The Luna Park Gazette

My finger quivered on the mouse as I moved the curser over the “Cancel Vacation” tab. One click and I wouldn’t have to go anywhere or do anything. I wouldn’t have to dig out my passport, fly on an airplane, or rent a hotel room and exchange currency. One click and I could stay in my nice little comfort zone eating wonton soup and watching DVDs. That was me about 10 days ago just prior to my most fabulous trip to England, where I was so stressed, so nervous, so freaked out that I was ready to scrub the entire mission and stay hidden under the blankets for a week. I was worried about my job, my health, the plane going down, terrorists, alien invasions, and a whole slew of nameless emotional gargoyles lingering on the rim of my subconscious ready to bum-rush my brain. But I couldn’t give into the fear. I had told just about everyone I knew that I was heading to the U.K. and it would like pretty ridiculous if I suddenly bailed on the whole shebang. And I had people to see, includi...

I couldn’t stay in the house one second more. It was late Saturday afternoon and I was losing my mind. I had spent a good part of the day either at the bank or in front of my computer as I prepared for my upcoming vacation and I still hadn’t knocked off several important items on my to-do list. I was angry at myself for blowing two hours on a Netflix detour and for failing to make plans for the day or evening—but the weather report said it was going to rain all day and I figured this would be a great time to get my chores out of the way. Then my computer starting slowing down and my blood pressure starting climbing and, once again, I found an excuse to get angry over nothing. When the sun finally came out at around 5pm, I grabbed a book, bolted out of the door, and made for nearby Shore Road Park where I could read, relax and rejuvenate. And that’s when I met Jacob. He was nine-years old and he walked right up to me, giggling and clutching a plastic ray gun. His father was...

At least the umbrella lady was nice to me. My identify theft woes continued this week when my bank sent me an email asking if I had authorized some yin-yang called Jorge Osoria to use my credit card, which of course I hadn’t. So, I had to dump another yet another credit card. This latest bit of misery follows my recent run-in with cyber-cretin Ruth Dingfield , who taunted me via email and whom I would cheerfully ding with a frying pan and bury in a field of skunkweed. The bank security woman told me that it’s probably some malware in my computer that could be reading my actual key strokes. (If that’s the case, Jorge, tell me what this says: “F-U-C-K-Y-O-U!”) I had already done a malware search and turned up nothing, but I downloaded a new program which took nearly eight hours to review every scrap of information in my computer and do you know what it found? Absolutely nothing. So, however these humps are getting to my account, it ain’t happening on my end. Things got even ...