You know how some people are just naturally really lucky? Like they embody all the practices that the book/movie “The Secret” preaches, but without even really trying? That’s my boyfriend.
For instance: the other day he just casually mentions that he’s sure he can find us a house to rent he’ll just have to look around and he’s sure that something will come. Of course I am immediately assuming we’ll end up living back in the ghetto part of town in some crumbling little house that’s about to wash away in the river. This is why “The Secret” is not working for me.
So the very next day he makes one phone call, we do a quick drive-by, and the landlord, who also happens to live next door wonders over. Much discussion ensues about how we all look so familiar to each other, when we finally realize that 6 months straight of drinking every single day in the very bar our landlord used to own apparently paid off. Well now, I mean not then so much, since I was spending all the money I was making on completely intangible items. That’s neither here nor there now….so anyway the landlord loves us and tells us on the spot that the place is ours.
That’s how we ended up with our super cute, two bedroom home near the river, outside the city limits so we can burn stuff. Oh and did I mention that our landlord is letting us use a washer and dryer she already has for our laundry room, we get an entire shed for storage and she taking money off our rent since the boyfriend is pretty handy and will be doing some work around the house/yard? Yeah.
On an every day level this works for the boyfriend too. He can pretty much be just sitting there and suddenly say he needs something like a black belt or a brown hoodie or whatever and **bam** the very next day he’ll go to Goodwill and it’ll just be sitting there like he personally ordered it. Which, according to “The Secret” he pretty much did.
On the other hand, I’m that girl in the office who always seems to have some sort of crisis or drama going on. For instance: I may spend weeks searching for the perfect black cardigan, only to finally give up and settle on one that I only kinda like and is only kinda what I’m looking for just because I’m so sick of looking. Or when I ended up signing a lease with a slum lord who still owes me $1,200.
Or, this just this morning, I was trying to fix a bracelet that broke some time ago. All it really needed was the clasp glued back onto its end so it wouldn’t go flying off randomly when I wear it. With 10 minutes before I had to leave for work, I break out the Super Glue and gently try and put just a liiiiitle bit on the end of the clasp. Nothing was coming out. I squeeze a bit harder. Still nothing. Squeeze a bit harder still…and *whoosh* it spills out everywhere – including the counter and all over my hands.
I desperately want this bracelet fixed so I keep struggling to attach the end of the clasp to the end of the bracelet and while keeping my fingers in constant motion because I have to be at work in 10 minutes and I’ll be useless if I have to go in there with my hands glued together like Barbie’s unbalanced cousin Frontal Lobe Lobotomy Lisa.
I finally get the clasp all glued on there – and when I say all glued I mean that. When I checked on the bracelet a bit later, the clasp was so covered with glue that now I couldn’t actually get it open to attach it to the bit of chain at the other end and then put it on my wrist. Of course. Then in a flash of desperation, I try and force the clasp open like maybe Super Glue really isn’t that great of a bonding agent after all and, of course, the little lever you pull own to make the claw open…snaps off.
Bracelet set aside I now have to go about trying to get the now dry Super Glue off of my hands. A quick Google search tells me that I need to locate some nail polish with acetone. Super! I’m a girl and I do my nails so I have nail polish remover!
Yeah I have nail polish remover alright. Acetone free nail polish remover. I double check with Google and there are no other options unless I have time to sit and soak my hands in soapy hot water, which I don’t.
Eventually when I stop dinkin around and get my ass to work I locate some nail polish remover with acetone in the bathroom and that seems to do a fairly decent job. Of course the bottle only had like maybe an 1/8 of it left. I couldn’t really be much of a chooser at that point so I worked with it.
Basically while my boyfriend walks around like he wrote “The Secret” my life is a constant comedy of errors. I guess that pretty much mean we balance each other out….right?