#AshleyProblems

"If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have none."

How many times have you heard or spoken that simple sentence? I know I can't count the number of times those words have crossed my ears or lips, and I often sum it up to being "my father's daughter" - The MacInnis curse extends even to the adoptees, it would seem. I've heard the "only fools believe in luck" retort about 5.8 million times, too, but let me tell you: bad luck exists. I know this because it likes to follow me around like a lovesick puppy, but that's OK. As angry as it makes me from time to time, I'd like to believe that it's my bad luck that makes me funny.

You might remember the eight weeks leading up to Christmas: my apartment was stripped by management, I lost countless things I needed, I had to live in a hotel for a week among a whole sleuth of crappy things to happen. Then, in mid-December, things took a turn for the positive: I landed a much sought-after PR job, found out I was getting some help with my schooling costs, met some great people, and full two-weeks to hang out with the coolest kid I know. I celebrated the overload of good with a new hairdo, bought myself some new clothes for my new job and floated along this newfound Cloud Nine.

I had it in my head that my strip of bad luck was gone: that it was all the fault of 2012. I mean, my husband and I split up, I had to leave my job, have a colonoscopy, leave the house I loved so much and then got robbed. Wasn't that enough? Apparently not. Whatever cruel being who hands out luck decided that I hadn't quite had enough of the bad, and threw some more my way last week.

It was a pretty exciting - though standard - week, last week. I started my new position, meeting new coworkers and feeling that sense of accomplishment that only comes from realizing a huge dream. After work on Wednesday, I decided to go running. It was mild, the dog was cooped up all day and there's nothing a good 20 minutes in the fresh air won't fix, right? After almost meeting my maker thanks to a stupid taxi driver, I walked the rest of the way home. Sheesh, that was close! I thought to myself. (Note: I will be purchasing reflective to wear on my white and blue running jacket before my next run!) Thursday was completely uneventful. I ate leftovers and did Zumba for over an hour.

Friday was full of excitement. I was visiting a location for work, going to Truro to get my baby brother and his girlfriend and then on to New Glasgow to trade some passengers: D and his girlfriend, R, would go on to Cape Breton with Dad while F and Mom would come to Halifax with me. I watched the clock, anxiously, waiting for 5:00 to flash. I locked the office door and started out to my car.

In the parking lot, I noticed a navy blue car with a massive dent in the passenger door. That sucks, I thought as I made my way towards where my car was parked... but where was it? As I got closer to the dented car, I realized that this was my car. I could feel fury rising from my toes. I'm not very tall, but it's still a long old way from my toes to my mouth when you're this angry!

"Are you FUCKING kidding me?" I half-shouted, looking at the damage to my car door. With rush hour traffic picking up, I angrily threw my bag into the car as tears filled my eyes and I dialed by Dad's number. I ranted for 25 minutes about the low-life who would back his or her truck into my car and then drive away without leaving a note.

Once my fury had (kind of) subsided, I joked that people won't park next to me because they'll be afraid I'll run into their car. The hole in the front of my car from hitting a moose was bad enough, but the dented passenger door is just too much. I cringe looking at it, and I'm pretty well convinced everyone who looks at my poor car will figure I'm a terrible driver. Which, arguably, I might not be the worst driver but I'm a long way from the best...

The good news is my car is ugly, but driveable. It means I still got to pick up F, and right now he's running around the way any newly-three-year-old boy would. Today is his birthday. In 8 hours, it will be totally official. My baby is three. In an hour, I'll be at work. Not even crappy luck can bring down the happy spirits in this house today...

...unless I find another dent in my car.

Worry

I am a worrier.

It's one of those little quirks that I can't seem to shake. I've tried, trust me. I worry about everything, from the possibility that I may one day have cancer to having my apartment broken into, F getting sick, something bad happening to my parents and little things like losing my car keys. It seems silly, but I can't help it. I just worry.

My worry has become such a monster that I've begun to question whether or not good things can just happen. When I was bombarded with good news earlier this month, I joked that the world really must be ending on December 21. Luckily for all of us it didn't, but there was just no way that I could have all this great stuff coming my way. Anyone who knows me well can tell you that if I didn't have bad luck, I'd have none. I'm that person, it would seem.

My theory that everything happens for a reason is often the only thing that keeps me going. I don't always understand the whys or even the hows, but I believe that there is a purpose and that each challenge I'm faced with will only make me stronger eventually. From time to time, my faith in that falters and I have a meltdown.

