Astros, Superstitions and Christmas
I get emotionally invested in my teams whenever they're in a significant race. Never a fan otherwise. Couldn't tell you what their seasons were like in the past. But this weekend I stood in a long line to spend hundreds of dollars for anything with their name emblazoned on it. I even have a flag for my car--which my husband is so ashamed of he yanks it off when he has to drive the Suburban. Anyway, as you know, they suck now. Or maybe the Sox are just that good, I dunno. What amazes me is the power I think I have. I actually believe that as soon as I start to watch, they begin to lose. What's next, do I wear the same underwear when they win? As amazing as this delusional phenomenon is, I find that it's not an isolated occurence. Lots of people like me truly believe they have the power to decide the game's outcome just through the clothes they wear, the facial expressions they use, and the cheers they chant. Boxers or briefs, paper or plastic--it's all more significant than we think. I'm not watching today so we'll see what happens.
On to a more cheerful subject. As soon as the first cold snap hit us here in Houston, my son, Lukas, got into the Christmas spirit. We've been tortured by all sorts of Christmas carols 24/7--even those dorky ones from the 30s and 40s. He's painted tshirts that say "Get Ready for Christmas," although he's yet to wear them. Good thing too, since he used Tempera paints. The first thing I hear in the morning is the patter of his little feet racing down the stairs, then a brief pause, then Feliz Navidad playing at 3000 decibels. On the way to school, he forces me through a few choruses of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer--the corny Judy Garland one. And he made me promise to bring the CD when I pick him up. Seriously, seeing Christmas stuff well before Halloween makes me want to puke. It means errands I don't have time to do and money I don't really want to surrender. It means begging and two foot long wish lists that change several times a day. It means putting up decorations but first shaking off the mouse turds that have collected during their sojourn in the attic. It means boring Christmas parties you can't refuse the tenth time in a row. It means school Christmas choirs where your kid is the only one staring blankly off into space not so much as lip syncing the words. It means torturing myself over what to buy my husband who basically buys whatever he wants already. It means hoping he doesn't buy me an electric skillet or a one year subscription to Racing magazine. So lukas, give you Mama a break. Can't it wait til after Thanksgiving?