Monday, October 24, 2011

Magic Pill Mystery Tour

The magic pill mystery tour is waiting to take you away.

Every weekday morning, The Pony and I hit the ground running. We are a well-oiled machine. Our morning chores are choreographed so they do not overlap. We manage to get lunches packed and tucked away in backpacks and school bags, dump the dehumidifier (you remember D'Hummy, right?), feed the puppy, pack my bifocals, tuck a Pepcid in my pocket, comb hair, brush teeth, fill a water cup with ice, unhook the charged phones, wake the #1 son, turn off TV and lights, lock the door, pet the puppy, dump a tiny pile of dry cat food on the porch to distract the puppy from following us, and load up T-Hoe for the trip to school.

The Pony holds his door open so I have light to set out my medicine. I take in on the way to school, because it is shaves five minutes off our preparations. Until this morning. As I was transferring it from a folded Puffs with Aloe to the center console tray, a pill got loose. I don't know where it went. I searched high and low. With this being duty day, I let the trail grow cold as I ran back into the Mansion for a replacement pill.

That was one magic pill. You'd think gravity, that harsh taskmistress, would have pulled Pilly down to the soft blanket of tissues that rest directly in front of the cup holders. I use them to shade the lid of my Sonic Diet Coke with Lime to delay meltage. I picked them up and checked them one by one. No Pilly. I checked the cup holders. I checked the floor. I checked the narrow ravines between the console and the seats. No Pilly.

Pilly defied the laws of Newton. Unless he is still in motion at this minute, with no outside force having acted upon him. But I seriously doubt that. I know Pilly. Pilly is no neutrino. Pilly is not that pretty and he's not that special. I would wager a weeks wages that Pilly did not travel faster than the speed of light. And wager the next week's wages that Pilly did not strike me in the ribs, then hit me on the right wrist, make a turn in midair (mind you), and land on my left thigh like Keith Hernandez' spit from the grassy knoll at Shea Stadium landed on Newman. He says.

Yep. Pilly's got the magic in him. Wherever he is.

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