Small Miracle (Are There Any Other Kinds?)
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," anxious and depressed 23 out of 24 hours a day! Aren't you glad you get the product of that one odd hour?
First, we at "The Gods Are Bored" send prayers and sympathy to the members of the Unitarian Universalist church in Tennessee where a gunman opened fire at random on the congregation. It seems the fellow disagreed with the UU platform and tried to take the argument to a higher court. It's a big miracle (not small) that more people weren't hurt. And just remember, these sorts of shootings can happen anywhere, so the local fundamentalist mega-church probably isn't any safer than the UU church down the block.
Many, many bored gods are just as happy if you stand out in a field or forest and praise them. I highly recommend this practice.
My legions and legions of regular readers will know that my daughter The Heir and I both have a hopeless addiction to TaB Cola. TaB is the grandmother of today's Red Bull and other similarly caffeine-laced beverages. It tastes like yesterday's horse pee, but after three cans you can't get through a day without it. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that they put tobacco in it.
For awhile back in the 1970s there was a TaB scare. Researchers claimed that it caused cancer. They fed lab rats the equivalent of 300 cans of TaB a day, and the rats got cancer. How the poor rodents didn't die of heart attack I do not know.
TaB almost went off the market through bad publicity. But eventually it was exonerated and returned to some shelves.
Some is the word. Around here where we live, finding TaB is an adventure fraught with anxiety. (See greeting above.)
Today, while the clothing rolled in the dryers at the laundromat, I set off to replenish the TaB supply. I drove to the huge grocery store that carries it ... I don't buy any other item there, just TaB.
The huge grocery store was shuttered. Out of business.
I stood in the parking lot uttering small whines of dismay. Then I drove to another big grocery store, the only other store that I've seen TaB in. But that store doesn't always have it. Only sometimes.
I limped back to the beverage aisle. (Anecdotal evidence, as yet unproven, has linked consumption of TaB cola to degenerative arthritis of the hip.) Lo and behold, there stood a modest stash of the essential pink cans... oh, bliss!
But it gets better. There was a cute little young guy there, wearing a Coca-cola uniform shirt, taking inventory of the Coke products in the aisle.
Talk about taking your prayers right to the source!
Grabbing six-packs of TaB like a dervish, I pleaded with the young fella to keep stocking the store with The Pink Wonder. This is what he said:
"There aren't many people who drink TaB, but those who do, drink a lot of it."
Thereafter he promised to continue to provide modest portions of TaB to that store.
Here's the kicker: The guy said if I hadn't come in and purchased a cartload of TaB at that moment, in front of his very eyes, he would have cancelled TaB from that store! But he won't, because of me.
I wish every listless woman in South Jersey was reading this. They would owe me big time.
When The Heir gets home today, I will tell her of this adventure, and she will sigh with joy and relief. The bonds between generations are forged by such small miracles.
Or, to put it another way: When The Heir can't pay off her college loans, I'll be able to say, "Hey, I kept you in TaB. That should count for something."
And it will.