It's St. Rugglin's Eve and I was going to collect all of the shoes in the house and take every left shoe, put them in a garbage bag, and hide the garbage bag in the woods. But now I'm too tired.
Next year.
And that's too bad because this is a special St. Rugglin's day for us Tates. Job, having forsaken all worldly refreshment and having taken the vow of reluctant celibacy is now a novice in the monastic order of St. Rugglin. Job, your ongoing plight has touched us . . . touched us with the cold, clammy hand of romantic futility. You make us proud when we're not wincing.
So, I haven't put all of the effort I wanted to into this year's celebration, but the parade routes have been mapped out, the expletive candle has been lit, and the grim foreboding of this special season has made us all somewhat jumpy.
We are wishing you and yours a very trying and difficult day tomorrow.
Eccles. 7:3 (ESV)
Sorrow is better than laughter,
for by sadness of face the heart is made glad.
2 comments:
At dinner tonight we shared with one another our plans for tomorrow. I was quite impressed with the girls because of how well thought out their individual plans were. Unknown to him, Obadiah will be the "float" for some of our parades.
12 hours in the ER will be a Dante like Inferno and will fulfill my St. Rugglin's Day commitment. I had a practice run at it today and my weary body attests to the fact that my 12 hour parade will surpass all other Tate feeble attempts at St. Rugglins Day misery.
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