Monday, November 26, 2007
Signs of Divine Intervention
I must admit that there are times this year I have truly believed in Karma and payback from former lives, and that in my past lifetime I must have been a serial killer of the worst sort. You know, killing extremely cute kittens and puppies with bows on. For food. Or something. I ponder the names Idi and Pol and wonder if there's any connection. Because who loses a child and then has to deal with the minutia of bad shit? Take, for example, a hellatious week in July that starts with an aunt nearly dying from falling off a horse to then have both family cars break down a total of three times, the last of which happened at the airport while trying to pick up family. And the car couldn't be jump started. While trying to plan not one but two parties that weekend. There have been karma breakdowns and demigods of misbehavior waving their wands since February: Drunk driver creaming fence. Neighborhood kid ruining freshly poured concrete. Oven door falling off (and I do mean off, onto the floor. Makes for easy cleaning, I'll say that.) I'm a runner (well, WAS a runner, trying to remember how) so once Bella hit school in September, I hit the trails in an effort to burn off some baby fat. And because in my former life I apparently tortured the kittens and puppies before turning them into a pie, my plantar fascia whigged out, and now I haven't run in about 5 weeks and have very much gained back any weight I dutifully burned off in September. Because why should this be easy or go according to plan?
And then, amongst the shit pile, are small tiny gems where I wonder if there is indeed a God, and s/he is keeping just a wee tiny eye out for me and my mental health. The college football season, which I normally pay close attention to, and normally is a big fat yawn following the script minus a game or two, is intriguing this fall beyond my wildest imagination. The vast array of Republican scandals this year has been nothing short of giggleworthy. And Mr. ABF informed me of the best news I've heard in a long, long time: one of my favorite fast-food restaurants is opening a store 10 minutes from my house. I may be in the shitpile, but now I've got good fries to keep me company. Or maybe I'm reading this wrong: without the running, and the fries, I could be accepting my new identity as a coronary patient. Time will tell.