We're spending 6 nights there, with two days alloted for the Magic Kingdom; one day for the Animal Kingdom; one for MGM Studios (we weren't going to go here, but then we heard about the Playhouse Disney area, and we MUST go meet the Little Einsteins); and one day at one of the waterparks. The first day we're planning to chill out in our cabin in Fort Wilderness (tagline: Not Nearly As Rustic As It Sounds) and lounge at the pool. That will probably be my favorite day.
In the next couple of days, I will be synching up my cell phone to official atomic time so that I can call at precisely 7am exactly 90 days in advance to try to get Ainsley one of those coveted spots at a Cinderella's Castle's princess character breakfast. (Celia Rivenbark has a wonderful take on the whole character-breakfast craziness in one of her books.) Yeah, I can't believe I'm doing this, either. But if the stars don't align and I can't get us a spot, no biggie. I refuse to let The Mouse completely dictate our vacation. I will not drink the sparkly-pink Princess Kool-Aid the evil Disney empire serves up. I will not be one of those moms racing around the Magic Kingdom with a copy of The Unofficial Guide to Walt Disney World in one hand and a cheap plastic tiara in the other, knocking other moms out of my way to get a FastPass for the noriously long-lined The Many Adventures if Winnie the Pooh so that my daughter can ride it sometime before she reaches menopause.
No sir, I won't be one of those moms.
Now, out of my way so I can rush home and program my phone for the Cinderella Breakfast Hotline.
Saturday, April 7, 2007
Make the World Go Away
I remember naps. They're those leisurely afternoon lay-me-downs I used to indulge in before I became a mom. God, I miss them.
I still get weekend naps since Ainsley still naps. I am very grateful for this and will mourn her naps when she outgrows them. But I really miss the after-school nap. You know, the turn-the-world-off-and-pretend-this-day-didn't-happen nap. Those used to be my saving grace; when I had had a particularly rough day, or when I was coming down with something, they allowed me the peace and quiet I needed to reset myself. But, in mommy-dom, they don't exist.
Friday I REALLY needed one. I had fought a migraine all day, and though Excedrin was keeping it at bay, I can't ever really get rid of a migraine unless I close my eyes for a little bit (thank goodness I only get one a month.) It was also one of those cold, gray days that are best spent under a blanket. I picked Ainsley up from preschool and told her how tired mommy was.
"Why don't you show me a movie and I'll be quiet and you can sleep on the couch?" she offered.
Why, Ains, what a great idea! Oh, how tempting. What's a guilt-ridden working mom to do? Let the TV babysit while you indulge in a luxury, or do the right thing and entertain the preschooler, headache be darned?
Temptation won. Ainsley picked The Little Mermaid, and I dozed for an hour. At one point I felt like I was being watched and I opened my eyes to see Ainsley standing right over top of me, needing to ask me a question. But other than that, it was a good deal. And I have promised myself to only do this in times of migraine duress.
But it was a reminder of those days when I was free to crash on a regular basis, without having to clear it with anyone half my height or employ a Disney princess. If you are among the napping class, exercise that freedom now. Enjoy it. Savor each couch coma as if it were your last. Seize the day, friends. Take a nap.
I still get weekend naps since Ainsley still naps. I am very grateful for this and will mourn her naps when she outgrows them. But I really miss the after-school nap. You know, the turn-the-world-off-and-pretend-this-day-didn't-happen nap. Those used to be my saving grace; when I had had a particularly rough day, or when I was coming down with something, they allowed me the peace and quiet I needed to reset myself. But, in mommy-dom, they don't exist.
Friday I REALLY needed one. I had fought a migraine all day, and though Excedrin was keeping it at bay, I can't ever really get rid of a migraine unless I close my eyes for a little bit (thank goodness I only get one a month.) It was also one of those cold, gray days that are best spent under a blanket. I picked Ainsley up from preschool and told her how tired mommy was.
"Why don't you show me a movie and I'll be quiet and you can sleep on the couch?" she offered.
Why, Ains, what a great idea! Oh, how tempting. What's a guilt-ridden working mom to do? Let the TV babysit while you indulge in a luxury, or do the right thing and entertain the preschooler, headache be darned?
Temptation won. Ainsley picked The Little Mermaid, and I dozed for an hour. At one point I felt like I was being watched and I opened my eyes to see Ainsley standing right over top of me, needing to ask me a question. But other than that, it was a good deal. And I have promised myself to only do this in times of migraine duress.
But it was a reminder of those days when I was free to crash on a regular basis, without having to clear it with anyone half my height or employ a Disney princess. If you are among the napping class, exercise that freedom now. Enjoy it. Savor each couch coma as if it were your last. Seize the day, friends. Take a nap.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Lest I Forget
I can go days without thinking about it. But sometimes the fear and the anxiety come roaring back, and I find myself consumed by it.
