Baseball In My Mind

Spring is posing by the door.

Getting ready to enter the room, it's stretching a golden leg and pointing a toe, leaning with folded arms and casting an eye over the still brown landscape. It knows it can do better with just an exhalation or a wink.

Each month has a specific look and personality--it's light different from the month preceding or following. A March sky cannot be mistaken for a February or April sky. And yesterday was pure March.

In days not so long ago, March meant one thing--- it was time to buy new baseball pants, ask if last year's cleats still fit and make sure a mouse hadn't set up shop in the folding chairs neatly stored in the garage. Hometown baseball was coming!

From t-ball to high school varsity, it was a momentous period in the late winter and early spring. You could sniff it when you were outside. Soon, you'd be back on the field, sitting in a straight line of chairs, laughing with your friends.

Cooped up and busy all winter, you might make a breakfast date, convene at a holiday party or chance-meet at the supermarket. Often the conversation would turn to the shared anticipation of baseball season and the pure fun of gathering for the game.

We knew what  we liked....and we liked baseball season.

Those days long gone for those of us with grown men calling us "Mom" in deep voices, spring is different.

Despite the crazy arms of blooming forsythia, the plastic Easter eggs that will soon hang from bare branches and the ultimate bloom of the azaleas and dogwoods, spring promise still holds, but it holds a little less....at least for me.

I glance at the cobwebbed folding chairs, the pile of forgotten cleats and the bats leaning in a pyramid and get a literal twinge in my chest. My mind's eye, clear and active, sees my robust 16 year old Charlie striding to the plate, mask up, squatting to catch the game. He shifts his weight to get comfortable and tosses the ball with an easy flick of the wrist.

Tom is there, too... walking to the plate with a batter's glove in his pocket and a smile on his face as a friend yells encouragement, most likely profane, from the bench.

The parents huddle together in the cold--freezing during the early season, stretching and sunning as the days grow warmer. 

When one of us debuted a new chair, it was always a big event and we'd all admire the style, inquire if it was comfortable, look to see where we'd place our bottled water or tube of sunscreen. We shared food and rides and tales of our day between innings. 

We groaned at certain opposing teams ("They are so unsportsmanlike!") and feared certain umps (Why does he hate us!"). When we were losing we'd sit like sphinxes or yell or curse. Winning brought giddy cheers.

Many lifelong friendships were formed on the sidelines of those games. Some of us still cling together now, aware of how lucky we were to have enjoyed such idyllic days when our biggest problem was how early to leave for an away game.

Enjoy it now if you still have it, parents.Take pictures, hang together and cheer for your children as they round the bases, kicking up clay and grinding impossible grass stains into their knees and elbows.  Soon, it will be over.

My Cat, the Mountain Climber

Cookie, a spinster.

Last night Cookie the Cat was doing her usual routine of waddling around with her claws out. She hasn't retracted them since the Clinton administration.

While some members of my family believe this is a result of old age, I think it's because she had, inadvertently, been locked in a closet one evening in the room where Seth was watching the original "Texas Chain Saw Massacres." She thought it was real and wants to be prepared.

I really don't blame her a bit. If I had claws, I wouldn't retract them either.

Honestly, why would anyone
make a movie like this?

Nonetheless, in the middle of the night when she is making brief but frequent trips from the foot of our bed to the water bowl or the litter box, the clicking is very annoying.

She has also taken to what I call "mountain climbing." As a result of her advancing years and a case of what is technically known as "cat chubbiness," she can no longer spring up on the bed like she used to. 

She takes a running leap (such as it is) and adheres to the side of the mattress, hanging on by her claws and then --not unlike a mountain climber -- pulls herself up using not ropes and hooks but sheer determination in order to sleep by Seth's side...and prevent him from turning.

Danger.

When he sleeps on his back, he snores which then causes me to wake up...and this is when I hear the cat clicking about on her nocturnal adventures.

Seth is off to work before the sun rises and had already departed when, after an apparently endless episode in the litterbox during which she clawed at the glass shower door for what seemed like a half hour, Cookie clicked her way back to the bedroom. Taking a deep breath, she hurled herself against the bed, attempting to claw herself back up.

Something went wrong, however, and she began to struggle, clawing and falling, clicking and hurling until, unable to stand it for a second longer, I shouted out into the darkness, way too loud for that hour of the morning, "RETRACT YOUR CLAWS, YOU WEIRDO!!!!"

