The Sweet and SaltyTaste of Victory

"I sizzle. I scorch. But now I pass the torch. The ballots are in. And one girl had to win. She's perky. She's fun. And now she's Number One."

--"Bring it On" (cheerleader roll call)

I was a little worried when I had to send the Ex over to the Hot Sorority Visigoths to borrow a cup of vodka. I was trying to find the HD version of The Big Game when I hear him yell up, "where's the vodka?" followed by "are we out of vodka?" followed by "what happened to the vodka?"

He knew perfectly well I hadn't suddenly developed a drinking problem. What had happened was, I was running around cleaning frantically because the Rescue Society was coming over for a Home Visit to evaluate me for prospective adoption (no one really wants to be told their home isn't fit for a dog). When I jerked the fridge door open in a rush, the stupid loose door plate came off and everything on that shelf came flying out. The only things that broke, however, were a jar of olives and a completely full bottle of vodka. I cleaned it up as best I could, but I still think that dog drank a floor martini. (I explained it all to the niceVolunteer Coordinators, and I got approved, notwithstanding the chaotic mid-move housekeeping.) I just hadn't thought to replace it.

Knowing I had told him this story at least once, I yelled down, "I told you that Test Dog drank that vodka; Go. Next. Door." (I also knew the Hot Sorority Visigoths would be happy to loan us a cup of vodka.)

The next thing I hear is "can we just have margaritas? We have all the stuff!" Fine. I hit Pause. (The man's 41 years old and still doesn't know how to make a margarita, so the question wasn't "can we have them?" it was "will you come make them?") I slammed down one of the folders I was working on -- at which point, nothing Paused, and I realized the batteries had just gone dead in the Remote. 

"Remember that year you got me all the 40-packs of Duracells in my Christmas stocking?" I asked, as we walked back up the stairs. ("Nope" was the obvious answer there.) "Well, we just used up the last one, so I couldn't pause the game. The Remote's dead."

"No big deal," was Mr. Gadget's confident answer. "We'll just rob something else."

No. I'd already looked, the remotes in the other rooms took Triple As; we needed Double As.

So we were stuck sitting there for a moment, watching the game Live, like Animals... "Oh! I knooooow....." he said, yanking open the nightstand, struck by a flash of genius, suddenly remembering what the 40-pak of Duracells had accompanied in the Christmas stocking.  "Don't bother." I said, without even taking my eyes off The Game. "It's broken."

"What?!" he said, shaking its still, lifeless form in apparent doubt, and mindlessly jabbing its inert buttons. "What did you do? This thing cost, like $140 bucks. It was on Sex and the City! It's supposed to be indestructible. " (They lied.)

"I didn't do anything," I shrugged. "The threads are just stripped." (I hadn't needed it this Christmas, that's for sure, I explained. Unnecessarily, he pointed out.)

A challenge. And he suddenly goes from corporate warrior/Bonfire of the Vanities mogul to Mr. FixIt, stripping off his tie, crudely fashioning improvisational tools from the change-dish on the dresser and working over the jammed battery casing like it was his fulltime job. 

By the time he'd rescued a couple Double-As, it was HalfTime, and by then, we needed them for the Mute.

With such a slow build in the second half, I took a moment to post, "if  we win, homage must be paid. #LuckyHalftimeRitual. #OneHundredPercentSuccessRate." (I wanted credit where credit was due.)

Victory.... Tastes a little like watermelon.