A funny thing happened on the way to my post this week.
If this sounds familiar, you may have read a post of mine from last October called friendship, dogs, mail, and other happy things. I started out with that very same sentence.
Last October, my dishwasher flooded our basement. I’m happy to say this week’s funny thing did not involve a malfunctioning appliance. I’m less happy to report that it revolved instead around several nights of poor quality sleep (with one of those nights totaling only four hours of any kind of sleep whatsoever).
In short, I’m wandering through life in a fog right now.
To compensate for my lack of coherent thought, I’m doing the same thing I did the week my basement flooded. I’m publishing a copy of a letter I wrote to my friend’s son, who was in Navy boot camp at the time.
I know, blatant plagiarism.
Now I’m wondering: is there such a thing as plagiarisation of plagiarism? Whatever the word for that is or would be, I’m doing it. It’s a good thing I have no intention of suing myself for theft of intellectual property because I’m almost positive I would lose.
Now that I have allowed you a glimpse into my sleep-deprived mind, I’ll get to the letter portion of today’s festivities. I hope you enjoy it and I hope “Lewis” doesn’t mind that I’m taking some liberties with it to make it a little more readable than what he got. Poor Lewis.
I’m sorry it has been so long since I’ve written. (You might not be sorry, after the first letter I sent you, but I am.) Things have been kind of weird here.
Now, where to begin?
Our dishwasher flooded the kitchen, and no one noticed until the water had made its way to the basement, where it promptly flooded the furnace room as well.
My computer is showing its age, so I’ve been doing everything I can to baby it. (This is actually its very own kind of humorous as I know so very little about computers.)
And to top it off, just when I thought it was safe to go back in the water — not the water in the basement, just the metaphorical water — our truck decided to overheat and spew coolant into the engine compartment.
That makes three things, so we’re okay now, right? Right?!
Plus, last night was a full moon, I’ve knocked on wood, and when I’m done writing this I’ll go throw salt over my shoulder. Any other suggestions to appease the powers that be would be helpful because I’m all funned out.
So, with the long passage of time between letters, I’m sure you’ve been on pins and needles wondering what has been going on with my blog! It’s funny you should ask. (I’m pretending you asked. It’s not really funny, though. That’s just a figure of speech.)
All the weird things happening this past week put me way behind on my blog stuff. I considered changing my name, packing up my family, and moving to a small villa in Italy, but my dog wasn’t having any of it. She would have to get a passport (this is a real thing), and she would have to fly in the baggage compartment. Also, she doesn’t speak any Italian. Not one word. I made a valiant effort at teaching her to say “ciao,” but she just looked at me and remained stubbornly silent.
Since Plan Move-to-Italy failed, I had to come up with something else. I did the only other reasonable thing. I published the last letter I wrote to you.
Don’t worry, your identity is safe. Your code name is Lewis. Your sibs are known as, in chronological order, Miles, Seamus, Max, and Lydia. Your mother I am calling Carthusian. She knows why.
Atlas and Rigel kept their names, but your mother has assured me that she would warn their witness protection agents, so that’s all good. So, they are officially #dogsofinstagram now.
I heard they are going to be on Ellen soon. They’re going to sit pretty on camera and say, “ciao.” Your parents will probably TiVo the show so you can watch once you are back in the land of TV watching.
I was going to give you an update on the World Series but then I figured your folks probably already have. Also, I remembered I don’t watch baseball. Instead, I’ll tell you about a story I read today on the Good News Network.
A grocery store chain in the UK now has something called “Talking Tables.” If at first, you thought this meant that the tables themselves talk, you can totally blame that on all the references to our dogs saying “ciao.” In actual fact, they are places set aside for people who are lonely and wishing for some company. The talking tables, you understand, not the dogs.
In all seriousness, loneliness and isolation are extremely bad for people, and I think the talking tables are a brilliant idea. Sure, there are people like my husband, who would rather fell trees with their teeth than invite total strangers to talk to them. And there are also people like me, who write letters to people who don’t really know them, hoping that those letters are not going straight into the recycling.
But for people who are craving some human interaction and don’t really have a good way to get it, Talking Tables might just be the way. So, there’s your good news update.
I can’t remember how much longer you have at training, but someday this will all be over and you will look back with fond memories. Not of boot camp, of course, but of the scintillating letters you got from me.
Before I sign off, it’s very important to me that I tell a joke.
How did the hipster burn his mouth? He ate the pizza before it was cool.
Be well, love, Sunny
Thus ends my missive.
Those of you who don’t take my newsletter may not know that I’m on a mission to make my blog as beneficial to you as I can. This week’s effort was essentially an attempt at entertainment. If you have any thoughts on possible improvements, drop me a note. I would love to hear them. (To be clear, I mean improvements to my blog, not to my attempts at being entertaining. My sense of humor is what it is.)
Brightest blessings to you!