Last Call for Higgs Boson

I think something's trying to get my attention. Like some old dead ancestor or something. Or some long lost pet. Maybe that hit of windowpane from back in '81 with some long lost message from the universe. That's it, the universe. Like maybe the god participle. Er, particle. Whatever.

Like the other noon I was shaken from my slumbers by an explosion outside my bedroom window. Things being what they are, I figured it was an asteroid. With my name on it. Turns out it was icicles falling from the eaves onto the deck. I sleep with earplugs designed for the Mars Mission, pal, we're talking LOUD. I mean, these puppies were the size of Jane Lynch.

At the time of the explosion, I'd been in the thick of another alzheimer's dream. Lately I've been having these dreams where I can't remember the names of people or furniture or who won Best Short Documentary or how many fingers I'm holding up. I have no problem remembering what kind of wine is in the glass my fingers are holding up, but otherwise, fog city. I mean, who swills pinot grigio in their dreams then can't think of the word for rocking chair? Is this bad?

And speaking of asteroids, the other day my daughter fainted. Asshole-Mom-of-the-Year that I am, when the school called, I took it for granted she was faking it. She gets these headaches, and apparently one of them launched her onto the floor during math class. So they ambulanced her to the ER, where I found her staring glassy-eyed at nothing in particular. For once we were seeing eye to eye.

When the doc appeared, he held up a passel of fingers.

"How many?" he asked.

"I think ... th-ree ..." said my daughter, and not a moment too soon. I was afraid she'd look to me for help, and I was clueless. And I wasn't even sleeping. I don't think.

When the doc left, I asked my daughter how she was feeling.

"I think ... hun-gry ..." she said.

Here's where the asteroid part comes in: if an asteroid with her name on it was hurtling toward our neck of the woods, my daughter would get in one more bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos before last call. I'm just saying.

And speaking of last call, forget the fucking pledge drive — they killed off Matthew Crawley!! Crikey! It's the end of the British Empire! Again! And I'm a sustaining member! Like the least they could've done was let the unfortunate dreamboat get gobsmacked by a rogue cricket ball or falling chandelier or something, as a result of which he could've developed amnesia and run off with O'Brien. Or better yet, Thomas. That way there'd still be the option for a miraculous recovery once he discovered there is no life after a smash hit series. It's the Shelley Long Syndrome.

As a result of this ratings mindfuck, I found myself at rockbottom. Again. The dreamboat had sailed off into the sunset of Netflix streaming, doomed to stare into the Downton Abyss for the rest of his natural days, and I had no choice but to change my life. So, one, I switched to pinot noir and, two, I took down all the Christmas decorations. So what if this was last week, BFD. One year I left them up until July. I mean, we still had snow on the ground as far as the eye could see. And I'm all about the bigger picture.

So I'm hauling the Christmas tree out to the yard waste site when KA-BAM! my front tires disappear into Highway 61. Things being what they are, I figured it was a sinkhole, and reached for my cellphone to dial the liquor store. They deliver, within reason, and I figured this was as good a reason as any. Turns out it was ice breakup. You think lakes and rivers are the only things that freeze in this godforsaken yardwasteland? Think again, pal. Come to think of it, that's what I'm trying to do.

And speaking of the bigger picture, yesterday noon I glance into the backyard to connect with my higher self or possibly the universe and my gaze falls upon a young cardinal eyeing the birdfeeder. My inner child starts vibrating with lovingkindness as the energy of cosmic oneness begins telescoping me toward enlightenment when KA-BAM! it turns out it's a piece of a Target bag dangling from the branches of the burning bush. Another message from the universe. That ol' dangling god participle again. Er, particle. Whatever.

I still say something's trying to get my attention.