Today I ordered presents for my sister’s birthday. She makes it very handy for me to shop for her by maintaining a current and thorough Amazon wish list (and expects the same of me, so I oblige). I know that whatever I pick from her list will be something that she wants, maybe needs, and will certainly appreciate. I can’t go wrong.
On her list, I found the Lifehammer Original Emergency Hammer:
You’ve seen the ads. This handy little tool will cut you out of your seat belt after you’ve driven off the one and only bridge you’ll ever drive off of in your life. The steel hammer heads will break through a car window so you can swim to safety! It will even shave your legs, catch a fish, finish writing your novel, or make an omelet if Search and Rescue doesn’t find you for a couple of days. And so on. It’s one of those things I know I should have, but never get around to buying.
I ordered it for Ducky, because she wanted it, and I love her that much. Obviously, more than my own sorry self.
But in the process of ordering, I ended up with two in my shopping bag, along with the other things I was ordering.
I was on the phone with her,
asking her what to order telling her what I was ordering (we’re not good with surprises), so she heard my grumbling as I tried to remove the second item. Amazon wouldn’t let me. I checked boxes, unchecked boxes, cursed, clicked and clacked, but still couldn’t get rid of the extra one.
“I’ll just order two,” I finally said, exasperated.
“Well, I could put one in Mr. Ducky’s van,” Ducky said. Then, “No, cancel it. We’ll get another one later.”
I tried again. Still there.
I started to feel a little weird about dumping the extra one. “Seriously, don’t you think the universe is telling us something, if I can’t delete one of these
stupid bastards tools? Maybe you’re supposed to have two.”
“No, no, it’s not telling us anything,” Ducky sighed, unwilling to concede that an internet shopping basket would bend to the whims of a cosmic force. “Why don’t you just delete the order and start over?”
So I did. She’s my big sister, and she can be kinda bossy. (That’s a compliment. Ask her.) And now one LifeHammer is on its happy way to save Ducky’s life should the need arise.
But now… I’m
vaguely worried gripped with fear that Mr. Ducky will be the one to go off the bridge and he won’t have a LifeHammer. Good thing he got this book one Christmas:
It won’t help him cut his seatbelt or break a window, but it might help him fend off a mountain lion, if the two scenarios are combined. Also, Mr. Ducky is a pastor, so I’m sure a quick prayer or two would come into play, and he does have some carpentry skills. (That would be useful, no?)
“You do know,” I said to Ducky, “that we’re totally getting him one for Christmas, right?”
So, Mr. Ducky, be careful on bridges for the next 9 months. Or, if I were you? I’d start driving Ducky’s car. I could swear I heard her mumbling something about life insurance.*
*This is a complete lie. She wasn’t mumbling. No, seriously, I made it up. Really. (Gotta run. Ducky’s coming after me with her brand new Fear-for-your-LifeHammer.)