Let's Get Our Old Wives On!

They say trouble come in threes. Who are They? Aw, those Old Wives who always have so much to say when butter won't churn and dogs bark at midnight.

So Friday, I'd told you about my 2009 Mother Nature's Super-Speed Basement Flooding and Spider Relocation Program. Let's call that Old Wife Trouble Number One.

Then, my being sideswiped on Friday morning as I drove to work-- which left my back wheel at a nifty unnatural angle that I've discovered is more artistic than functional-- I believe qualifies for Old Wife Trouble Number Two.

So I ask you folks-- how can we make the most of Old Wife Trouble Number Three? Y'know, if we believed these sorts of things (which we don't, but for the purpose of this post, we're gonna be strong Old Wife Supporters).

I mean, let's forgo the "Jenn Snuffing it in Some Tragic Yet Creative Way" from this list. As that would mean no more blog posts. And I kinda like chatting with you guys three times a week, so I would be dead and bummed out.

Let's get really jiggy with the Old Wife Trouble Three! (And preferably never, ever have to use the word "jiggy" again.) Here are my suggestions:

• Being stalked by Pauly Shore and tied up and forced to watch Biodome on a loop (credit to Kathcom of MajickSandwich for the Biodome suggestion... I think. :) )

• Plague of locusts strategically centered on my small sliver of property. Locusts then do Busby Berkley-style musical, in shifts, for 24 hours straight using chorus-line kicks and rubbing their legs together to create harmony. They love Mama Mia.
  

• Finding self in situation where I'm in my old high school in my underwear-- and I'm already awake. Having to explain to hall monitor that I have no hall pass, given I have no pockets.

• Discovering that Tom Cruise is actually my long-lost brother. Wishing I could lose him again quickly before he sets his sights on my sofa.

• Opening my Netflix to find that the only videos they can now send me are Legends of the Fall, Gigli, and The Notebook. And no, I can't cancel my service.
  

• Learning my home is on a rare pit of Pennsylvania SlowSand-- not as quick as quicksand, it takes eight years before you notice it's suddenly sucked your home under in a day.

• Get papers saying in a moment of sleepwalking, I'd inadvertently married CarrotTop. And he's really happy about it. In fact, he's created some props to show me just how much.

Okay, I have to stop now. I think I just made myself vomit slightly there.

So what suggestions do you have for my very worst Third Trouble?

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I will probably somewhat dilute this whole post by sharing some good news I had with you last evening... I found out that I took Second Place in Humorpress' April/May writing contest. You can check that out here.

Congrats also to two fellow Humorbloggers-- VE who came in at a sparkly First Place, and Ann of Ann's Rants, in a very lovely Fifth Place. Way to go, folkses!

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Have You Ever Seen the Rain?

"I'm going to check for water in the basement," said my housemate, Scoobie, hopping up from the couch Wednesday evening, and heading to the lower floor.

Now, I didn't openly scoff, but that's only because I caught it pre-scoff, somewhere in the upper uvula.

We'd had rain, sure... And okay, it was coming down like a metaphor for doom in a Creedence Clearwater Revival song,.... And, yes, it was pouring dogs and cats and baby hamsters and enthusiastic emu... And the weatherman was talking record totals and tornado watches and cloud-to-ground lightning...

But the basement had never really gotten water before. Hardly a reason to go all Monk on the situation and--

"Oh my GOD!"

The basement had gotten... um... water.

In The Odyssey, there is this giant deadly whirlpool monster Homer bangs on about-- the mighty Charybdis.

It seemed that in the space of an hour, Char-baby had decided Greece wasn't where it's at anymore, thought it'd be nice to see a little more of world, and had relocated to Pittsburgh.

In the hotbed of social activity and culture that is my unfinished basement.

Water swirled. Boxes were submerged. My art supplies were doing the backstroke. And my paint mixing bowl decided it had always wanted to be a boat, and made a temporary career change.

The spiders in the basement, of which I have many, were seeing their greatest fear in action. Yes, that downspout song they'd heard so much about as mere eggs had finally come horrifyingly true. And at least two washed out eight-leggers were swirling about in Homer's whirlpool, doing eight-legged doggy paddles and unable to hitch a lift on the paint mixing boat.

Scoobie and I started bailing.

Should you ever be in this situation, with a Greek whirlpool monster in your basement, the proper attire for whirlpool bailing is:

• Pajamas
• Big rubber boots

You can see by this what a sophisticated operation we were running.

Well, pretty soon, we got the water down to Slip-n-Slide levels. And while one spider was lost to the fatal waters (a moment of silence in his honor, please) the other latched on to a dry box and survived.

He's now suffering Eensy Weensy Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, and has had to go to therapy to work a few things out.

I hardly blame him. I haven't fully recovered myself. And I hear that today, another hard rain's gonna fall...

Okay, yes, I know, that's Dylan and not Creedence. Take it up with the spiders and me later, 'kay?

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