hitting the sauce

9-22-99

Woke up late this morning. That's nothing new, really. While I was in school, I got up late all the time. I used to get dressed in the car on my way to the store. Sometimes I'd show up for work with my boots unlaced, shirttail hanging out, tie in one hand. I'd show up for classes in a t-shirt with a random flannel thrown over it, and mismatched socks under my sandals.

This morning was fine. I wasn't even late for work; my patented last-minute behavior kicked in. One crucial thing, though: I've never done the last-minute dance this far south. When I got to work I was wearing work boots, green corduroy pants, a blue men's dress shirt and a huge, blue, cableknit sweater. My coworkers giggled at me. Look at Betsy, all bundled up! All ready for a Michigan winter!

Whatever. I was all ready for a brisk Michigan fall day. I'll bet none of y'all even owns a winter coat.

If I was going to fuck up the clothes, today was the perfect day. It was almost brisk. We got rain for three days, and the temperature dropped. If it stays like this through the winter I just might get to like Georgia.

John and I played racquetball tonight, since all the tennis courts were full when we got to the base. We suck at racquetball, especially me. I suffered a knee injury playing racquetball a few years ago, so I'm very timid on the court. John hauls off and whacks the ball mercilessly, even when the point's over, and I just cringe and hug my knees. I should just stand in the middle of the court, ducked down, with one arm over my head and the other holding the racquet straight up in the air. A certain percentage of shots should come into contact with the racquet, and John hits them so damn hard that they just might rebound and hit the wall.

All my cowering aside, I had him running in the first game. I have a lucky knack for nailing shots so low that John can't save them. Couple that talent with his habit of serving so hard that the ball hits the wall before bouncing, and I could win. I didn't, of course.

The spaghetti sauce was finally done today, and we ate like fools. John says it's the best it's ever been. (Pause for smirking.) I think it's tradition to say that after the sauce is done, just like it's tradition to hide the spice recipe and drink milk when eating the sauce. If the sauce wasn't so yummy, I'd eat it anyway, just because of the ritual. Come on, three days to simmer? I live for those details.