Every holiday season, old flames reappear. They say hello, test the waters, hint at underlying loneliness. One must either humor them or press delete. Since October, Dish has had seven resurfacers and the holidays haven't even started. It's a little like Amy Irving in Crossing Delancey except I don't let the Resurfacers into my house during this season--and none resembles the pickleman. By January 2nd, the Resurfacers retreat until spring, the second highest outbreak of "checking in to see who still loves me."In a random subject change, a woman talked about God on the subway tonight. Shouted, more like. Passed out a pamphlet. It seemed criminal and I turned up Coldplay's "Lost." The other night, as Superman and I embarked on a marathon of Law & Order, I realized all the witnesses had to put their hands on the bible to swear in. How is this legal? I don't remember such outrageousness when I was a witness. Was I given options other than Jesus? If I had to do it all over again, I would swear upon a tin of Altoids. That is my god.
ps. Though Dish adores George Harrison's "My Sweet Lord."
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