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Tell us about a case of mistaken identity that turned out for the best
One Saturday in the summer of 2002, as my husband, Gary, and I rolled out of our lane for a long-awaited day trip, I spied something orange and furry lying in the grass on the side of the road. I screamed for Gary top stop and jumped out of the car. We hadn't been able to find our cat, Sunshine, to put him in the house that morning: He was the only pet in the neighborhood with that distinctive tabby color. Lying in the grass the cat was stiff, his tail standing straight up — Sunshine had always carried his that way. I gingerly picked up the body and ran all the way home, where I wrapped it in a blanket. We decided to have the vet cremate the remains. Driving there we were both sobbing. Sunshine had been with us for about 12 years. We dropped off the body and returned home, still in shock.
Later that day, I was in the kitchen, thinking of Sunshine, when I saw something move just outside. I stepped closer to the window, and there, waving in the air, was Sunshine's tail! In waltzed our cat, cool as ever.
My husband and I never did discover who the ringer was. Gary's final words on the matter: "Cancel the cremation." |
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Tell us about a time a fortune came true
On Sunday afternoons, I would drag whichever friend I was brunching with to my favorite psychic at Eastern Market. After exchanging pleasantries, the psychic and I would delve right into whatever was happening in my life, which usually involved what was going terribly wrong in my romantic relationship. My latest paramour was a complete disaster — chatting with Eastern European women he met online (claiming he was just brushing up on his Russian language skills), failing to show up for dates, getting into fistfights at bars. The psychic would peer carefully at her astrological chart, then back up at me, surprised to report such findings as, "Well, it seems he really does love you." She even once remarked, in an exasperated tone, that it appeared I would marry this guy.
During a particularly difficult visit, I sobbed while confessing how I had discovered several mail-order bride Websites on my boyfriend's computer. The psychic took her glasses off, rubbed her eyes and announced: "Look, Hon, astrology or no astrology, this guy's a jerk. The sooner you realize it, the better off you'll be." Although it wasn't a fortune, per se, her wisdom certainly rang true. I acted on her sage advice, and my future suddenly looked much better because of it. |
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Tell us about a time a kid’s birthday party got unruly
When I was about 7 or 8 years old, I went to a friend’s birthday party. There were tons of kids, a bunch of adults and the usual late-’70s party games. The party was going along great until some of the boys got little antsy and started jumping on an old log that was in the yard. Suddenly, it upended — revealing a huge hive full of very angry wasps. A swarm rose up, and within seconds, people were running and screaming and crying. Most were stung multiple times. I was in the corner of the yard by myself, crying hysterically, when the father of the birthday boy approached me. I could see he had been stung at least four times. He said, “Okay, show me where you got stung.” “I didn’t. I’m just scared I’m going to,” I replied. He looked at me for a moment, looked over his shoulder at the craziness the party had become, then turned backed and yelled, “Then shut the @#$% up!” and walked away. It was the first time I had ever heard an adult use that word, much less to a kid. I don’t remember whether I stopped crying, but I never forgot that party. |
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Tell us about a time when technology seemed to act human
In the early days of personal computing, in back the late 70s, I received for Christmas one of the very first home computers: Radio Shack’s TRS-80, affectionately known as a “Trash 80.” I spent many happy hours using basic computer language to wring everything I could from its amazing 4k of RAM and saving my programs on its cassette tape recorder. The end came suddenly, maybe a half year later. As I booted up the computer one evening, it sent a couple of lines across the black screen, and then, there it was in front of me, my name in capital letters. “RAY,” it blinked. And then again, “RAY.” I froze. The hairs went up on my arms. Then, shaking off thoughts of otherworldly influence, I walked away slowly and called my wife to come see. I turned the computer off, then back on, and got the same mysterious greeting, “RAY.” That was the machine’s death knell — it never worked again. It wasn’t until much later when I discovered there was an utterly rational reason for the spooky message: “Ready>” is the basic command line, and when the computer hit failure mode, it double the width of every other character sent to its primitive screen, crowding out the letter in between. “RAY” was a default, not a farewell from an extremely personal computer. |
