I’ve been away for several days, for multiple reasons, the most prevalent being that last weekend was my birthday weekend.
For my birthday I received several gifts. The good ones came from my sisters, one who took me to dinner and the other who brought me a candle and some pottery.
The bad ones came from my car and a publication.
The publication wasn’t too horrible, as they simply didn’t accept a short story of mine for print. Such is the life of a writer.
The car’s ‘gift’, however, was ridiculous. One the way to my birthday dinner with my sister, the driver’s side window exploded. And no, I’m not being dramatic. It didn’t crack, didn’t chip. Exploded. All over my husband. Nothing hit it, it just popped. Obviously, it scared the hell out of us. I thought we’d been shot at. After checking the car and ourselves for bullet holes, I’m happy to report it was not a botched assassination attempt. Apparently, exploding windows are commonplace, judging by the furious googling that occurred when we made it home. The more you know.
I would like to thank my car for ensuring that 26 went out with a bang. Hopefully it wasn’t a sign of what’s to come with 27.