I have the opposite of the Midas touch when it comes to choosing political winners.
Do you want to guarantee your candidate will win?
Just convince me to back the other guy.
Independent, Democrat, Republican – it doesn’t matter. I back candidates of all persuasions and, with inexplicable regularity, they lose.
In our house there is a 100% chance of an UPSET on election night:
- 99.9% of the time I’M UPSET because my guy loses
- a measly .1% of the time there’s an election upset and my candidate wins
Two years ago, the latter – an election upset – caused a chain reaction. An upset of such epic destruction that I am now banned from watching tv on election night.
It all began innocently enough. After an hour of watching early returns – all races going as expected (the other guys winning) – my stomach signaled time to eat.
“What do you want for dinner, pasta or salad?”
“Let’s have pasta.”
“Do you want spaghetti sauce or pesto?”
“The marinara sauce, please. With meatballs.”
“Want some wine? We have a bottle of that cab you like.”
“Not tonight, thanks.”
“Well I’m going to have some. It’ll make my candidates’ defeats easier to swallow.”
Twenty minutes later, butts back in our arm chair recliners; tv trays placed squarely in front of us; warm marinara sauce smothering the thick strands of red onion pasta in bowls atop our trays, we dug in. My second glass of wine – full to the brim – beckoned within easy reach on the tray next to my pasta bowl.
A steady stream of election results scrolled across the bottom of the tv screen as the talking heads preened in their illusory self-importance.
A breaking news alert!
One of the state elections was unexpectedly trending for the underdog – my guy. The guy who had no chance was on the verge of being crowned the projected winner!
I jerked my head up from my spaghetti bowl, turned to Hub with a startled, “Did you hear …” and never finished my utterance.
Apparently when I last left my chair, I hadn’t given the foot rest the solid kick needed to lock it in place. My head jerk and body turn were enough momentum to set my chair in motion.
The kind of perceived slow motion occurring when you realize something terrible is about to happen and you are powerless to stop it.
As the foot rest snapped abruptly upwards, catching the legs of the tray and launching it towards the tv, my body was thrown back in sync with the now-reclining chair.
I thrust my arms forward in a futile attempt to grab the rapidly receding tray. Alas, we were catapulted in opposite directions.
I yelled; Hub yelled; the tv tray crumpled; the bowl flew; the glass shattered; red wine splotched; spaghetti splattered.
The beige carpet, the freshly painted white cupboards, the books and paper piles and yoga mat – all covered with the gory aftermath of a blood and guts murder.
Politics is messy business …
Does anyone want to catch a movie Tuesday night?