Don’t anger the Gods Part III

By the time we got home from Arizona Dreamin’ on Sunday, I was EXHAUSTED. Being “on” for that long is really tiring. All I wanted to do was nap. I tried–a little cat nap here, a small doze there, but no real sleep that afternoon. By 8:30 I desperately wanted put on my jammies and vegetate. Sadly I had blogs that were due for other people. People I couldn’t let down.

When the call came I was watching game seven of the Western division Stanley Cup Finals between the Blackhawks and the Kings. It was in overtime and I had a vested interest in the outcome.

When the phone rang I answered it. ‘Cause that’s what you do, right? I don’t know. Ava’s always telling me I don’t have to answer it, but I feel compelled. Especially since it was my brother.

I don’t remember the exact words he used to convey his problem, but it was urgent and it went something like, “You need to come get Dad because my house just burned down.” I don’t even know if the fire was officially out when he called.

WHAT? you’re saying? Burned down? What the hell does that mean? That’s exactly what I wanted to know. I managed to determine there was

The light is from where the firemen chopped holes in the roof

a fire – a large one – and my brother, his wife, two kids, my father, five dogs, and a turtle were displaced. No one seemed to care about the chickens ’cause they were in the back of the yard. We immediately got in the only car we had left, my husband’s giant Ford diesel, and went out there.

There were still eight emergency vehicles in the street, lights a twirling, and a whole branch of my family standing by the curb. My sister-in-law was understandably upset. The kids were wired from the adrenaline. My brother may or may not have gotten himself drunk. All three of these reactions seemed reasonable to me.

Sadly, it seems the fire may have been my father’s fault. He had a stroke several years ago, so things sometimes go wrong there. Eventually we came home with all the kids, my dad, and the turtle. I still had blogs to write, because I’m crazy. As exhausted as I was, I went to bed at 2am. Then the kids woke me up at 6:15 the next morning jumping on the trampoline outside my bedroom window and squealing, the dogs barking up a gleeful chorus. Sigh. I wanted to whine about that at great length but that would make me the worst sister in the universe.

Here’s the good news. The house was not totaled. The bad news is the addition was a complete loss. My niece told me with a great deal of excitement that the windows exploded. The disaster was on the news. My father is staying at my house until the all clear is given to go back home. He’s bored. I can’t blame him.

On Tuesday I used my mother’s stolen car to pick her up from the airport. In the continuing saga of Shit That Can Go Wrong With My Family, she got food poisoning on the airplane from Hong Kong to LA. The woman looked like she was going to die. I think she was actually hoping for it. Seriously, I’ve never seen a human look sicker than that who wasn’t actively dying. I flung her into bed and fetched soup, crackers and ginger ale. I hoped she would live because she had an entire suitcase of presents she brought from Indonesia and I’d like mine. Besides, I was still too tired from the previous festivities to have to plan a funeral. (Just kidding. I’m not that horrible. I do, however, want my present.)

This has to be everything, right? Nothing else can go wrong, can it? I’m supposed to get Dave the Bastard Durango back Thursday or Friday and we’re already in over a thousand dollars for repairs. My brother’s trying to get back into his house. My Mom is trying to keep food down. My father is trying to keep himself occupied.

Sheeeeeze. I think it’s time to exorcise the bad juju. What do you do? Dance naked under the full moon? Burn sage? Kill a virgin?

I’m willing to take suggestions.