This week I'm the Anti-Midas

Back when I was working for money -- in the days before I realized I'd rather be scooping toddler shit for free -- I was pretty good at my job. Some customers believed the simple act of calling me scared their servers into operation. On the right day at the right customer, what I did was "...indistinguishable from magic."

But even so, there would be other times when I called myself "The Anti-Midas." Days or weeks when no matter how hard I tried or how carefully I worked, instead of turning into gold, everything I touched turned to shit. It wasn't just me; I saw it happen at one time or another to even the smartest people I worked with. Whether it was cosmic rays or the tides or just coincidence, routine five-minute tasks would swallow up hours and common problems would take days to fix.

Those days were always the most stressful, as schedules were ruined and colleagues interrupted with questions that had no good answers; but most of all because I felt stupid, as if I'd woke up to find the English language replaced with Arabic (and Arabic replaced by Vogon, or something). When I listed to myself the things I wouldn't miss about work, "feeling stupid" was near the top.

So of course, over a year after diving into househusbandry, I find that my friend is back. I broke a glass and a bowl while my parents were in town and had several more slip from my hands at inopportune times. The frames of my sunglasses broke a couple days ago for no reason I could see (well, they were $2 sunglasses, that may be reason enough).

But I didn't see the pattern forming until yesterday. I spent a good part of the morning brooding over the house we're selling (lots of showings but no offers after 3 months), but I called the Realtor for a spine injection and thought I felt fine afterwards. Theo woke up from his nap and we started getting ready to meet Mommy for lunch.

I turn my back to grab his shoes, and in about .93 seconds he managed to pull down the gate in front of the cat dishes and spill water all over the kitchen floor. Hey, not like we aren't late already and now you're crying because I took you away from the encroaching puddle.

After cleaning up the mess, I get him to the car and I'm calm, because it's a gorgeous day and we're going to eat outside. I sit down in the driver's seat, go to adjust the rear view mirrors, and the power mirror adjustment knob snaps off in my hand. I am never fucking buying another Volkswagen, which in German means "People's easily snapped plastic doodads."

That's when it hit me -- Mr. Anti-Midas, we meet again. So of course, 10 minutes later, when Ruth has put a smile back on my face, we pull up to the O-Club, where due to a mysterious kitchen problem, they basically chase us away -- for the second time in two weeks, no less.

By the time I climbed into bed last night, I was just happy that the kid was breathing, I still had all my limbs attached, and the house hadn't burned down.

So this morning, 10 minutes after my feet hit the floor I start to rinse out the press pot for coffee and -- CRASH -- the glass pitcher falls right out of the frame, which has split in two due to who-the-fuck-knows-why. This doesn't bode well, but on the bright side nothing shattered this time, so maybe things are looking up.

Still, if my computer weren't still under warranty I wouldn't be touching it right now. I did start an unscheduled backup of all my important stuff this morning, because I KNOW what happens on days like this.

And now? The power company is back outside with their asphalt saws and jackhammers digging up the intersection for the third time this month (at least it's not at 10pm this time) and Theo is crying instead of napping; two events that may or may not be related.

So yeah. I think I may open the tonic water a little earlier today. Hopefully I don't cut off my thumb with an ice cube...