I receive about 10 e-mails each week of the variety I call “chain e-mails.”
You know the ones, all forwarded from someone else and good intentioned, they deliver a beautiful message. If they stopped right there, you could walk away with a warm feeling deep in your heart and resolve to be a better person for the rest of your life.
But Neeew! They proceed to instruct you to send it immediately to anywhere from five to 50 people with a promise that something absolutely wonderful will happen within three to nine minutes.
Against my better judgment, I did that this week. After a series of domestic glitches, I was ready for some minor miracles. Maybe an army of chain letter leprechauns would come rushing into my home and grant me three wishes. So I dug deep down into my cyber-address book and selected the proper number of people to receive the magical e-mail.
I sat back with a fresh cup of coffee and waited for my miracle to arrive.
Within nine minutes, I innocently turned on the garbage disposal and it regurgitated a small spoon which had slipped down while I was wasn’t paying attention. Within 18 minutes I discovered that water was pouring out of the damaged garbage disposal, soaking everything underneath the sink, and running out onto my newly waxed hardwood floor.
I had a house full of company coming for the weekend, or the floors wouldn’t haven’t been waxed at all. I shouldn’t have bothered. I called the plumber, but his number had been disconnected.
Within 27 minutes, while I was mopping up the water, my bulldog, Rebel, threw up on the sofa. Lucky Dawg, so traumatized and grossed out by the turn of events, decided it was too hot to go outside and she relieved herself on my new Indian rug.
Where was the cavalry? And who sent me this faulty e-mail?
So now, I’m sitting here waiting on Mr. Clean and his leprechauns to show up and clean up the mess, rewax the floor, and fix the disposal. But I’m getting older by the minute.
It’s been 48 hours and I’m still waiting. Hope floats, but I may be too old to wait much longer.
Whatever you do, don’t open a forwarded e-mail from me. It’s a curse.
Emily Jones is a retired journalist who lives in Starkville. She edits a website for bouncing baby boomers facing retirement. She welcomes comments at www.deludeddiva.com .