Dear journal – my life is a bad reality show!

For those of you that missed my last journal entry go back to my blog of June 5 for the first installment.

My last journal entry was a recap of my amazing year.  In a short New York minute my world changed.  (Note to self - why are minutes shorter in New York than the rest of the country?  And find out how many minutes ahead I should set my watch when in NYC).

We were signed up for a short test ride in a rocket ship, a real one, not a play one.  That’s what Rex, my husband, told me we were doing.  So a car picks the two of us up from an isolated hotel, and late at night we head into the California desert.  The car door opens, Rex steps out, and I hear shouting in a language I cannot understand.  These men can’t be extraterrestrial beings considering they were holding designer luggage or maybe ET’s like fashion bags, too.

I was shocked that there wasn’t a single space ship or anything resembling the picture from the brochure.  Instead I see men pointing guns at our car and two small planes parked next to us.  Rex, I said, “This is not what I signed up for,” and he stared coldly into my eyes and whispered, “me either.”

He shoved a laundry bag into my hands and breathed, “Now we are even.”   To add insult to injury, Rex abandoned me and then had the nerve to hand me his dirty clothes.  He slammed the card door telling the driver to, “Move it.”   From the car window I saw both planes leaving the ground.

 The ride back to the creepy hotel was silent.  Feeling lonely and scared I contacted the two men that visited me last month.  They encouraged me to call if anything seemed odd, and I think my trip to the desert should qualify as odd.  To my surprise I found that they work at the FBI.  Black suits, thin ties and shades made me think they were from a religious group, wrong again!

It seems the FBI has been watching Rex closely, something about laundering money.   I keep my house spotless and would never put money in my washing machine.  Considering how much a clean house means to me, the fact that Rex handed me money in a laundry bag really touched my heart.  Rex giving me clean money is a sign he loves me, so I never said a word to the FBI guys.

The men wanted to know if Rex had said anything more than goodbye.  A little voice told me not to mention the money I placed inside the frame of my favorite velvet Elvis painting for safekeeping.  A request was made to search the house and I agreed; confident no one would defile The King.  I am going to a spa for a week to recover.  Rex may come home.  I just know he was forced to do something bad.  Why else would he give me a bag of clean money?  I need to try and contact the twins but I will think about that tomorrow.