The Mad Pooper, of course.

The poor thing fell backwards off the bed and clicked away at top speed. This made me laugh and I lay cackling in my bed for a few minutes. For those of you who feel sorry for Cookie the Cat, her short term memory is shot and she clicked back a few minutes later only to begin the entire process again.

I laughed a) because that's what I do and b) because a few summers ago, Nifi, aka the Mad Pooper, had been distracted while on his way to the litter box one morning by the noisy arrival of an oil delivery and ran into my closet to hide.

Nifi skipped the section of the manual about how impolite it is to poop in someone's closet so I tried rousting him from his hiding spot only to have him burrow deeper, no doubt planning a direct hit in my shoe basket.

Having barely recovered from a recent stealth-pee in one of my Birkenstocks, I shouted out "MAN UP, BUDDY!! STOP HIDING IN THE CLOSET!!" only to realize that the oil guy was right outside the window and had heard that. Not knowing I had cats, he now thought that Seth was hiding in the closet. Thinking this was funny, I never corrected him.

On that note, I want to wish you all a great weekend. Thanks for reading and taking the time to comment. See you on Monday!

Macaroni Moon

Last night, as I removed a three pound box of macaroni from it's flimsy grocery bag, the bottom of the box simply went pop. Three pounds of macaroni fell all over the kitchen floor.

Three pounds. All over. The floor.

I think I actually blacked out because I cannot account for at least four minutes of my life between "Inside Edition" and "Entertainment Tonight."

I can hear one or two of you saying quietly, "Sweep it up...just do it...use it...who'll know.....?" But not only had it magically spread to the four corners of the room, out the door and into the hallway but I had already stumbled around in it, Buzzy was already batting it about and my kitchen floor is none too clean to begin with. 

All I need is for Seth to find a granule of something naughty in his food and I will finally find myself, once and for all, out on my ass on the front step with all the doors and windows locked.

Standing amidst the macaroni, my immediate reaction was to go get Boomer -- the family bat used for both revenge and baseball -- and quite simply, destroy the house.

Kept under the bed, within reach in case of undefined emergency, Boomer has been with us since the beginning. Once, thinking (or so he says), I was a burglar, Seth nearly cracked me in the skull with Boomer but I hold no ill will against the bat. Seth, on the other hand....

I actually pivoted in the direction of the bedroom, my heel grinding on macaroni, an image of Boomer in my head.

Roiling inside that same head were thoughts of pure mayhem: I will take that bat and swing it in rhythmic circles, wider and wider until the house falls down around me. Yeah, that's what I'll do....

Who could possibly blame me once they saw the macaroni, ankle deep, on the linoleum?

Yes or no???

My moment had arrived. I would finally exact retribution for more than the macaroni. I would avenge what I still consider the premature cancellation of "The Gilmore Girls" (did Lorelai ever really work it out with Luke? It was just all too iffy for me),the splinter I got from the boardwalk in '87, the episiotomy of "89 and that paper cut on my nose last month.

This all seemed perfectly reasonable. I was going to do this. Mayhem was my goal. I was Ozzy Osborne ready to bit the head off a dove. I was every rock 'n' roller who'd ever smashed a guitar to smithereens on a stage, I was totally off my rocker...until, from the window of Charlie's room, I happened to see a fat, white moon leering smugly from the evening sky. Ahhh, moon, I thought...you tricky so-and-so, you got me again.

I have written about the effects of the full moon here and here and here.  They usually sneak up on me so, as a result, you can now find a feature entitled "Understanding Why You May Be Experiencing Irrational Impulses" on the left side of this blog. I hope you will find it helpful. I know I will.

Luckily once I realized why I was feeling like a total lunatic (get it?), my desire to reduce the house to a pile of timber quickly dissipated. I cleaned up the macaroni, ate a piece of cheese, and that was that.

The moon is almost, but not quite, 100% full. Keep calm, America.

Here's a beautiful song about the moon....

Good News, Thy Name is Cupcake...

Just when you thought there was never good to be heard again in the land... 

I'm what????

The world seems to be going to hell...not to mention, Snooki is rumored to be with child, thereby expanding her gene pool, thereby...oh, never mind.

