Oh Universe, I Can't Stay Mad at You...

For the last few months, as my ever decreasing output here can attest, my relationship with the Universe as a whole has been best described as 'Not Awesome'.

Transcending the usual level of 'Life is nothing but one crushing defeat after another until you just wish Flanders was dead*', which I think most of us are more or less used to by this point, since sometime around June the Universe has been showing me a level of vindictiveness which would usually indicate that it had come home early from work one day and found me having sex with its wife.

*If I might quote Homer Simpson 

It was therefore with some surprise that I was greeted yesterday by a surprising number of goodwill gestures from the aforementioned universe, almost as if I'd bumped into the Universe at a party thrown by a mutual friend and spent the entire evening having it say to me, 'Hey, you and me... we're still cool...  right?'

It began as I got into my car to head into work.

For those who aren't already aware (and why on Earth would you be) I've been working a couple of additional side jobs lately in order to make a little extra money.  One of those side jobs involves receiving  tips (And I'd completely forgotten how pleasant that is, btw.)  What was less pleasant was that I'd completely misplaced about thirty dollars in tips last week.  I'd pretty much written the money off, since that's not even close to the worst thing to happen over the summer.  But then Yesterday morning as I opened the drivers side door to my car I was greeted by a small wad of cash which had apparently slipped out of my pocket and fallen into the space between the seat and the floor.  I can't imagine how it could have been there all that time without my having noticed it, so I'm assuming that this was the opening salve in my day of apologies from the Universe.*

*And for the record, 'I'm sorry, here is a small pile of money' is NOT the worst apology in the world to receive.  Use that information how you will.

The next apology came when I arrived at the parking ramp.  I hadn't mentioned it (in that I haven't written a column in almost two weeks) but for the last week and a half there has been a new car stealing my space every single day*.  A tiny, smug little electric blue Toyota Scion.  Sitting in my** spot, glaring at me to say, 'Look how compact and in tune with youth culture I am.  I'm specifically designed to appeal to Millennials who have nothing better to do than destroy my day by taking my parking spot while posting selfies on Instragram and doing something on Snapchat which I suspect is sexting but I'm not entirely sure because I still don't really understand what Snapchat is except that I think it's about boobs.

*Followers of the great Grey Sedan debacle of 2013 will understand the seriousness of this offense.

**Not actually my spot in any legal or contractual sense, I've just been parking there a long time.

But yesterday the smug little Scion was not there.  I had my spot again.  The world once again made sense.

Then I received a long awaited rebate check in the mail.

And so on, and so on, my day became one long reacharound from the greater forces of the universe, all seemingly hellbent on apologizing for all the wrongs of the last few months.

I swear to god, at one point I actually heard the Universe say, 'Come on baby.. I've changed.  I'm different now.  I'd never hurt you like that again.'

OK universe.  Maybe.  Just maybe. I might be willing to try again with you.

But I'm going to need jewelery first.

It's about standards.

A Confluence of Otters

'Sup

First off, it should be observed that 'A Confluence of Otters' is totally what the final book in that Game of Thrones series is called.  It will come in sequence right after 'A Buttload of Unicorns', which I have already pledged to the internet to write myself should George R. R. Martin die before getting around to it.

The other thing to observe about the confluence of otters is that that is not the collective noun.  Upon doing a little research the internet tells me that there are in fact four acceptable terms for a group of otters; A Family, A Raft, A Bevy, or A Romp.  And while normally my heart would belong to the word Bevy, I have to go with 'A Romp of Otters' as the preferred term, because that is f*cking adorable. 

Seriously.  A Romp of Otters.

Doesn't just reading that make you want to to cartwheels through a field of giant marshmallows?

Just me?

OK, moving on.

Now, I'm not particularly superstitious - I have no trouble walking under ladders and the number 13 doesn't particularly bother me.  However, I do kind of think that when the same reasonably obscure thing comes up repeatedly in entirely unrelated contexts it might be worth taking note of the fact.

For instance, say you should be cleaning out your basement and find a bottle of Brandy that you didn't know you owned, only to find 15 minutes later that you also own a long-forgotten brandy snifter.  I think you and I both know what the universe is telling you to do there, and it requires a smoking jacket and a leather chair.

Not that that has ever happened...  

Anyway-

A few days ago, while working on an event that I'm helping to organize, I was presented with the (probably facetious*) suggestion that we should have live otters in attendance.

*No, you're going to have to google it

I was unable to make the live otter experience* happen, sadly enough.

*Best.  Band.  Name.  Ever.

But then the following day I heard the NPR report about Hellbender Salamanders (the tale of which I recounted here) and how they are called 'Snot Otters' by the locals.  

And I thought to myself, 'Self,' I thought, 'What a charming coincidence that Otters should come up in casual discourse twice in 24 hours when I haven't thought about them in years otherwise.

Well then, last night at a gathering of friends that I hadn't seen in a fair while, someone brought up the subject of otters in a completely unrelated discussion.  And I thought 'Holy crap, self, that's three otters in two days!  That's enough to call them a Romp!'*

*OK, I didn't actually think that part since I only just a moment ago learned that they were called that.  Still seems notable though.

So at this point I have no choice but to conclude that the universe is trying to tell me something otter-related.  But in direct contrast to the brandy incident in which my instructions were clear, I'm not entirely sure what I'm intended to do with the information.

Should I float down a river on my back with my adorable human looking hands clasped over my belly?

Should I beware of a strange man breaking open clams with a rock?

Is it an oblique reminder to remember to enjoy simple pleasures?

Help me out with a little clarity here universe.

In the interim, here's a video of an otter playing with a rock.*

*Careful - this may actual reach a toxic level of adorable.