Tall little Sally called me in the middle of the night, excited and bursting with fresh news.
(No, it had nothing to do with her now cancelled nuptials. I became aware of the no longer impending ceremony while sitting in an English pub enjoying the benefits of a country in which there are no limits to the way you can eat bacon, sausage and potatoes. In a short texting session which I still haven't worked out it seems an unfortunate incident involving the Department of Homeland Security and the alligator farm that Tall little Sally's lesbian fiancee's family owned brought about the end of that relationship.)
"They won. Somebody won the goddamn lottery."
I just lay there unable to speak and waiting for more information. My bed is a hodgpodge of too many pillows and two small dogs that miraculously turn into giant creatures which bury me from eyes shut to the unsuccessful attempts in the morning to wedge myself free. I have also noticed with this new bed that Scott and I have bought that it takes a body position similar to a fulcrum to leverage myself off the mattress and onto the floor. It could also be my increasing age, but I didn't have time to ponder this as I could hear Tall little Sally puffing away on what must have been at least three cigarettes at once.
"Well, Sally, somebody had to win. How many tickets did you buy?"
"Six hundred and fourteen."
I sat up in the bed.
"Did you spend six hundred dollars on lottery tickets Sally?"
"That's what I said, plus fourteen dollars. I cut hair non stop for twelve hours a day for almost a week, did sixteen pedicures on the feet of women who were genetically designed to pull a tractor with their teeth and one bikini wax on the sheriff's wife. She's Romanian and she played in the '76 Olympics with the wrestling team."
"There's women's wrestling in the Olympics?"
"No, there's only men, but she has enough hair to pass for a Soviet bear. Damn communists."
We talked for several more minutes and then said our goodbyes. I promised her I would give her all the stories of my month in England soon, which I will on robertstories as well quite soon. But not now, as I am extremely sleepy and should be taking a nap.
I couldn't sleep last night after talking with Sally. It had nothing to do with disappointment over the lottery, I hadn't bought a single ticket. (Sally laughed and said my liberal leanings were showing and I shouldn't expect Obama to provide for me for the rest of my life and I needed to find a more reliable way of paying for my way through life, like the lottery. She seems to forget that I have been gainfully employed since I was fifteen.)
No, it was what Sally said about FOX news. Apparently before she called me there was a FOX Science Advisor (yes, i know how that sounds) who went over the odds of winning the lottery. And while Sally could not remember how outrageous the odds were for the winning ticket, she did reiterate one cold, hard fact.
"You have a one in three thousand chance of being hit by space junk."
The chances were about ten times better than being struck by lightning. Now, I have met several people who have been struck by lightning. I even dated one for a short period of time, but he met an unfortunate end in a scandal involving fake microwave ovens and the popcorn that was supposed to be used in them. All in all I would say three is a fair number of folk who claimed to be recipients of the thunder god's electric touch. That's just me, so the odds and chances began to worry me.
Around three am I sat up in the bed again and used google for the purpose it was designed for. Answering stupid questions. Mine was:
"How often does space junk fall to Earth."
At the word 'space' it was the second most searched question. I'm not the only concerned citizen then.
Apparently there are 22,000 objects bigger than 4 inches orbiting the planet. And for the past fifty years, something has fallen back on EVERY SINGLE DAY.
Now, you can talk all you want about the vast oceans and how many people there are on the planet, but I tend to believe that I am the center of the universe and therefore if something can happen it will at some point to me.
So, with calculator in one hand and my balls in the other I prepared my own calculation for danger to my personal body. As I hate math it was quite simple. If there is one chance in three thousand that a laser will hit me on the head, and there are somewhere around three hundred days in a year, then every ten years something from a lunar module to a space station should be hitting my environs.
I need to go outside and check the mailbox and at some point I need to get in the car and go to work. But not until I find that damn umbrella! Now where did I leave it this time?