I finally dragged out the small fanny pack today so I can tote a bit of water. Which means: The Triumphant Return of the Trail Monkey!
Sure, he’s a little peeved that our “trail” is an asphalt loop around the neighborhood with an occasional quarter on the dirt track when the Incarnate Worders take a break. But still, it’s better than sitting in the dark with the rest of the fanny packs, so he was pretty excited.
I added the Dia de Los Muertos skeleton guy we picked up at last year’s celebration (he has a jaunty hat!) and proudly showed Mo. She took on the same expression that moms get when kids display their Cat Box Brownies.
“You can’t do that,” she said.
I was stumped.
As it turns out, she had a similar skeleton in the car when it got nailed in the parking lot by some nice person who forgot to leave a note. AND the skeleton was in the car when the transmission computer went on vacation.* She took it out of the car, and nothing bad has happened since. Therefore, Dia De Los Skeletons are bad mojo. As opposed to good Monkey Mojo.
I don’t get it, but what can you do? I took it off.
The Trail Monkey and I had a great run. No woes.
And Mo? She had to shut down early because of a tight hammy. It’s been bugging her since.
The moral: It’s bad to cross Mo. But it’s worse to cross a Dia de Los Skeleton. But a Dia de Los Skeleton won’t slip cadmium into your meatloaf. I’m pretty much screwed.
Could be worse. Could be Friday the 13th …
p.s. In a somewhat related note, I am haunted by the memory of the Ultramaraton de Panama, a 50 miler in which we ran through a rain forest at night only to find a dead monkey on the road. A DEAD MONKEY WHO TODAY WOULD LOOK VERY MUCH LIKE THE DIA DE LOS SKELETON IF HE WERE MUCH, MUCH SMALLER AND WEARING A JAUNTY HAT!!!
Sorry. I’m watching a particularly dull episode of the first Newhart series and he’s parading about in his jammies. I need distractions.
*I can’t recall whether the skeleton was in the car the day we poured the pint of bbq sauce down the shifter.