I am a cancer survivor, and my treatment went so well and I've been so healthy that it's easy for me to forget, 4 years later, that I had a life-threatening disease. The closer I get to that 5-year mark, the benchmark that for many marks a division between "remission" and "cure", the easier it is to forget that a recurrence is a real possibility for anyone who has been treated for cancer, both days and decades after treatment ends. The well-publicized cancer recurrences of both Elizabeth Edwards and Tony Snow in recent weeks have shaken me because they have reminded me that, for survivors, remission is a fragile and precious thing.
I used to think about my cancer daily and obsessively. I am lucky, I suppose, in that if my cancer ever comes back I am probably going to see an unmistakable physical change in my body; my Hodgkin's lymphoma affected the lymph nodes under my arms and above my collarbone, and caused them to swell to golf balls. Part of my morning ritual the first year or so of remission was to check, and re-check, and triple-check for lumps and bumps. I darn near made myself crazy doing that; if you check your body long enough, you're going to discover unusual anatomy. Visiting the oncologist every 3 months initially was a great touchstone, though, and I eventually learned what was normal and not worth worrying about.
Oncology visits are only scheduled for twice a year now, and it gives me a little more time in between to wonder and worry. One of my cancerous areas was under my breastbone, and since I can't feel that lymph node, it's more troubling. Flickers of pain in my chest or a particularly bad chest cold are enough to raise my anxiety, but when things settle down, I can go back to living a pretty normal life. Sure, I have a few permanent side effects from chemo and radiation (many of us do), but I can get by. I am here. I am strong. I have had clean PET scans. I am closing in on 5 years.
But then there are times, like the past couple of weeks, where it seems as though I am absolutely surrounded by cancer. It's all I think about. It is on the cover of literally every news magazine that has come into my library this week, fueled I am sure by 2 prominent people recently announcing that their cancers have come back. It's on every episode of the nightly news. And it's a part of my work--I chair my county's Relay for Life and work on the planning and fundraising here at school since we are hosting the event. It makes it so hard to forget.
Truthfully, I don't want to forget. Cancer is part of who I am. No good can come from just wallowing in it and feeling sorry for myself, but good can come from my cancer if I accept it and embrace it. I know that my cancer could come back; my oncologist has told me that Hodgkin's can come back as long as 10 years out of treatment. (Though he also said such a recurrence 10 years out is as rare as a foot of snow on Easter Sunday.) (It's pretty darn wintry out there right now, less than a week before Easter--this isn't helping my cancer anxiety much.) I have been told that I will need annual cancer follow-ups and PET scans the rest of my life. The best I can do is to live each day as fully as I can and not let "what if" ruin the normalcy I am finally feeling. Sure, there will be bad days and health scares. But I am one of the lucky ones. Chances are, I am going to live long enough to watch my daughter graduate from high school. I am already very close to one goal I set for myself--to wave goodbye to Ainsley on her first day of school. A sobering number of young cancer survivors do not get those gifts. For their sake, I should take nothing for granted. For their sake, I should never forget.
I am a cancer survivor, and my treatment went so well and I've been so healthy that it's easy for me to forget, 4 years later, that I had a life-threatening disease. The closer I get to that 5-year mark, the benchmark that for many marks a division between "remission" and "cure", the easier it is to forget that a recurrence is a real possibility for anyone who has been treated for cancer, both days and decades after treatment ends. The well-publicized cancer recurrences of both Elizabeth Edwards and Tony Snow in recent weeks have shaken me because they have reminded me that, for survivors, remission is a fragile and precious thing.
I used to think about my cancer daily and obsessively. I am lucky, I suppose, in that if my cancer ever comes back I am probably going to see an unmistakable physical change in my body; my Hodgkin's lymphoma affected the lymph nodes under my arms and above my collarbone, and caused them to swell to golf balls. Part of my morning ritual the first year or so of remission was to check, and re-check, and triple-check for lumps and bumps. I darn near made myself crazy doing that; if you check your body long enough, you're going to discover unusual anatomy. Visiting the oncologist every 3 months initially was a great touchstone, though, and I eventually learned what was normal and not worth worrying about.
Oncology visits are only scheduled for twice a year now, and it gives me a little more time in between to wonder and worry. One of my cancerous areas was under my breastbone, and since I can't feel that lymph node, it's more troubling. Flickers of pain in my chest or a particularly bad chest cold are enough to raise my anxiety, but when things settle down, I can go back to living a pretty normal life. Sure, I have a few permanent side effects from chemo and radiation (many of us do), but I can get by. I am here. I am strong. I have had clean PET scans. I am closing in on 5 years.