In fact, the news has been so bad lately that it's all I can do not to fill my bathtub with Bushmills and soak in it all day. But I just read something that made me smile.

I hope it will have the same effect on you: as of this month, you will be able to get a fresh, delicious cupcake from an ATM machine.

You heard me: Cupcake ATMs. Why, yes, it would be a good name for a rock band but it's actually real!

Pioneered by Sprinkles, an expanding chain of trend-setting bakeries, cupcakes will soon be available to all (okay, not all...you'll need to have a credit or debit card and at least $4 available or you will not be brushing red velvet crumbs off your bib at 3 a.m.) at any time of day or night.

A prototype of
the actual cupcake ATM.

The first Cupcake ATM will be in the flagship Sprinkles bakery in Beverly Hills but soon will be available at all Sprinkles locations nationwide and -- hold hands for strength, America--eventually at locations separate from the bakeries. At the gas station, by the bank, next to the laundromat...

Rumor has it that the machines will not be actually automated. There will be a person (I volunteer) sitting in the machine who will actually place it in the dispenser which is kind of disappointing but it will still appear to be something out of the Jetsons and that will have to be enough.

Mmmmmmmmmm.

Those who pay attention to my schizophrenic philosophies may note that my delight in the automated dispensation of a cupcake stands in direct contrast to my dismay at the lack of human interaction in today's technologized world but, what can I tell you? "Susan Says..." is full of inexplicable contradictions. Especially where buttercream is involved.

There's just something Pavlovian about putting one's money into a little slot and getting something nice to eat or drink that I have always enjoyed. I'm the person who will buy that awful brown crayon-colored coffee from a vending machine because it's fun to press the buttons for cream and sugar. Yippee!

I was obsessed by Horn &Hardart's automats as a kid. I bet most of you have no idea what that is...or, sadly, was.

Back in the day

Those unlucky to be young enough to have their whole lives before them and not remember the "automat" never had the thrill of putting nickels into a slot, opening a little glass door and extracting a piece of lemon meringue pie or a crock of piping hot macaroni and cheese.

Can you imagine--magic, wonder, food!

The automat, one of about a half dozen in New York City, on Broadway seemed immense to this little girl. Arriving gripping the hands of both my mother and Grandma, we'd slide dollar bills across a smooth, buffed metal counter to an attendant who would then convert them into the correct number of nickels, depositing them into a trough on our side. We'd scoop out the coins, pick a table, throw our coats over our chairs and the fun began.

Another view

You could get a small salad, meat loaf, a variety of sandwiches, their famous beans or creamed spinach and a huge variety of desserts by inserting the necessary number of coins, opening the glass doors and reaching in to remove your treat.

Then, someone would refill the window with another of the same thing--fresh and ready for the next hungry diner.

It was here, during the depression, that people added ketchup to hot water for tomato soup or just sat, for as long as allowed, over a single cup of coffee to stay out of the cold.

Fun!

To just walk into an "automat," as they were called, was a thrill for kids of all ages. I was so impressed that I can still remember the crockery and the whoosh-snap of the little door opening. I was allowed, with my chubby hand, to remove the plate myself.

The concept was quite radical for it's day --they were begun in 1902 and, at their peak of popularity in the 1950's, there were 180 in the United States.

So, I will simply have to relive the excitement by paying $4 for a cupcake to come out of a compartment in a wall when Sprinkles comes to town. 

It will cost a lot of nickels but I am looking forward to it!

Take three minutes, with your volume on, to enjoy this absolutely fabulous video which will give you a true idea of the "automat" experience...

Abandoned at Costco

All roads lead here.

For those of you who think Seth is such a nice guy--downtrodden by the constant nagging of his demanding ball and chain, a babe-lost-in-the-woods-of-life, allow me to tell you a true tale of how he recently abandoned me at Costco. 

I warn you--it ain’t pretty.

Browsing through the diminished section of CDs (No,I do not wish to purchase my music online in the form of individual downloadable songs. I am 54 years old and since my organ grinder and his monkey retired to Boca, I prefer my music in the form of tangible shiny discs that I can scratch up by not handling or storing properly, thank you very much), I sensed weirdness approaching.

I have an older model.

Thanks to my reliable weird-o-meter (purchased at Service Merchandise many years ago), I am able to detect even the marginally off-kilter from a distance of approximately 25-30 feet. Costco, however, was crowded on this Friday afternoon and, despite the sense of menace, I was unable to flee in time.

