Got nailed in the head by a soccer ball yesterday.
What amazed me was the timing. A millisecond sooner & it would have broken my nose; a millisecond later & it would have careened off the back of my head; instead, it bounced squarely off my cheek and went back the way it came, like a cue ball in a perfectly lined~up pool shot.
It was as if The Universe had given me a slap in the face, just for nothing... and my first response was, ...what? What did I do wrong? What message is The Universe trying to convey... besides, possibly, the bloody obvious mind your surroundings, and, uh, let's see now, what else ~ oh, yeah ~ keep your eye on the ball! {snort} Hee hee, I crack myself up...
Was afraid I'd swell up all lopsided~like. Ah, great, I thought, because that's what the world needs from me, is more of my cheek...
Aha, says The Universe. That's it ~ for you to be more cheeky. That's what I meant.
Maybe I'm just projecting here, but I'm beginning to suspect The Universe really enjoys a bad pun...
Boyfriend & I were watching a standup comedian who told this joke: I'm half Irish & half Greek. Which means I spend all day getting drunk while I'm working in my parent's diner.
And we were compelled, against our better judgement, to laugh at this joke; because the truth is, my family is Irish with our fair share of alcoholics, and Boyfriend's family is Greek & in the restaurant business. Oh my god, honey, it's like he knows us; let's take this as a warning not to have kids. Sing it with me: killing us softly with his song...
So...
.
So, there's an old~fasioned hot~dog joint in our end of town. It's a family~run business, and they're Greek; so sometimes, when we eat there, Boyfriend gets all nostalgic for "an England that never really existed." They don't make places like this anymore, he's fond of saying, and then goes on to tell me about how, if we ever have a house, he wants the kitchen to look like a 1950's diner.
We were there just a few days ago. Working behind the counter was, as usual, the owner and his brother; but the owner's son was nowhere to be seen. Instead, there was some complete stranger working behind the counter, a teenager who evidently felt this was all somewhat beneath his dignity. It put Boyfriend in a grumpy mood...
But soon the owner's son showed up, and lo & behold: he'd brought in his own son, who was just old enough to walk. And somebody in the family had somehow managed to find {or make?} a teeny little cook's apron that fit this wee child... you know that kind of apron, it's made of sturdy white material that goes down past the knees, and the apronstrings wrap around the body twice... it was almost too adorable to look at directly. My eyes, my eyes, the unbearable cuteness, it burns...
So. There they were, three generations of men in white cook's aprons.
.
No point, no moral, no snappy ending; just an observation of two vaguely related moments...