Pete's Whipping Boy
Thumper silently mouthed "No hope in hell" when I looked at her wondering if I could get one last 72 hour pass. Not to be. You invite guests and suddenly it all becomes much more serious and staid.
Mike is one of the more faithful of the extended clan and points out that St. Peter eternally tests us in this world. No longer a believer, I will accept at the very least that Pete is out there somewhere spinning the wheel of fate and sticking his finger in to stop it on "wild card." I know, I've been there.
When you leave Fenway in the 8th, Ortiz slams in a four runner. When you lock the lot into a seventy six year, one percent CD, the market decides the sky's the limit. When you find the woman you're going to marry and are only going to the upscale grocery joint because they carry a pink lemonade fizzy drink that works well with gin, St. Peter puts a cutie in line ahead of you who is just no end of interested in what you're going to do with the tilapia this weekend.
I thought I'd cry in it.
Here, take the fish. She already loves me. I can't really impress her any more.
I'm ok with being Pete's occasional whipping boy. It reminds me that we all have choices in life and once made, can't really hit the re-set button to try again.
Contrary to Robert Frost, who at JFK's innaugural read from his piece, "Yellow Wood" as follows:
"Two roads diverged into a yellow wood and I,
I took the one less travelled by.
Yet wondered if I'd have gotten lucky on the first date,
Had I taken the other."
The president-elect clapped heartily.
One of these days, "Pete's Whipping Boy" will become a book. The foibles of a hopeless fellow who has opportunity dropped into his lap just when things finally seem to be working out. It will read into the center of the book where it will marry to "Murphy's Handmaiden"; the story of a woman who lives anything that can go wrong, will and will be tax-audited to boot.
I'm not sure what will happen when the stories meet. You're going to have to stick around to find out.