Dear babysitter that cancelled two hours before my awesome plans,
YOU, my sweet, have a huge dose of karma coming your way. And while I don’t make it a habit to wish ill upon others, it’s not beneath me to celebrate should a whole bunch of sorta-awful (but survivable) things become you.
Like, for instance, if you stub your toe so hard that it turns fluorescent orange and you have to go to the emergency room and they inform you that due to risk of infection you can never have a pedicure again.
Or if somehow you develop an incurable and chronic case of skunky flatulence. (I bet that would put a damper on your Tinder dates, you flaky brat).
Or if, to your delight, you are selected for a nationally televised makeover, only to discover midway through the taping that your tampon failed you and your skinny white Hollister jeans.
Or if all the neighborhood dogs simultaneously discover your yard and decide that it is the perfect grass toilet for their stinking crappy business.
Hexes. Karma. Juju. Whatever you want to call it, it’s coming for you, honey. And it’s been coming ever since you hung up the phone after telling me about your “emergency” (that sounded an awful lot like a last-minute Tinder connection).
So if your date leaves you with the check and a nasty case of flaky mouth-measles . . . and then on the way home your Daddy-bought Mercedes starts acting weird and smells strangely of burnt sugar?
Well, it couldn’t have been me—now, could it? Because I’m sitting here at home with a sleeping toddler, a sexy black dress, sixty dollars cash and NO FREAKIN’ BABYSITTER.
You know what they say about karma? The same thing they say about sketchy sitters.
Have a great date.
This original piece by Mary Katherine Backstrom was written exclusively for In the Powder Room, a division of Hold My Purse Productions, LLC. Featured image © depositphotos.com/2mmedia.