The Scottish Dreamer (story here) and her family were on a little vacation in Idaho. It was Sunday morning. She and one of her boys went out their French door that led to the swimming pool and the spot for breakfast. She thought it would just be juice and a muffin but it was more. She was halfway through her French toast and thought she'd go tell her hubby and other son to hurry up so they could eat before they went to church.
When she got to their door it was locked. She'd just gone out that door. How'd it get locked? She pounded on the door, calling to her husband to hurry and come and have some delicious breakfast.
Nothing, Not even a whisper of a sound from inside.
More pounding on the door. "Hurry Clark Kent," (not his real name but it fits), "hurry and come to breakfast."
Then she noticed the drapes weren't closed all the way. She cupped her face with her hands and peered into the room. She saw a naked man with a tattoo of a cross on his back. He started tiptoeing to the very door she stood on the other side of.
The Scottish Dreamer was probably an Olympic athlete in her early years as she made it back to the table in one point four seconds--wearing four inch heels, yet. She picked up her fork, looked at the ceiling--as if it were fascinating--and pretended she never left the table. In fact, if she could, she would have grown roots.
I don't know if her husband and son ever made it to breakfast. I don't know if naked-tiptoeing-tattooed man did either.
I could hardly draw a breath for laughter when the Scottish Dreamer looked at me and--with the face of an angel, an innocent angel--said, "This kind of thing happens to me all the time. I don't know why."
I don't know why, either. Maybe it's Karma. Maybe she and Mrs. Bird really are long lost sisters. I'm just grateful for the laughter that saves me from insanity.