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If you DO want to know, welcome to my blog |
For those who actually want to follow my thoughts, ideas, moans, and gripes, this is the place for you! For those of you who are returning...I questions your judgment, you poor souls. 
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Murphy's Law: "Whatever can go wrong will go wrong." We've all been victimized by this law at some point. When the Universe sees things are going fairly well for you, it sends Murphy down to burn out the bulb you were using in the attic so you wouldn't fall through the ceiling; to open up a hole in the shore just deep enough to let the water go over the top of your fishing boots to make a new lake inside and around your already-cold feet; to make your phone take one more second than usual to open up your camera so you're sure to miss the once-in-a-lifetime photo of Lady Gaga covered in soft-serve ice cream and being swarmed by seagulls down on the beach. But there's more to the law that's never mentioned. "Whatever can go wrong will go wrong…but not always!" And that makes things worse, gets your hopes up, gives you that good old sense of false confidence. Eighty percent or ninety percent of the time, Murphy'll get ya, like Lucy moving the football in Charlie Brown. But every now and then, the Universe lets you kick that ball nice and square. Yep, for a time, it's smooth sailing. Everything is la-de-da fine. It's at those time that, unexpectedly, the Universe randomly says: "Murphy! See that lady down there carrying the Ming vase? Raise a crack in the sidewalk in front of her about a half inch while she's not looking. Now let's get some popcorn and just watch...!" Think about it: you ever notice how your keys are always in the wrong pocket when you get to the front door with an armload of groceries and you have to try to reach across your body like a contortionist to get them, all without dumping your celery, fig cookies, and frozen enchiladas all over the ground? And then, one Tuesday, you go, "You know what, I'm prepared this time, I'm going to just reach around here…" And the keys aren't there! They're in the correct pocket this time. You can almost hear Murphy and the Universe giving each other a high five and saying, "Gotcha!" You might think this is all so much exaggeration and conjecture, but I tell you I speak from experience—so much so that I'm considering getting a tattoo on my forehead that reads: "Murphy's Bitch." I'm not superstitious...but you won't catch me sleeping in a Murphy bed. I'm sure that, in the middle of the night, the thing would all of a sudden spring shut into the wall, gobbling me up like an angry hippo. I refuse to use Murphy's Oil on hardwood floors; I have no doubt I would stand up, step on the floor, slip, fall, and break a femur or something. I won't even listen to Art Murphy's jazz music on the off-chance his MP3's bring a virus with them! I now sit here with my finger hovering over the Submit button, wondering what evil will befall me for calling out the Murphy Macroverse in this way. But I won't let bad luck hold me hostage. (And that would be bad luck; the best ransom a kidnapper could hope for for me would be about a hundred and twenty bucks—tops. He'd shoot me just for the inconvenience I caused him!) Just do me a favor: double-check that slick spot outside the door that might have unexpectedly turned into a solid sheet of ice overnight; don't practice that dance with the kids where you have to jump up in the air, trying not to get your scalp caught in the ceiling fan; don't make that big purchase just thinking you know you have enough in the bank to cover it. Remember: the Universe might be watching. Try to have a lucky day. And don't worry—I promise to keep Murphy too busy to bother much with you anyhow. |
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