I'm Sure Locusts Are Next ...

Every once in a while, in this otherwise bleak world in which we subsist, something happens that gives me hope, even if it’s just an ever-so-faint glimmer, that things might be improving just a bit, and that continuing on for another day just might be the thing to do. A smile from a blue-eyed baby, the sight of a tatted-up, body-pierced, mohawk-sportin’ teenaged punk holding the door for an elderly woman, the return of $1 draughts from 10 am – noon at the Parilla Grill – it’s really the little things that, while easily overlooked, make it fun to carry on.

What happened yesterday was nothing short of a miracle. I was laying about in the afternoon after a fairly exhausting weekend. The “rock and roll” ensemble in which I am fortunate enough to be a member had its initial public performance on Saturday (I think the kids nowadays say “we had our first gig,” or something like that. Whatevs ...), and there were subsequent celebratory activities long into the evening, as is the custom, I’m told. (The Live Acorn was there and didn’t die of embarrassment, which I’ll take as a compliment.)

Though I had what I’m fairly certain was a touch of the Bubonic Plague upon waking yesterday, I heroically arose from bed and began my traditional fall Sunday activities, which include baking the lasagna that I had assembled a couple of days prior and riding to the aforementioned Parilla Grill to watch some American Football as it cooled. Some rituals are sacred that way.

Upon returning home, and giving thanks that the Plague was merely of the 2-hour variety, I realized that I was both a) hungry, and 2) tired. Now I’m not one to believe in karma, or a higher being, or anything like that, but the fact that my house had both 1) a freshly-cooked lasagna, and b) a couch seemed a little too coincidental. Odd. I didn’t dwell on it too long, however, and soon my hunger was sated and I was fading into a light slumber.

Here comes the miracle part ... consider the situation within my four walls at the time: a sleeping Dead Acorn, the pan with the remaining 7 pieces of lasagna sitting out on the counter, and the iron-stomached food-inhaling Hell Hound eating machine roaming about unrestrained.

And why yes, she IS Italian.

I awoke a bit later, and immediately realized what I had done. I sat on the edge of the couch, my head in my hands, sobbing, and in between tearful gasps screaming “Why? WHY? Why would I not put it in the fridge? Was sleep so important and urgent that I couldn’t take two steps to my left, thereby avoiding this catastrophe? Dear god, WHY?” After a few minutes of soul searching, I got up and tried to prepare myself for the carnage that I knew awaited me in the kitchen. I trudged slowly around the corner ...

... and found nothing of the sort. I mean, the kitchen was a mess, of course, but it always is, as I’m somewhat ... less than tidy, let's say ... in my living habits. But the lasagna pan remained on the counter, and an inspection revealed only a half-layer of one piece missing. That damn dog had finally showed a bit of restraint and only ate half a piece! As difficult as it is to fathom, she must have, at some point, said to herself “You row whut? Ri’ve had eruff!” (I marvel at her ingenuity in realizing that she could take the top half only rather than try to use a knife to cut it. Brilliant!) And getting back to my original point, it’s a miracle such as this that truly encapsulates the wonderment of our world.

Perhaps this is actually a teaching moment. Perhaps this is a lesson meant for me. Perhaps I can learn just a bit from her lack of lasagnatious avarice and incorporate such an attitude of self-restraint toward the 10 am – noon draught special.

Or, you know, perhaps not.