It started last Sunday evening, as I stepped outside my apartment doorstep on a balmy evening to take the dogs out at midnight before I hit the hay.
I took one step before I landed right on top of it.
Nestled right outside my front door.
In this neat, color-coded file folder was a whole collection of assignments from one of the kids in my confirmation small group.
Apparently, my dear little friend Ashley had been too embarrassed to knock on my door that late at night–so she just ditched her folder on my welcome mat without saying a word to me.
All I could think about was a movie I saw one time, in which a disgruntled ex-boyfriend kills his girlfriend’s dog and leaves the poor puppy’s head on her front stoop to terrify her.
I don’t think that was the kind of message Ashley was trying to send to me, don’t worry. But of all the things to have left on my welcome mat, I never expected to see homework assignments there. Sort’ve like my work truly followed me home.
Hm. Strike one on the Weekly Weirdness scale of my life.
Strike two followed swiftly after that–the very next evening, in fact.
I was preparing myself for a highly stressful week, so I had invited some of my ninth graders over to my apartment to watch a movie that evening. At the last minute, they all backed out on me, so I was left with a gloriously empty evening, stretching out in front of me–one filled with wasteful hours of eating dry Fruit Loops and watching “Criminal Minds” reruns while lounging in my pajamas.
Suddenly, my dreams of doing absolutely nothing were shattered by one forceful “bang-bang-BANG-BANG” on the door.
My first thought was, “That’s gotta be a neighbor. My ninth-grade students can’t drive yet–there’s no way I have to worry about them just showing up at my door randomly.”
I cracked open the door, and found out just how wrong I was.
Apparently, while my students can’t yet legally drive themselves to my house without any warning, their parents still can.
Within half an hour, I found myself managing the utter chaos of having five unruly teenagers goofing around in my apartment. I never really realized how many breakable things we own until I saw two of the biggest klutzes I’ve ever met handling these objects.
Hastily, I drove them to the only place I knew where they couldn’t break anything:
The church parking lot.
Bingo. Sometimes, it does pay to be a church worker.
Strike three was even weirder, as hard as that seems to believe. It’s a long story, but it involves a handful of kiddos eating a frozen french silk pie in my car, late at night. I still have the crumbs on my dashboard to prove that it actually happened–it wasn’t just a sleep-deprived hallucination.
Strike four occurred just yesterday, as I was at Walmart.
I know, I know…that place is a magnet for all things bizarre. You’re not phased by me telling you that something strange happened at Walmart.
In fact, Lady Gaga looks downright normal compared to some of the people I’ve seen at that store.
So it should come as no surprise to you that I actually got run over by a cart at Walmart yesterday.
Yep. Poor me, looking for thank-you cards for my confirmation leaders…I step around the corner cautiously, and get nailed by a suburban housewife looking for school supplies.
I kid you not. She rammed her cart right into me.
My eyes must’ve been as big as saucers as I backed away from the Killer Cart Lady, listening to her apologize profusely for her carelessness. I managed to squeak out, “Oh, no, it’s ok! I’m fine! Really!” before I practically sprinted over to another aisle to get away from her.
I think I was in shock that I actually managed to get hit by a shopping cart–especially considering that I had been peeking around the corner so carefully…a habit I’ve learned by watching other people almost get run over by these metal monsters.
I walked over to the scrapbooking supply aisle in a daze. I turned and stared at some stickers, and suddenly heard an ominous sound behind me.
I spun around, only to see the same lady–Killer Cart Lady–about to run over me again.
Like I’ve said many times: I can’t make this stuff up.
She dragged her eyes away from the display and locked eyes with me, startled. When she realized it was me again, she froze and screeched her cart to a stop. I literally backed away, palms up, to another aisle.
We didn’t say a word to each other. It was a mutual agreement that we’d never meet again in this fashion.
As I hastily left Walmart, I began to realize the truth:
I’m on someone’s hit list.
Come on–that has to be it. There’s simply no other explanation. Who almost gets run over by the same lady twice, other than someone who’s on a hit list?
Now, I just need to figure out why I’m on that list…and who else in nice, quiet, suburban Oakville is going to come at me this week…