A black cloud floats over me
I’m not saying that I blame them. I’m just stating a fact — that several of my friends refuse to get involved in projects I happen to be involved in.
A few of them tested the theory two or more times before reaching the same conclusion.
Anything I am involved in eventually results in some type of disaster.
For some reason, a black cloud floats over my head.
Several other friends helped gather truckloads of donations.
We met in a parking lot, to set up a monster garage sale.
Before noon, the temperature soared to a pretty darn crispy 92 degrees.
After noon, a storm suddenly rolled through — with torrential rains and tornado-like winds.
We huddled under a huge tarp, trying to protect sale items from all the rain.
“Never again,” my friend Kat said with a snarl.
“What?” I looked at her fogged glasses, her dripping hair. “Is it my fault that a hurricane came through?”
She reminded me that yes, it was my fault.
In less than 10 minutes, I planned a monster sale — in the middle of July — fried my friends like eggs on the hot asphalt of the parking lot and then nearly got them water logged in a summer storm.
“How can the weather possibly be related to my decisions?” I asked.
“You flirt with disaster,” Kat said. “If I make it out of this situation alive, I will avoid you and your spur-of-the-moment activities.”
“That’s not fair,” I pouted.
“You bring crisis with you, wherever you go,” Kat said. “Don’t make me remind you of the incident in the Everglades.”
She was referring to the time we took a road trip. The time I very innocently forgot to check the gas tank — until we were in the Everglades, in alligator alley, with no other humans in sight.
“We made it out alive,” I reminded. “So stop holding it against me.”
Well, my friends’ theory was recently proven true once again.
Innocently, it all started with Ho Ho cakes.
I made flyers for a fundraiser, thinking I’d get a few orders, put the money toward a good cause and enjoy the opportunity.
Well, before I knew it, 30 orders were in my hand.
I started dialing a group of more naive friends…the ones who didn’t yet know about my knack at stumbling onto a nightmare.
“Hi,” I said sweetly. “Are you busy on Sunday afternoon? How would you like to help me make fun little holiday treats called Ho Ho cakes?”
Initially, they were happily excited…until I suddenly broke the news.
“I now have orders for 40 cakes,” I said.
“How can that be possible?” my friend Angie snapped. “Before now, I never knew for sure that you even had a kitchen.”
“Help me make the dang Ho Ho cakes,” I said in my best whine. “And whenever you need a major organ, you can count on me.”
Well, the story ended on a sweet note.
We made the Ho Ho cakes…all 40 of them. And we’re still on speaking terms.
I never thought I’d see the day, though, when I would heave at the sight of a Hostess treat.
But I guess that’s the mixed blessing of it all.