But then there are times, like the past couple of weeks, where it seems as though I am absolutely surrounded by cancer. It's all I think about. It is on the cover of literally every news magazine that has come into my library this week, fueled I am sure by 2 prominent people recently announcing that their cancers have come back. It's on every episode of the nightly news. And it's a part of my work--I chair my county's Relay for Life and work on the planning and fundraising here at school since we are hosting the event. It makes it so hard to forget.
Truthfully, I don't want to forget. Cancer is part of who I am. No good can come from just wallowing in it and feeling sorry for myself, but good can come from my cancer if I accept it and embrace it. I know that my cancer could come back; my oncologist has told me that Hodgkin's can come back as long as 10 years out of treatment. (Though he also said such a recurrence 10 years out is as rare as a foot of snow on Easter Sunday.) (It's pretty darn wintry out there right now, less than a week before Easter--this isn't helping my cancer anxiety much.) I have been told that I will need annual cancer follow-ups and PET scans the rest of my life. The best I can do is to live each day as fully as I can and not let "what if" ruin the normalcy I am finally feeling. Sure, there will be bad days and health scares. But I am one of the lucky ones. Chances are, I am going to live long enough to watch my daughter graduate from high school. I am already very close to one goal I set for myself--to wave goodbye to Ainsley on her first day of school. A sobering number of young cancer survivors do not get those gifts. For their sake, I should take nothing for granted. For their sake, I should never forget.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
I Love the 90s--Birthday Edition
Birthday before last, my friends threw me an 80s-themed birthday party. It was a blast. They put together an 80s trivia game (complete with quick-recall buzzers!), hours and hours of 80s tunes, and a basket full of fad items from the decade that brought us jelly bracelets and the Rubic's Cube. It was so much fun that I brought up the possibility of another 80s party sometime soon with that same group of friends. Not for a birthday, mind you; just for a night of nostalgia and fun music (we couldn't party long enough to get through all the music my librarian friend burned for us.)
But then my husband had to get snarky. See, I am a devoted fan of Entertainment Weekly's columnist and blogger Whitney Pastorek and her Chart Flashbacks (see the most recent entry here.) In one of her Chart Flashbacks, she discusses how hard it has been to find "good" songs in the charts she has picked from the 1990s. Her Flashback from 1984, however, contains so many gems that it's a little awe-inspiring. This got us talking one night--which decade had the best music? I am firmly on the side of the 80s, at least as far as music that cracked the Billboard charts and got airplay on the radio. Jason strongly disagrees. He doesn't have particularly nice things to say about 80s music.
So, in honor of his affection for 90s music (and perhaps, too, to remind him of all the Spice Girls/Macarena/Backstreet Boys/I'm Too Sexy crap that topped the charts in that decade and how inferior I feel that garbage is to my beloved 80s pop) I want to have a little birthday party for him with a 90s theme. But since I spent most of the 90s on college campuses living on student loan money and watching Army of Darkness and The Adventures of Brisco County Jr. in an obsessive thirst for all things Bruce Campbell (yep, I have issues), I can't think of very many distinctive things about the 90s. What did we wear? (Besides the flannel-shirt-unbuttoned-over-a-t-shirt thing.) What were the fads? What did people who weren't obsessed with Bruce Campbell do for fun?
Post your ideas below. Suggestions for music, clothing, games, and decorations are all welcome. Have fun!
But then my husband had to get snarky. See, I am a devoted fan of Entertainment Weekly's columnist and blogger Whitney Pastorek and her Chart Flashbacks (see the most recent entry here.) In one of her Chart Flashbacks, she discusses how hard it has been to find "good" songs in the charts she has picked from the 1990s. Her Flashback from 1984, however, contains so many gems that it's a little awe-inspiring. This got us talking one night--which decade had the best music? I am firmly on the side of the 80s, at least as far as music that cracked the Billboard charts and got airplay on the radio. Jason strongly disagrees. He doesn't have particularly nice things to say about 80s music.
So, in honor of his affection for 90s music (and perhaps, too, to remind him of all the Spice Girls/Macarena/Backstreet Boys/I'm Too Sexy crap that topped the charts in that decade and how inferior I feel that garbage is to my beloved 80s pop) I want to have a little birthday party for him with a 90s theme. But since I spent most of the 90s on college campuses living on student loan money and watching Army of Darkness and The Adventures of Brisco County Jr. in an obsessive thirst for all things Bruce Campbell (yep, I have issues), I can't think of very many distinctive things about the 90s. What did we wear? (Besides the flannel-shirt-unbuttoned-over-a-t-shirt thing.) What were the fads? What did people who weren't obsessed with Bruce Campbell do for fun?
Post your ideas below. Suggestions for music, clothing, games, and decorations are all welcome. Have fun!