Sure enough, now right beside me, towered six and a half feet of pure crazy, complete with flowing gray hair and breath that advertised a recent sausage hero from the refreshment counter.

Smiling directly at me, he loudly announced that vinyl records are the "finest and truest form" through which to enjoy the musical experience. “Anyone,” he added, index finger slicing the air, who buys a CD, is “&%$#@*& crazy!”

"Walter, don't leave me....!"

Now I admit I'm a total reactionary.

I miss Walter Cronkite and the Million Dollar Movie. I long for the world before Nestle’s Quik was renamed Nesquik and where phone booths -- requiring only a dime to make a call -- proliferated like toadstools after a rain.

I prefer reading my books and newspapers in the form of, well, books and newspapers and cannot help but giggle cruelly when I see a text-er walk into a fire hydrant on a city street. But I will admit that the quality of sound is much better on these new fangled little CD thingies than on the scratchy old vinyl of my youth.

About to explain all this to the tall, deranged gentleman to my immediate right, I re-checked the reading on the weird-o-meter and took a step away only to have him clap me on the shoulder with a giant paw. Looking down, I noticed long, yellowed fingernails.

My commitment to be polite to all was instantly negated by the weight of his hand and, deciding to end this by agreeing with him quickly, I was very relieved that my loyal husband was right there...on my other side.

I knew he would intervene if Crazy Eyes suddenly wanted to bring our relationship to the next level. Seth had, after all, been right there when this guy had begun chatting up his wife.

"I don't mind if I do..."

So, I looked over to my left for support and, guess what, Seth defenders? He was nowhere to be found.

Not even a puff of smoke remained where my husband had been standing. Swiveling my head, I caught sight of him halfway down the coffee aisle, holding a bag of Dunkin Donuts ground decaf, enjoying a sliver of fudge procured from a sample cart.

"Gotta run!" I said brightly to my fellow music fan, ducking out from under his hand. Noticing that he was wearing a large button on his coat that read "I love angora cats" (this actually made me feel better about him), I made a beeline to safety and the man who had taken vows to stand by my side for richer, poorer, through sickness, health and nut jobs in Costco.

"What happened to you??" I demanded to know, wrestling the coffee from his grip since we grind our own beans and never, ever drink decaf.

"I figured you'd just follow me,” replied my hero through a mouthful of fudge.

So, again, for those -- and you know who you are -- who believe that Mr. Innocent somehow hooked up with the wicked witch of the east yet cannot find his way to redemption, remember this story...and avoid the CD aisle at Costco. I think I’ve seen that guy there before.

Davy Jones, Field of Dreams and Writer's Block

He caught my eye right away..

Blogs are not the great American novel. They are not Shakepeare's sonnets or a manifesto for some worldwide political movement trying to gain traction but the lowly (referring exclusively to myself) blog writer can get blocked, too. Just like the writers who have agents and advances and look great in spandex, bloggers encounter the dreaded writer's block.

I have never written anything as regularly as this blog other than homework every night when I was a kid and that was written on lined paper in blue Bic ballpoint. I developed a callous, which I still have, on the top knuckle of my writing hand from the pressure of the pen and, when I look at it, I remember evenings at the formica kitchen table thinking that I would never be free as I labored over book reports or copied questions from a textbook.

When I am in a good phase of writing, in terms of flow, I can think of things to write when paying the bills, cooking a meal or even reading the credits of a movie...people's names will strike me funny, leading to a domino effect in my brain and, before I know it, I will have written a blog post or a column for the local newspaper. It feels great.

But a blockage of the creative juices feels like a small but weighty cat sitting on my chest and also makes me want to write sentences about small cats...as in, "I saw a small cat." This is neither entertaining nor true since all of my cats are as big as Volkswagens.

I was hopeful yesterday when, along with my tear ducts, I thought my block might have been cleansed and cleared by a magnificent and noisy sob fest: Seth, switching around the dial, stopped at the last hour of "Field of Dreams."

Burt Lancaster as Moonlight Graham

Many of you will agree that this movie, without question, ensures a grand cry. When Moonlight Graham, played by the luminously handsome (at any age) Burt Lancaster, eternally forfeits his chance to play baseball by stepping over the foul line to save the little girl who's choking, I go absolutely ballistic. Rolled into that phase of the cry are the ramifications of universal disappointment and sacrifice. Potent stuff.

