Are You There, God? It’s Me, Jennifer (the woman who hates you).
Now here’s a rundown of my glorious Monday morning.
Pain-in-the-ass one: worse-than-usual traffic, so that I leave earlier than is customary but arrive later.
PITA two: at work, spill entire cup of sugary, milky coffee.
PITA three: directly into open purse.
PITA four: leaving the newsroom toward the bathroom, I exit at exactly the right time for my boss (whom I suspect, but cannot prove, already thinks I’m odd), walking down the hall, to see me hold purse in front of me with an apparent left-armed fascist salute, while frowning, muttering curses under breath and stomping into bathroom.
PITA five: fifteen damned minutes, is how long it took to go through my purse, toss what was ruined, and wash what was salvageable.
Mitigating factor one: the discovery that one reason my purse was so damned heavy was no doubt the eleven dollars’ worth of loose change at the bottom of it.
MF two: I had more than enough desk space to spread out paper towels on which my recently laundered money could dry.
MF three: also at my desk I just happened to have an empty black shoulder bag, because four weeks ago the copy editor (who quit to move to
PITA six: after finally decaffeinating my old purse's contents and getting a fresh cup of coffee, it was time for me to put my completed story into the system so I could focus on the one I still needed to finish. But every time I tried to do this the system froze and crashed, thus turning a two-minute task into a half-hour ordeal.
Conclusion: if God wants me to stop being an atheist and resume worshiping him as I did in childhood, he needs to quit being such an asshole.