Monday, April 2, 2007
Just Call Me "The Cooler"
First day back from spring break--I've needed a lot of caffeine to get through. It's actually good to be back, tired though I am, because this break goes down in career history for me as the Worst. Break. Ever.
I knew even before we went to the gambling boat on our one day of scheduled and child-free fun that my luck was on a downswing. I didn't need the Wheel of Fortune slot machine to confirm that (though it did.) My librarian friend? Now, she can put $6 into said slot machine and turn it into a small fortune, but me...not so much. My own Wheel of Fortune has turned, my friends, and things aren't pretty.
My spring break week was darn near a catastrophe. Some of it I brought on myself--why on earth did I decide spring break was the perfect time to try to cover our dark-teal third bedroom with pale yellow paint? But most was just out of my control. We found shingles on our deck during spring cleaning and spotted more trouble up on the roof itself, so it appears as though we're going to need a new roof. Ainsley and I got stranded at an IHOP. A family member had to be hospitalized after 2 trips to the emergency room (she's on the mend now). And then the last straw: our dishwasher and garbage disposal died last night in what is appearing to be a connected electrical problem that will probably see us paying out the wazoo to an electrician. Yes, kids, I have been a magnet of misfortune.
As if to show me an example of bad luck in action, casual channel-flipping Saturday night brought us to a movie called The Cooler with William H. Macy, Alec Baldwin, and Maria Bello. In this movie, Macy plays a man hired by a tired Vegas casino to be a "cooler"--to basically place himself at hot tables to cool the luck and tip the scales back in the house's favor. With one brush against the roulette wheel, with one quarter in a slot machine, or one ten-dollar bet at the craps table, he can ruin a gambler's night. He was hand-selected for this job by Baldwin's character, a casino owner who takes pity on Macy's character after he loses tens of thousands of dollars to his own gambling addiction. Baldwin sees that the man's horrible luck can profit him and allows Macy to work for him to pay off his gambling debts. In turn, Macy breaks his addiction and realizes that the odds will never be in his favor.
I am starting to think that I, too, am a cooler. Instead of looking at this as a bad thing, maybe I should begin to put my bad luck to good use. I've already got the anti-Duke chili that seems to make for bad fortune for the Blue Devils; no telling what else I have in my arsenal. I shall have to experiment and see if I can spread my misfortune around to those who need taken down a notch or two.
Just maybe stay clear of me for a little while while I get this all figured out. I wouldn't want to cause the Wheel of Fortune to catch you on the way down.
I knew even before we went to the gambling boat on our one day of scheduled and child-free fun that my luck was on a downswing. I didn't need the Wheel of Fortune slot machine to confirm that (though it did.) My librarian friend? Now, she can put $6 into said slot machine and turn it into a small fortune, but me...not so much. My own Wheel of Fortune has turned, my friends, and things aren't pretty.
My spring break week was darn near a catastrophe. Some of it I brought on myself--why on earth did I decide spring break was the perfect time to try to cover our dark-teal third bedroom with pale yellow paint? But most was just out of my control. We found shingles on our deck during spring cleaning and spotted more trouble up on the roof itself, so it appears as though we're going to need a new roof. Ainsley and I got stranded at an IHOP. A family member had to be hospitalized after 2 trips to the emergency room (she's on the mend now). And then the last straw: our dishwasher and garbage disposal died last night in what is appearing to be a connected electrical problem that will probably see us paying out the wazoo to an electrician. Yes, kids, I have been a magnet of misfortune.
As if to show me an example of bad luck in action, casual channel-flipping Saturday night brought us to a movie called The Cooler with William H. Macy, Alec Baldwin, and Maria Bello. In this movie, Macy plays a man hired by a tired Vegas casino to be a "cooler"--to basically place himself at hot tables to cool the luck and tip the scales back in the house's favor. With one brush against the roulette wheel, with one quarter in a slot machine, or one ten-dollar bet at the craps table, he can ruin a gambler's night. He was hand-selected for this job by Baldwin's character, a casino owner who takes pity on Macy's character after he loses tens of thousands of dollars to his own gambling addiction. Baldwin sees that the man's horrible luck can profit him and allows Macy to work for him to pay off his gambling debts. In turn, Macy breaks his addiction and realizes that the odds will never be in his favor.
I am starting to think that I, too, am a cooler. Instead of looking at this as a bad thing, maybe I should begin to put my bad luck to good use. I've already got the anti-Duke chili that seems to make for bad fortune for the Blue Devils; no telling what else I have in my arsenal. I shall have to experiment and see if I can spread my misfortune around to those who need taken down a notch or two.
Just maybe stay clear of me for a little while while I get this all figured out. I wouldn't want to cause the Wheel of Fortune to catch you on the way down.
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