Today at work I had to contact the building and grounds guys because my office was a couple of degrees colder than my refrigerator. Picture it: I was wearing a cardigan and had a winter coat wrapped around my legs. In Georgia. In June.
This evening when I got home from work, the AC was running full blast, but it was no less than 90 degrees [that's just as high as the thermostat will register so I'm convinced it was hotter] in my apartment. In Georgia. In June. Had I not already repented, believed, and confessed back when I was 14 I would have been scared to death that I had somehow entered into the foyer of hell.
Alas, I am happy to report that my new friend and HVAC technician, Johnny Johnson [and yes, that is his given name] just left so I should be tucked snugly under my quilt with the cool air blowing on me by bedtime!
[I think that I just wrote the pilot for my sitcom...I didn't say it was going to be a good sitcom.]
At least once every couple of months I make the remark that one day the story of my life is going to be retold in the form of a bad sitcom. Usually this statement is made as a result of some ridiculous event that happened.
The other day when I flew to Boston I was upgraded to first class. It turns out that I'm automatically qualified for that free upgrade (along with priority boarding and free checked baggage!) since I single-handedly footed the bill for the entire Delta fleet's fuel costs last year. I was pretty stoked and that scene from Jerry Maguire when Dorothy and Ray were on the plane kept playing over and over in mind. So I straightened my hair, put on my best red heels, and was ready to fly in style. I had visions of suits, nice purses, and laid back travelers casually sipping their first-class cocktails. When I sat down in my seat, I was surprised to find that my row mate could pass for Juanita Solis from Desperate Housewives. When I discovered that Carlos and Gabi were not on board, I immediately questioned at what point in my life I had taken a wrong turn which resulted in me ending up in first-class for the first time at 31 when the 8 year old beside me seemed perfectly accustomed to bigger seats and complimentary water upon boarding. Stick with me because it gets better. As soon as I got settled in and buckled up, she decided that she needed out. Did I mention that she didn't speak English? Finally, she's back and settled. Plane is taxing for take off. She starts yelling to the woman two rows up in her native language. Mama yells back. Little Juanita scrambles for the BARF BAG in the seat pocket in front of her. It is used for the first time before the wheels even leave the ground. Sweet. Mercy. This happened 2 more times in the first hour of the flight. By the 3rd time, this free first-class upgrade girl had had enough and I kindly requested that the sick girl's mother actually take care of her child instead of drowning out little Juanita's continuous pleas for help with her first-class ear phones.
And let's not even talk about how my mama came into town the other night because I was having a really bad day and she came armed with Mayfield Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream for comfort food.
Alright, I get it. My life really isn't that funny, after all. Maybe I'm just simple-minded and easily humored. Which is a good thing because it just so happens that while there is plenty to laugh at, I'm also going through a season of sadness. And we all know that the best country songs are derived from seasons of sadness. I'm not here to talk about my circumstances. Nor am I here to talk about Willie or Waylon even though I have been listening to my fair share of music these days, and there are some songs that I find so comforting.
On my way home from work yesterday, Third Day's version of Blessed Assurance came on the radio. And tomorrow or the next day or the next [whenever I get around to it], I'm going to talk more about this song. For now though I'm going to laugh at a real sitcom and be thankful that I'm not a working mom who sells cars for a living.