Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Don't Bother with the Anti-Jinx

I broke my $5000 cup the last week.

Yes, I own a $5000 cup.
Owned- a $5000 cup.

It's not lame, like something from a pimp-type dude in a Snoop Dogg (the artist currently known as Snoop Lion) video. Nor is it super cool in a Holy Grail type of way either. 

It was sooo much more than that.

My $5000 cup was made of clear, however well insulated plastic with an awesome blue plastic straw that had this cool little bump-thing towards the bottom so that no matter how many times you dropped it in the laundry room on your way out to the car, late for something, it would never fall out because it also had an equally cool, clear plastic, twist-on lid. It also had a super-sweet logo on the side, in blue, that read, Cardon Children's Medical Center.

You're probably wondering where I got such an amazingly cool cup and why it had the logo of a pediatric hospital on the side. Relax. I'm getting to that. Still not done telling you how cool it was and how happy it made me and the inevitable tragedy that eventually took it from me.

I used to fill it with lots of ice and water each day before work. I would lug it around pretending to be as cool and sexy as that lady on Weeds looked with her Starbucks or whatever, while teaching at a small, weird high school part time. I loved this cup because for the first time in my life, this cup made me feel something. It made me feel hydrated. Really, well hydrated.

Until the day it broke.

I didn't notice at first because it was just the edge of the lid. But that was enough. One day I noticed that every time I accidentally knocked it over or dropped it on the floor, it leaked. 
It actually leaked

What the fuck?? I thought to myself (or may have said out loud in front of the high schoolers. Maybe), I paid 5000 fucking dollars for this piece of shit and it doesn't even stand up to being dropped roughly every other day for about a year?!? 

I was beginning to think I'd overpaid for my cup, as I tried to remember who may have dropped it last and therefore, who I could blame the tragedy upon. And then I saw the silver lining because that's just like me. I'm a. "cup is 1/2 full kind of..." 


Anyway, I'm actually more of a realist that had a one-night-stand with an optimist that either scarred me emotionally for years or gave me a non-fatal but super annoying STD and so I occasionally see the brighter side of life (Yes! That's two Monty Python references in ONE blog! Don't get that anywhere else, do ya? Sweetness). So I was thinking, "I could get a new cup..." and then I thought the words that would of course TOTALLY JINX ME...."the next time the kid is in the hospital"......

So here's how I got that sweet cup. Last October my bigger kid was hospitalized following a scary night battling asthma unsuccessfully at home. Once admitted  and stabilized and many hours later, I left the kid with a nurse and ate alone at the cafeteria where I purchased the cup along with my lunch.

Daughter went home fine about 36 hours later, in good health, very tired but breathing ok. A few months later the bills totaled about $10,000. Our private, family policy deductible? 

You guessed it.
Five grand.

I used to not believe in the "jinx", except when we'd mimic Laverne and Shirley as kids, yelling,"Jinx! Buy me a Coke!" anytime we uttered the same thing at the same time as someone else. But as I've gotten older, and yes, crazier, I've grown to believe in The Jinx.

So the minute I even thought those evil thoughts about getting another $5000 cup at the children's hospital, I knew I was doomed. And as if to confirm it, the Happy Bunny calendar hanging on the pantry door said the tall guy I share the house and kids with was leaving town for the week. 

God damn, it.


I even tried to reverse The Jinx by planning an Anti-Jinx inducing trip to Starbucks so I could buy
a $25 plastic cup there, even though I hate coffee. But as you know, the Anti-Jinx never, ever works. It just makes the Jinx Gods angrier. And then they have to think up worse shit for you to deal with so they can laugh harder when the shit hits the fan, as we all know it eventually will.

Fast forward 24 hours- Tall guy leaves town.

Fast forward another 44 hours- Short kid hospitalized.

Fast forward 52 hours- I'm hungry and alone in the ER except for the happy toddler covered in stickers, watching her very own TV and wearing an oxygen mask.

Fast forward 72 hours- kid home, dad home, I'm home. We're all sleeping through the night again. We're all fed and happy. And I have a band new cup to replace the old one that somebody else (probably) broke.

I'm pretty sure I won't be able to call it my $5000 cup since the kid didn't spend the night there, but I am currently making plans to treat this cup better. 

This time it will be different.
I will be careful with this one.

I swear on my mother's....

Oh, God-damn it.

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