Force Majeure

Not 12 hours after me, Jennifer, Hope and our respective husband and boyfriends were hanging out on my patio debating Twin Peaks vs. Carnivale, an old school bus–curtains drawn and bogged down by various luggage and bicycles tethered to the powder blue, painted roof–pulled up across the street from my house. Its riders deboarded; randomness ensued. It’s not often that you have to tell your children, “Sweeties, watch out for the guy juggling on a unicycle” before exiting your driveway. I’m just saying.

The evening ended with storm of biblical proportions that seemly came out of nowhere, resulting in a lightening bolt striking the 40-year-old tree in my front yard and thereby breaking off the entire top of the 30ft. beauty. The piece, along with its lower-tiered brothers and sisters, came crashing down just inches from my bedroom window. There’s nothing like waking up to the smell of burnt bark and the need for a chainsaw in the morning. Good times. Now, if I can just find an arborist who will also fix my toilet and dishwasher at the same time, I’ll be a happy homeowner.

David Lynch, where are you?