I did not know the casinos have the power to stop an eclipse. As much power as Zeus and Hera combined.
Today there was an occurrence that occurs only a few times every millennia or whatever makes up a lot of years. I’m referring of course, to being able to fit into at least 80 percent of my wardrobe.
That wasn’t it. Wait, it’ll come to me. Oh, yeah. There was an eclipse.
For those not familiar with this term, an eclipse means the gods were moving the sofa and other furniture, and the Olympian armoire blocked the damn sun, for cryin’ out loud.
The little woman goddess was tired of seeing the same thing day after day. She sits at home while the hubby god plays golf, leaving her to stare at the four walls of Olympus.
For someone who can spy on her hubby from anywhere in the world and catch him nailing a female bull, or whatever, at the fourth hole (snort), and then change said bull into Europe of all things, you’d think she’d be off having a LOT more fun with the girls.
Who needs that guy? Kick him to the curb, and create a tsunami from the resulting god-like splash into the ocean. (That was a mixed metaphor, geologically speaking.)
After, martinis and schawarma with the ladies.
Our eclipse supposedly arrived at the time scheduled by the Powers That Be here in Nevada, and presumably everywhere else. I’ll never really know, except that my BFF saw it and called while she was watching it surreptitiously in a hand mirror as prescribed by her doctor and NPR.
She’s three hours ahead of us, and she wanted to know if I was watching it, too. We’d had a thunderstorm an hour earlier that was heating up and crashing from 8am onward. My dog, Sugar, had been sticking her snout in my face for several minutes, but failing to alert me to the oncoming danger, was leaning on me, all forty pounds of her feeling like eighty, panting heavily, shaking the bed.
I was still half asleep and ready to plead a headache, when I realized she wasn’t the MOTH (Man of the House). Damn, thought I. A good headache gone to waste. Maybe next time.
When I looked for her the second time, most of her was sticking out from under the bed, but she was semi-content, knowing that the ticked off goddess wouldn’t be able to spot her if her head was hidden.
This is the same idea that happened when a male doctor walked through the WAF’s locker room where my grandmother and the other women were changing during World War II. Yes, they changed all during the war.
He called out, “Man coming through, ladies! Cover your heads!” Doctors are such a hoot.
It was still overcast here and the sun was covered by some other Heavenly Miscellaneous Furniture when the Heavenly Movers carrying the Armoire across the sun set it down to -get this- wipe their sweaty brows. Bummer.
I’m going to have to wait another seventy years to see this amazing occurrence. Just in time for me to finally get the word ‘occurrence’ right on the first try. Two ‘r’s. Two ‘c’s. No ‘a’. Took me three tries the first occurrence.
My son was on his way to work at 9am, and seeing as how there was this thunderstorm AND an eclipse and being a good mother, I warned him to come back home should he be swarmed by locusts or pelted by hail as these are biblical signs of impending doom. Can’t be too careful.
(Impending Doom would be an awesome name for a rock group.)
I figured the thunderstorm occurring just as the eclipse was due to arrive on the next bus, wasn’t a Heavenly Occurrence after all.
This was clearly the casinos’ influence and enactment of awesome Olympian power, pure and simple. All those gamblers leaving the tables and games to go outside and see something that wouldn’t happen again for another seventy years?
I’m referring of course, to me fitting into any seven of my different sizes of jeans.