Forgive me, for I ate a plum, and it wasn’t that delicious. Some people have all the luck. I have already failed at Daily Content Challenge, but I am going to back-date this and carry on with a stiff upper lip. You are so polite that you will pretend not to notice. I’m the president; you’re FOX News!
Yesterday my horoscope warned “If you take a risk (with your life) you could end up in the hospital; this is especially true toward the evening.” Normally I scoff at death, but I was supposed to attend a minor league baseball game that evening. Oh! Would I be killed by a t-shirt cannon? Trampled by the Canaligator? It was AARP hat night, and I inspected the cap for hidden poisoned needles or molecules of bird flu or old age (di-uh-beet-us). The Spinners team logo is a bat spooled with yarn, to celebrate the rich textile mill heritage of Lowell, but this particular personalized hat was stitched in China, thanks to some inscrutable combo of Cisco routers and slave labor. I don’t know. I don’t know anything.
The boring conclusion is that I did not die at all, not even during the brief thunderstorm that passed overhead. It took me until the third inning to realize the game had started, because that’s how gripping the play is. I ate one jumbo grilled dog, with ketchup (catsup) and mustard. Was it really a dog? We can’t be picky. I also had a Red Hook ESB in a plastic cup. This heightened my enjoyment of Dizzy Bat. Later I had bites of ice cream and funnel cake. Holy fuck. I thought the funnel cake might be the instrument of my death, but I guess the obesity virus takes a long time to make its stranglehold known.
Then I used the power of my mind to hurt a particularly annoying child. This effort took until the sixth inning. He was jumping up and down, and when he attempted to plop back into his seat, the seat had conveniently folded into a closed position. So he fell on his ample little rump. My companions laughed at his misfortune. Don’t tell me it was coincidence. Nothing is a coincidence.
Hi Internet, hi. It’s May. Just saying. Still singing loudly around the house and considering the purchase of a double-tall Airbus. You?
My horoscope says “You must make your own luck today by careful consideration of the alternatives.” Hmm. Such as: the alternative to making money is being poor, so I will do all my work. The alternative to starving to death is eating, so I will have some orange juice even though I don’t feel like it. Eating: Love it when other people make the food for me. Otherwise: 2 lazy 2 live!!!! If the alternative to not going to the bathroom weren’t exploding, I would never get up. OK, I force myself to trot around outside in a stupid outfit, but that doesn’t mean i enjoy it. That’s only prompted by vanity.
I nearly got pitched out of a child’s dance recital. She was on near the end, I was nursing a slight hangover and pill withdrawal brain shocks, and the kids were all tappa-tappa-tappa, twinkle twinkle. The theme was “Hollywood,” and each number was from a song associated with a movie. The emcee described “Pretty Woman” as a film about “opposites attracting.” I thought it was about whores! Then seven-year-olds in red lipstick came out to shake it.
A class of large teenage girls in voluminous tutus came out, and Mr. H had to restrain me as I jabbed him in the ribs. Turned out they all had Down Syndrome. My far vision has deteriorated to the point that all I saw was clumsy non-rhythmic lurching. I felt bad for snickering, but only a little. It was still a trial. Then the teachers all performed to “Batdance,” and there was no stopping me. It must be quite the burden to be a bringer of culture to Chelmsford, Massachusetts. Mr. H made me go wait in the hall before I started laughing too hysterically, bribing me with the promise of a Frosty. I never got that, come to think of it. He wouldn’t tell me about the rest of the show, only that it’s good that I left when I did. Hulk can’t help self.
I have pre-travel agitation. My horoscope that arrives via e-mail each morning usually says something easily ignored like “Beware being mauled by a shark” or “Isn’t it time you tossed that mascara?” But today it said “This is not a good time for travel as frequent obstacles can arise.” The hell!
Perhaps I will write again later when I am still sitting in the airport in Boston long after I should have arrived at my destination. I will be the one swearing and drinking a bottle of Purell while trying to stab someone at the Air France counter with my travel lint roller. Or maybe I’ll never even make it to the airport. I think I feel a reaction to exfoliation coming on. Throat closing…. Initiate emergency self-tanning procedures….
Mr. H and I are going to try an experiment and post a photo every day during our vacation. Of course there are many variables that may interfere, including terrorism, the Pope’s funeral, the Mercury retrograde, and whether or not we murder each other. We love to travel together, but it’s just not a vacation without at least one screaming fight. Luckily I speak Spanish and he doesn’t, so I have the upper hand when threatening to leave him somewhere.