The Windshield of the Universe Conspires Against Val the Bug

Was that a sniffle I just heard? A sloppy slurp, perhaps, of self-pity, as Val licks her wounds? The escape of a soul-crushed sigh?

Pardon my hang-dog demeanor this evening. I am still smarting from a setback on Friday.

It didn't start out that way. I have had eleven days off in a row, as you remember, and was sitting on top of the world and T-Hoe's driver's seat. Thinking about a contest I had entered. It rolls around every year. I don't forget. I always send in entries. They're just five dollars. Fairly cheap, as contest entries go. And it was right up my alley, this contest. Suited Val right down to the ground. It was a match made in Not Not-Heaven. A humor contest where unusual entries are treasured. Preferred, even. A contest for weirdos. Tailor-made for Val.

For months I had perused my vast stable of odd musings. Had picked out three that fit the bill. Reworked them. Shortened them to fit the word limit. Polished them until they shone. Let them sit. Honed them to a sharpness uncommon in Val's meandering cutlery parade. I paid close attention to the deadline. This contest does not accept online entries. Only mail entries. Hard copy. The deadline was December 1st. My entries were ready the Monday before Thanksgiving. Quite early for Val, the would-be usurper to the throne of the Princess of Procrastination.

I pored over the printouts. Proofread out loud. Let them rest. Proofread again. Addressed the envelope. Made sure to tuck in my entry fee. I even put TWO stamps on that envelope. Just in case. And I mailed it. I sighed with relief as I pulled away from the mailbox that morning on the way to school, while The Pony in the back seat pretty much ignored me. "There. That's done for another year. I think I sent in some good stuff."

That was November 25th. The Monday a week after the Friday I ordered new bifocal lenses for my glasses, WHICH I STILL DO NOT HAVE. Excuse me. I'm on edge right now. From the tragedy. The crushing setback that has befallen me.

The contest had been on my mind during the lazy hazy snow days of almost winter. I was kind of excited. This was no rush job. It was planned like an only child in China. And I was almost as excited anticipating news of my little bundle of joy. Winners will be announced December 24th. Antici-pa-a-tion, was making me late. Was keeping me wai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ting.

Friday we went to town to the dead-mouse-smelling post office to pick up some packages that had miraculously not been lost. On the way home, The Pony hopped out of T-Hoe and trotted to EmBee to gather the day's mail. He always leafs through and fills me in on what we've received. So many magazines, as he calls them, which are really catalogs. So many postcard dealybobbers. And the envelopes. "Huh. Here's an envelope that looks like it came from you. And it's not to us."

It was my envelope full of contest entries. Sniffle/hiccup/sob/tear-wipe.

My poor envelope, with its two cancelled stamps of Old Glory waving in front of fall foliage, forever. The corners were dog-eared and flea-bitten. A hole ripped in the bottom right. The entire envelope looked like it was stuffed into Beaver Cleaver's dungarees' hip pocket on the day he climbed into the billboard bowl of steaming soup. A yellow sticker adorned my pretty. Return to sender. Attempted--not known. Unable to forward. The address must have changed since I entered last year. Or I was on an old link when I so carefully looked it up, and so carefully addressed my double-stamped envelope with my so-carefully proofread pieces so carefully folded and sealed inside.

It was all for naught. The deadline of December 1st has passed. I got my dead letter back on December 13th. FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH! It has been a true horror story.

I somehow expected more for my 92 cents.