"Is this heaven?"

Then, when Ray Kinsella -- played by Kevin Costner -- not only spots his father on the field but, asking for "a catch," calls him Dad, all hell breaks loose. Every regret and moment of redemption that has occurred since the earth was nothing more than a heaving ball of silly putty blasts through my brain and I cry until I actually start to feel dehydrated. It's glorious.

Combine this with a state of pensive sadness at the news of the death of my eight year old self's idol, Davy Jones of the Monkees, and I wondered if  an emotional overload/breakthrough/breakdown was in store.

I loved Davy Jones. Who didn't? Mickey Dolenz with his desperate slapstick and manic desire to be loved, the enigmatic but ultimately uninspiring Peter Tork and Mike Nesmith's green hat spoke to my soul not a whit. But Davy, that diminutive child/man with the sweet smile apparently activated a little girl's hormones which later delivered  her into the figurative arms of Bobby Sherman, David Soul and even Erik Estrada. Davy was my first.

I waited for that half hour of "The Monkees" all week, pasting Davy's photos to construction paper and adorning the narrow hallways of my house with glossy images of his delicate face. I was shocked yesterday to hear that the show was only on the air for two seasons. It seemed like so much more.

I am hoping the wailing that went on yesterday may have unblocked me. It certainly scared Seth which is always a good thing. "Keep your family terrified," has long been my motto and I live by it to this day.

The small cat on my chest seems to shifted a wee bit...maybe all that crying did the trick after all.

I loved this song beyond all reason when I was eight years old.

Leap Day: Facts and Celebration Suggestions

Today is February 29th.

Occurring only every four years, this extra day is added to February to even out the year so that the planet doesn't start tilting, causing everyone to slide off into space where we would all float aimlessly for eternity....or, nearly as long as last night's American Idol.

A lesser known but equally important fact about Leap Day is that it is also known as Groundhog Revenge Day. Wouldn't you -- if, still enjoying the cozy slumber of winter hibernation, were ripped from your covers and held aloft by a madman in a top hat -- desire to exact some payback for this indignity? Of course you would...as if seeing one's shadow has anything to do with a prolonged winter or premature spring anyway.

I am going to get
you, sucka!

Sadie Hawkins, as
drawn by Al Capp

As far back as Fifth Century Ireland, funny business regarding women wearing pants on Leap Day has been going on and, thanks to Al Capp--an irreverent cartoonist known for the comic strip "Lil Abner," the homeliest spinster in the town of Dog Patch was entitled to propose to the bachelor of her choice--giving February 29th its alternate identity of "Sadie Hawkins Day."

There is also the issue of the Leap Year birthday.

The 29th of February is a very popular day for scheduled C-sections* due to the fact that children born on that day magically age at a much slower rate than those with non-Leap birthdays.

If you are born on Leap day, after eight cycles of a 365 day calendar, you are legitimately only two years old. Referred to as "adult babies" you may be profiled on an occasional episode of HBO's "Real Sex" during which the rest of us will want to poke out our eyeballs with knitting needles.

I wish I were
kidding.

It is also suggested that on Leap Day one does something exciting and madcap since the day is, in essence, a "gift" of an extra 24 hours.

Some people like to take chances on Leap Day, believing they will experience luck...so play the lottery, eat that piece of fish that got shoved all the way to the back and has been in the fridge for over a month, park next to that windowless van outside Sears Customer Pick-up at the mall and, if you are a true daredevil, go for a stroll on any Ivy League campus in America wearing a Rick Perry t-shirt.



Some lesser known facts are that, on this day, farts have no smell, gossip is morally right and chocolate and cheese have no calories (and actually help achieve weight loss if consumed standing up) so go forth and enjoy your Leap Day! Maybe even propose marriage to the cute guy you see on the subway every morning....but stay away from groundhogs. They're mad as hell and mean business.

This woman is only 23 years old.

*Amazingly enough, absolutely true.

The 84th Academy Awards: Nip Slips, Giant Insects and Lots of Yawning

Yawn.

Oh, what's that? The Academy Awards are on? Hold on a second, I have to scratch a little spot on my heel that's been itching all day. Ahhh...much better. And, maybe I'll just fold that towering pile of clean laundry that's been waiting to be put away.

