Entre-Acte

Technology Frustration Intermezzo

As I predicted, My Beloved had plenty in mind for our Sunday together.

First, I had purchased a ten-pound turkey* on sale at Aldi** some many months ago, and having gotten the notion to get it out repeatedly too late*** over the summer, we finally agreed to enjoy turkey (and then days of leftovers) this past weekend. (I got the turkey from the freezer and placed it in a cheapo aluminum roasting pan in our beer fridge in the basement on Monday; sometime Saturday morning, She-Who-Must declared it had thawed enough for Sunday dinner.) So we spent a god amount of time on Sunday prepping the bird, making stuffing and boiling-then-smashing some redskin potatoes**** (to be honest, almost all that work was performed by The Lovely One, her own plan; she even made gravy from the pan drippings once we removed the beautifully browned turkey from the oven for its twenty-minute delay before cutting and consumption, as I mashed the potatoes).

Second, it is autumn: the leaves are falling (and falling and falling and falling and blowing around and falling and covering the neighborhood and falling… ). So, as she cleaned up some twice-frosted outdoor plants, I got started on my second raking effort of 2012. And once again She-Who-Must insisted on joining in, even holding the ladder as I blew out the gutters (and thus getting herself buried in leaf grit and black decomposed vegetative matter, probably worse than I usually do to myself atop the ladder). Three hours outdoors in the afternoon, as I pondered the futility of our merely human efforts to dominate Ole Mother Nature*****, while she was dropping leaves almost as fast as we could rake them up (the yard needs a raking again today) even though the two largest trees were fairly bare.

Then back inside to finish preparing the meal (now about 4:30, and we determined the turkey could still use another thirty minutes). And it was wonderful!

The only burr under our (autumnally necessary) blankets was Sunday football.

$#@&%+$$%!!

Why is it that football games can not conclude at the proper time? Admittedly, I donʼt give the proverbial rodentʼs tushie about the clearly most boring sport to feature gargantuan fat guys running as little as possible and taking breaks every thirty seconds. So I donʼt understand why 60 Minutes (and for My Beloved, even more importantly The Good Wife) must always start, through the chilling weeks of the “new season,” no less than thirty minutes late every week!******

Okay, creepy-pale blue (not exactly turquoise), although their purty panties sure looked that effeminate on our TV

Fortunately, yesterday, we had only to endure thirty minutes of excess tedium as one team (in turquoise trousers, nonetheless) failed to score a single point against its purple-clad opponents*******, who had led by something like 23 to 7 right through the tedious final ever-extended, commercial-riddled fourteen minutes of “play.”

However, we watched (botched, “joined-already-in-progress,” and interrupted — thanks to Fox football) Simpsons Treehouse of Terror and then the wifeʼs weekly highlight of Chicago lawyerly shenanigans.

And then to bed. And us to an end, already over 750 words.

Probably back to Technological Frustrations (2) tomorrow… (You may want to review before the mandatory reading comprehension quiz.)

* actually 10.14 lbs.

** Actually, it was two such turkeys (The Lovely One says theres a lot of my dad in me: he used to shop at the Warehouse Market and bring home whole flats of canned goods, the deals were too good to ignore), so we still have one to go, buried in the depths of our freezer.

*** As I have been repeatedly instructed, it takes days to defrost a turkey, so, no, I donʼt get to just pull one out on Thursday or Friday for Saturday-night dinner. Thus my excessively late inspirations had to be suspended until I took the effort to truly plan ahead.

**** She wanted to have the full autumnal turkey experience this time.

***** “I rake only to rake again (and again and again… ), only to end that job for snow shoveling (again and again and… ), only to have spring rescue us from snow in order to begin to mow. And no matter what, nature wins in the end when my failing frame falters into death.”

****** And moreover, as NBC is an even worse offender, why I must miss the Sunday local weather, when the Nefarious Blubbercasting Conglomerate always runs its Sunday Night BoredomFest hours past ten oʼclock Central. Oh for the glorious (however short-lived these days) End of Season!

******* And I furthermore utterly fail to perceive whatʼs supposedly manly about this wimpʼs game… Purple and turquoise? Seriously? Americans only love our own perverted version of football because of the big (fake) point total on touchdown, pretending somehow that real football is dull (nonstop action) with only a single point per (generally well defended) goal…

©2012 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.

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