The Madness of March

Who said this:  "That's it, I can't take the madness, I'm outta here."
a. A beleaguered basketball bracketeer.
b. A Labrador that can't make a basket to save his life.
c. A short Jewish person who doesn't understand what all the fuss is about.

The answer is... well, I'm going to let you figure it out, but I will tell you this:  Someone in this house of  sports maniacs is going out of town, and it's not hubby, it's not the college boy, it's not the dog. In a few days, someone is hopping on a plane, or as George Carlin would say, "I'm not going ON the plane, I'm getting IN the plane... it seems less windy in there."  Someone is winging it to Santa Fe for the weekend. Okay, okay. It's me.

I haven't been to Santa Fe since I was 15 and went on a Teen Tour of America (and a few parts of Canada).  32 guys.  14 gals.  Funny how I still remember that statistic.  At 15, I ate my first blue tortilla in Santa Fe.  At 56, I plan to have my first Santa Fe margarita.  I don't care what color the tequila is, I'm ordering two.  One for me, and one for my wonderful and persuasive friend Cathy Hamilton of  Boomergirl.  Cathy lives in Lawrence, Kansas and has the most amazing ability to talk me into anything.  Years ago, she said, "I'm starting a blog.  I want you to write about show business." "Okay," I said.  Then, about a year ago, she said, "Let's write a play together." "Okay," I said.  So we started writing a play.  We're still writing it.  We're about half-way there.  We have no idea what we're doing, but we keep laughing, so that's a good sign.

Plus, Cathy thinks if we drink tequila and throw on a poncho and big turquoise jewelry, we'll get some work done.  Along those lines, about a month ago she said, "Let's go to Santa Fe."  "Okay," I said.  I wonder what she'll force me to do next.  Sit in a chair and actually write?  I may have to draw the line at that.  Then again, I'll probably say, "Okay."