I mentioned on Thursday that it had been a crazy week, and McD and Beaucha were both like, “Geez, yeah it has.” Funny, I thought: I know it’s been crazy for me individually, but apparently that was part of a larger, universal craziness. Like a crazy front moved in from the north and has been affecting everyone’s weather. Was it crazy for you, too?
I mean, it’s not like we’ve been running around dodging bullets and, like, corralling monkeys. It’s just that stuff has been a little out-of-the-ordinary, and even the ordinary stuff has been a little…off. Anyway, this was my six-day weather pattern:
Sunday: UFC 145 aftermath = lounging around the house all day. First hockey win in four months (in the final game of the season). Talked about religion and karaoke over a post-game Applebee’s steak. The Progeny cried, loudly and a lot. She knew it was going to be an off week.
(Right now, Lefty’s all, “Please. In that case, every week’s an off week.”)
Monday: First thing, the faucet hisses and goes silent. No water? Really? This is where we thank our lucky stars that I showered the night before. At work, a 350-word profile about biologic injections that target the specific inflammatory pathways affected by psoriasis. Uh…huh. Then boxing, a surprising second wind in time for a couple laps around the building, 30-rep sets of squats.
Tuesday: Headed east into the sun at 7:45, eerily quiet early morning LWR—which, frankly, looks like post-apocalyptic Stepford. The start of a five-hour pancake tour across Sarasota. FIVE HOURS, people. Like an alternate universe, stuck on a loop. Pancake after pancake after goddamn motherfucking pancake.
Station 400‘s blueberry and almond pancake with vanilla butter, lemon rind and berry syrup.
That evening, a marathon home inspection. No big reveals—salvageable roof, and we already knew the house is filled with little things that need to be replaced. No tip-of-the-iceberg problems like, “You think this light switch is bad, but actually the wall is about the fall over.” Or “That’s not actually water damage; you have hedgehogs.” By 8:30, still no dinner, brain filled with HVAC stats and sheet rock estimates. And beer. And pancakes.
Wednesday: Random interview with a speech pathologist regarding therapies for disphagia. Bite your tongue between your front teeth and swallow. Wayward, low-level anxiety. Five-man hockey clinic.
Oh, and in case you missed it, Boston lost.
Thursday: Still a wee bit of anxiety—free-floating, a phantom sense of doom, now mixed with residual glove stink. (Smells like…Monday?) Monotonous copy editing—in a cute outfit, I will say. (Also weird.)
Then some lady up and crosses two lanes of oncoming traffic to ram her E350 into Unconditional Surrender. Tell me that’s not the weirdest thing you’ve seen all week.
Thursday evening, kielbasa and 18 holes of Wii golf before meeting the Deelios at Evie’s for game 7. Ottowa lost. (This…is not weird.) Devils’ second-OT series-winner.
Overtime game sevens and Thursday nights with friends. Something magical. Something to remember.
And here we are on Friday: The revelation that a former associate was arrested (in another state) for pulling a gun in a federal building.
OK, universe, I’m just going to go with your flow this week. (Actually, ladies, come to think of it, maybe the universe and I are synched up.)
Tonight, we head east to ride horses—CCB’s first ever equine adventure. Then Sammys and take-out barbecue around somebody else’s pool in the country, talking philosophy and TV with the ‘rents, looking up at the stars. Maybe we’ll ask the universe what’s up.