Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," blue as the Wild Pacific on a rainy New Jersey day!
Since I got a full-time job, I've been pondering the possibility of buying out my family members and owning the family property on Polish Mountain outright. Just now the 76 mountainous acres are one-sixth mine.
My uncle and cousin are living there right now. My cousin had a realtor come out from Cumberland, Maryland. The gig is up, dear readers. The farm is worth almost $200,000. Why? The views. The size. The location, just a two-hour drive from all those deer-blasting Washington lobbyists.
I can't afford to buy the farm. I will never be able to afford to buy the farm. Well, let's never say never, but let's say BIG FAT PROBABLY I'll never have the dough to buy the farm.
Okay. So there are two things I could do. I could wallow in self-pity, weep and wail, or I could ask the faeries to help me devise a Plan B.
ATTENTION ALL FAERIES: ANNE NEEDS A PLAN B TO EASE THE PAIN OF LOSING HER BELOVED FAMILY FARM! FRONT AND CENTER!
Puck: Neither a borrower nor a lender be. Take the money and go on a spree! Why should I have to say anything more? You're 55 miles from the Jersey Shore!
Anne: (weeps) The Jersey Shore? That's my consolation prize? @#$@##@$!
Princess: Trees and stones, bucks and does... that place is a dump. Buy some new clothes!
Anne: Geez, no wonder the fairy tales always make faeries look flip. Come on, faeries ... I'm crazy with grief!
Puck: Crazy with grief. She needs some relief! Let's go to Wendy's. Where's the beef?
Princess: She wants a barn full of rusty old tools. With her share of the booty she could buy a few jewels!
Anne: For the very first time in my life I'm actually looking forward to an afternoon of teachers' meetings. Gosh. I think I'll go early and sit in the auditorium. Puck. Princess. Thank you ever so very much for your help ... NOT!
Host of Faeries: We want chocolate! We want chocolate!
Some days, everything that can go wrong does go wrong. Ah well, according to my handy Mayan calendar, this is the week of the Vulture. Flap, flap. Self-pity is crap.