Yesterday was the big game. So how many of you have heard more than enough about the Super Bowl and all that surrounds it?
Ok, those of you who raised your hand, lower your arm, and move your finger to your mouse. Roll it up. Little more...little more...over to the left…there! The back arrow? Click it. Get out now or abandon all hope…
10 million blogging lemmings can't be wrong. So I'm running with the pack. We have chosen our cliff and it says "Super bowl: next drop."
Charge!
All you doubtful lagging lemmings will have an opportunity later. The next cliff will be along shortly. We call that "the election." Huh, suddenly the super bowl doesn't look half bad does it?
Geronimo!
Ah yes. My leap started Sunday morning in church. Like so many other holidays within the past 12 months, I'd planned on skipping this one. I mean, what is there for me here? It's Sunday. I work. Why bother? Except that while kneeling at the church communion rail, it hit me: I need snacks!
Ok, so my timing may not have been appropriate. Still, I wanted to live. I wanted to celebrate, even if it was alone from behind my desk. Sitting in my chair by the Sony Trinitron glow, I could commune with millions of Americans just by eating chips and drinking beer while billions of electrons bounced off my unsuspecting skull inspiring deep thoughts, and deeper actions. Maybe my timing wasn't that bad after all.
"I forgot my snacks!" That was my battle cry, behind my painted smile and oversized foam hand, favorite finger extended.
"what snacks?" That's my favorite checker. Her stock just dropped several points. Luckily for her my regard for other checkers sits pretty low; she's still my fave.
I stare into her doe eyes, blink, urge her gaze to follow mine back to the stalled conveyor belt. No words can convey what's in my mind. I resort to picture language. I am a frustrated teacher, and the belt is my chalkboard. There, my foam finger pointer waves over 3 tomatoes, 2 jalapeños, 1 red onion, a bunch of cilantro and pausing over a bag of chips.
3+2+1...
A train leaves Las Vegas, headed for Los Angeles. There are 15 horny real estate agents, and 3 waitresses serving drinks in the dining car. The Train, traveling 60 mph, explodes in a fireball when one drunk Realtor too many grabs for prime waitress property. Waitress and property owner, A, ignites idiot, B, with a can of Aqua Net (red can) using Zippo lighter given to her by her Cousin, CC. Burning man becomes frantic flailing fiery ferry of death. King Midas of alcohol flame setting everything on fire. 14,598 shards of shrapnel travel X Mph into the desert night, while one iconic ranger bear smokes 3 cigarettes, watching the explosive display muttering about forests and fires. What ingredients does Divorced Rob need to make salsa?
Checker Grrl doesn't get it. A tear rolls down my cheek. I am the TV Indian watching her litter on my dreams.
"Oh the chips!" she says, pretending to understand.
"Yeah...can I borrow a Kleenex?"
It's not her fault. And it's not like I had any intentions on her or anything. It's just that she's reminded me of one of the things I miss about MyUnwife: Shorthand. If MyUnwife were reading this, she'd have been screaming "Salsa, moron! It's Salsa!" at her screen like an angry armchair quarterback. She's seen this maneuver.
I love to talk, but even more than that, I love the transference of ideas that comes with comfortability. No words, single words, movie quotes used as quarterback code to call the next play.
Red 7, Blue 19, Alamand left, "Abby Somebody…"
Example: "How did you get rice?" means "well, the waitress serving us tonight is competing for the worst waitress in the world award. Drink your tea slowly, because you'll never see a refill. Consider every food item delivered to our table as a gift from God. It wasn't planned by our waitress." I know you don't get it, but MyUnwife does, and that's the point. Also important is that the waitress doesn't get it. I don't need secret ingredients in my tomato bisque.
Don’t stare at me like you're my lost checker. You do it too. That's part of what makes relationships fun, and exclusive. It's just you and your secret code that nobody else shares. So there Nya. You make the calls. You run the play. Our plays usually contained code involving food or travel, which is funny because most of our problems contained situations including drink and stagnation.
I know that I'll play again, and I'll create new calls new things that are uniquely part of my new team. Still, the season is over, and I miss the game.
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