Then There Was a Plane Crash

As the family relaxed in our country chicken style rental townhouse (or as I called it, "The Coop") last Monday night, Joe got the look of Steve Martin in the movie Roxanne.

"Smell that?" he asked.

Usually I am the one with superhuman odor detection abilities.  Yet for once, I was stumped.

"No.  What?"

"Smells like....fire."

Okay, Joe.  Whatever.  Mr. Chicago Fireman arrives in Florida and almost immediately senses a nearby blaze.  Get a grip, fella.

Yet when we turned on the news the next morning, there it was.  A small plane had crashed into a Publix about 15 miles away.  Thankfully, nobody was killed.

I started wondering about omens and kismet.  Surely we needed to work on some good deeds STAT or Dorothy would certainly drop a house on us next. 

And oddly enough, just such an opportunity splashed our way courtesy of some particularly strong waves the following afternoon.  Because when planes start falling from the sky and chicken decor dominates your world, you'd better make sure you're in the black in terms of kindness and generosity.

Once again, I am so happy to be married to Joe.  In the big scheme of karma and kismet, all goodwill is filed jointly by married couples.  Joe has been carrying my snarky arse for years.  If we were judged solely on my horrible ways, that plane would have crashed directly atop our minivan. 

Find out how Joe saved the day and so much more in tomorrow's blog...

....to be continued....