"You're such a strong, happy person," a good friend told me recently. The irony that I was in the middle of one of the abovementioned meltdowns was not lost on me. Wiping the tears from my face and apologizing for my breakdown, I listened to her tell me what I already know. I'm doing the right thing and I've come a long way. It's time to let go of the fear that I'm making a mistake, the doubts that are eating away at me have no place in my life any more.

In the middle of all the crap that was thrown my way in the past eight weeks - or the past year if we want to be serious here - I've done my best to stay positive. Even though my heart was broken, I did all I could to smile and love. Feeling sorry for myself won't help, and the truth is that there are many people who are dealing with a lot worse than I ever had to.

Put into the world what you want to get from it. Project positivity and happiness when you don't feel like it because that's when it counts the most. You might be surprised to find that it comes back to you in due course.

Beneath the Big Top

My life is a Circus.

The only things missing are the elephant, abundance of candy and of course, a tent. I haven’t quite decided if I’m the clown or a part of the freak-show. Probably the freak-show, ‘cause clowns are just creepy even if the name Bozo does apply to me from time to time.

I’d like to think myself to be fairly imaginative and I’ve been known to fabricate a story to pacify the parents and, OK, sometimes the public, but there is no way that I could possibly make up the shit-storm that has been my life for the past month (or year, if we’re being real here). This is the stuff of bad soap operas and made-for-TV film – bad plot, great shoes. I’m sitting on the cold, hardwood floor of my new apartment typing this because I have no furniture – a tidbit you would know if you follow me on Twitter (@finnsnbranches). If you don’t, shame on you. But, I digress… No furniture.

Sadly, it doesn’t end there: I am also without all 32 pieces of my Corelle Hearthstone dishes, 12 wine glasses, 16 drinking glasses, 16 piece Corningware set, towels, toiletries, personal items, antique dishes, Paderno pot sets, dressers, tables, dining room set and a whole slew of other things I’m too angry and too tired to type. Remember when I said I had a bad feeling about coming back to school? It turns out the bad feeling had nothing to do with school – it was just that [enter descriptive profanity here] apartment building. *Sigh*

My LIFE was in that unit. Without the contents of the apartment – the contents I went to get on Monday evening only to find them missing – I can’t even make myself a cup of tea, because I don’t actually have a cup to drink from. I couldn’t make my son the egg he wanted for breakfast because I don’t have a frying pan. (Interjection: my bony ass hurts from sitting on the hardwood floor.) Needless to say, the beginning of my first week in regular classes was not off to a good start. I spent Monday night with the police officer, and most of Tuesday yawning, trying to joke about it, meeting my instructor and classmates and then on the phone with everyone from the head of the rental company to lawyers, the police and residential tenancies reps.

 Ya just can’t make this stuff up, kids.

If you’ve never experienced a “robbery”, you’re very lucky and I pray you never do. It’s the stuff that we read about in the news, but doesn’t actually happen to people like us, right? WRONG. It does happen, and it leaves you with an empty feeling, and it’s not just your belongings that you are robbed of in that moment. No, it’s more than that. You are robbed of your sense of security and your ability to trust. That and your sanity (which can be restored through the consumption of a good wine and lots of dry humour). It’s hard to believe that these things can really happen – and while the rental company has tried to twist it into a “miscommunication”, the fact is that my apartment was entered into and the contents removed with no legal basis, no permission and without any logical reason. Oh, did I mention that they were kind enough to lock the door this time? You might remember my concern at having found the door left unlocked two weeks ago. Ironic, no? They were also kind enough to turn every bloody light on and then leave them on. Thanks for wasting power and driving up my energy bill, assholes. (End rant)

While it’s been an awful experience, filled with sadness and a lot of anger, I know I’m going to come through stronger on the other end. It’s pretty incredible, and no amount of compensation is going to replace my trust, sense of security or the personal items and antique bowls that belonged to my Great Aunt. Those things are gone forever. It’s like being cheated on, only with less sex and absolutely no furniture. For the first time in my life, I was a complete bitch to the customer service reps and while I feel bad for taking my anger out on the people who weren’t responsible, I’m not a bit sorry for standing up for myself. At the end of the day, I’m pretty sorry that I didn’t follow my gut and remove my things sooner.

But I’m totally not sorry about laying eyes on that officer. Eye candy almost makes it easier to take.