For some reason, I was kind of thinking that our streak of bad luck would end when my dad died. Well, he died on Saturday and Monday, in the early morning hours, someone robbed our house. My cousin's purse was stolen along with a bunch of Momo's electronics. So my cousin and I spent our last afternoon together hanging out at the Long Beach police station trying to get a copy of the incident report so she could catch her flight home.
We just took it step by step. When we got home, my son called me on his cell to tell me one more bad thing... the mother/grandmother of some of our dearest friends had died that morning. All of this while we are trying to make arrangements for memorials and clear out evidence of the long illness, seemed just battering. I felt like I'd been through the wringer.
Before anyone reading this starts thinking that the robbery is our fault for housing the strange Rasta-man (earlier misadventure post) for a couple of days, let me tell you that he has been back in New York for awhile now.
Oh... I knew there was another thing. Sunday night the boys went to a wedding. Their designated driver brought them home and then left the car keys on the front porch. They were not there in the morning. (No, there were no house keys on the ring.) So when the locksmith came to make new keys for the car, I asked him how long it would take to pick our locks if you knew what you were doing. He looked them over and said, "Less than a minute." Great.
My son says, "It looks like we have the luck of the Irish, which I understand to mean no luck at all." We are trying to hold on to the belief that we are just saving up our good luck, and it would be okay with us if that kicked in any time now.
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