Now back to the awards...unfortunately, both the scratching and folding were more interesting than the 84th Academy Awards this year. 

Oddly lack luster, I wondered if my lack of enthusiasm was a result of the fact that the world is  currently a simmering bowl of crap pudding and that watching a parade of "entertainers" exchange air kisses and self-aggrandizing accolades for playing dress-up seemed, well, damn stupid in the face of Syrian massacres and global recession. Usually, I celebrate things like award shows and royal weddings as a welcome distraction from a harsh reality but, this year, I wasn't really feeling it.

Aunt Myrna, is that you?

Billy Crystal, a nine time Oscar host, looking like somebody's Aunt Myrna after she'd been embalmed (hint: men, it's okay to go gray) summed it up for me as I started to fidget on the couch. To paraphrase Billy--maybe "watching millionaires giving each other golden statues" wasn't going to make me -- or the rest of the world -- feel any better this year.

But I stayed with it.

Stupid.

Despite falling asleep during, of all people, Chris Rock who -- for all I know -- may have provided a welcome moment, I endured uninteresting fashions and presentations that were likely written by Academy saboteurs instead of writers: an unfunny appearance by the typically adorable Emma Stone who gamely struggled through an awful bit about how exciting it was to be a first time presenter and some unsettling shtick from the usually amusing Will Ferrell and Zach Galifinakis.

Wearing all white and carrying cymbals they confused me, and the rest of America, by introducing this year's nominated songs by belittling the likes of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" and "Moon River" while introducing some musical drivel about being a muppet.

Looking odd...

That's it, Sandy. Try to smile.

I vigilantly waited for evidence of recent plastic surgery gone awry but other than the intensely botoxed Sandra Bullock, the formerly flat chested Cameron Diaz sporting a pair of brand new boobs as well as Nick Nolte who resembled a very ill-tempered Santa Claus and appeared to have no idea where he was, the only fun I had was when Tom Cruise appeared.

I can't put my finger on what he had done but he did not look much like himself. Was it an eyelift, new cheekbones or just what happens to all scientologists as they age?

The highlight of the evening for me, as well as exterminators all over the deep south who've been searching for the predatory insect leader of a strain of giant, exoskeletal mutants terrorizing homes in the gulf states yet has eluding capture, was Miss Angelina Jolie. Men with giant nets were immediately dispatched, hopefully arriving in time to catch her at the Vanity Fair after-party.

100% crazy

Skinnier than ever (let's get this out of the way for those who will accuse me of being jealous of her lean appearance-- yes, when the local I-Max theater had technical issues, they did ask to project a wide-screen movie about the Grand Canyon on my ass--happy now?), she velociraptored her way to the center of the stage and struck a pose that can only be described as totally nutso.

Brad's on the left.

Thrusting one emaciated leg out of the slit of her gown and placing a bony claw on a shriveled hip, she crazy-smiled and read her lines, finally (I hope) alerting Brad Pitt that it's time to grab the kids and run for the hills. Rumor has it that you're planning to marry her, Brad...do not do it! Give her back the vial of Billy Bob Thornton's blood that she used to wear around her neck and cut your losses before she devours you immediately after mating---just like the female praying mantis.

Jean DuJardin kissing his director...

My favorite moments included the 82 year old Christopher Plummer receiving his first Oscar and all those guys from "The Artist" who proved to American audiences that French men really enjoy kissing each other again and again and again.

Okay, we get it...you European guys are uninhibited and totally comfortable demonstrating emotion and physical affection to each other. Now stop.

...kissing a co-star

...kissing his award..

In years past, I have tried to see at least one or two of the nominated movies but this year saw only "The Help." Despite not having seen Meryl Streep in yet another tour de force interpretation of a historical figure (rumor has it that next year she will play Lyndon Johnson in a new bio pic), I can't imagine anyone out-acting the fabulous Viola Davis. Based on Meryl's charming and self-deprecating acceptance speech, I suspect she agreed.

All in all, it was a deadly bore. I found myself mentally alphabetizing the spices in my kitchen as tuxedo clad and be-jeweled presenters and recipients came and went. If J-Lo's "nip-slip" couldn't rescue the show from being a crashing bore, I don't think even Tim Tebow could have saved it. Better luck next year.

Slip? You decide.