The Curse of June 27th

Warning: This post has nothing to do with the wedding.

Maybe it's hard for you to believe that I've taken a masters final with a mariachi band blazing outside my window or that my landlord got murdered when two weeks previous I got into a verbal altercation with him.  Maybe you don't believe that I have male-dressed-as-female prostitutes that walk down my street every weeknight at about 12:30 or that as I was eating dinner one winter evening, I looked out my dining room window and saw a man bleeding in my flower garden.  Believe it or not, it's all true.

But there's more.  A teenage girl tried to run over her boyfriend, and as he ran toward me standing on the sidewalk, so did her vehicle.  The female renters and the female landlord at the house next to mine got into a wrestling match in their yard the day before school got out and kept me up until 1 a.m.  A man (heavily under the influence) at the so-called "drug house" walked out into the busy street, collapsed, got run over, and then the neighborhood decided to watch in my yard.  Yep, that's all true too.

There is a big difference between having luck and being lucky.  I have luck, just the kind that no one wants.

Joe and I used to joke about the Curse of June 27th.  After last night, and yet another horrible incident, June 27th can spontaneously burst into flames or die by a thousand paper cuts. 

June 27, 2009: Joe and I had tickets to my favorite band, 311 and my favorite EVERYTHING, Snoop Dogg.  On our way to Salt Lake, the freeway going southbound was closed due to a bad accident.  With all of the side-streets, it took us four hours to go from North Ogden to Salt Lake.  When we arrived at our hotel, Joe got out, and his nice, new, khaki pants had turned black from sitting in a hot, black car for an extended period of time.  He had nothing else to wear, so he had to wear these "soiled" pants downtown until he could find a replacement.

June 27, 2010: Joe was already in Napa/Oakland/San Francisco visiting his friends, and I had my plane ticket to fly out.  I was scheduled to arrive at about 3 p.m. that afternoon.  Instead, I was stuck in Salt Lake due to an airplane malfunction.  I ended up on a teeny plane headed elsewhere, and a few of us were dropped off (meaning there was no terminal for us to go to) at about 8 p.m.

June 27, 2012: I was headed to my realtor's office to turn in my final papers on Lil Beans Compound.  I was rushing, so when I opened the large, steel door, my foot went under it.  No big deal until I pulled it out and saw that the top part of my big toe was still under the door.  Blood was everywhere.  Joe, who was planning on meeting me there, shows up and just stares in shock.  Amanda comes running down from her office and begins to dry-heave.  We go to the doctor where I was told to "stop bleeding on the carpet," and given several shots and prescriptions.

June 27, 2013: The freeway is closed on my way to Layton, so I sit in traffic for two hours.  After I get home, Joe and I decide to have a nice evening watching Moneyball.  Suddenly, we hear what we think are fireworks.  We run outside to see a branch on our biggest tree 75% snapped, and caught in our power line on the roof.  At 9:30 p.m., I call Rocky Mountain Power.  At 11 p.m., an idiot comes out (who I've had problems with before) and says it's "not his problem," and "it's not windy, so nothing will happen."  At 1:30 a.m., the branch snaps and the neighborhood wakes up thinking it's an earthquake and rushes over. I now have a forest in my yard, three broken shingles, and a sore throat from yelling at the power company.

But there is light at the end of this crap-filled, varmin-infested tunnel:  June 27 is now 365 days away.