UPDATED. A dead golfer is haunting my iced tea.

So what the heck happened to the hot, sunny weather we’d been having? It’s like the second I unpacked my flip flops and opened the pool, Mother Nature decided to screw me over.

I love spring and fall the best, but obviously summer is tops as well. There’s nothing I love more than weekend nights on the deck playing games with family and friends, enjoying grilled noms and fresh fruit.

When summer rolls around, my house becomes a hub of sorts. The pool is obviously a main attraction, but between my mom and I, we are quite hostessy. (Is that a word? I didn’t want to say hostess-like, because we are not cream-filled. That was unnecessarily dirty.)

So, to backtrack, we have a lot of people at our house in the summer. So, we usually stock-up on summery food. Chips, dips, popsicles, lemonade, etc. to have something on hand to provide our guests.

A recent favorite and now summer staple? Cans of Arnold Palmer (the half and half iced tea-lemonade) ((I have tried unsuccessfully to convince my mom we could make a much healthier and much cheaper version ourselves to no avail)).

We stocked up on a bunch of cases during Shoprite’s most recent Can-Can sale in anticipation of the unseasonably warm weather.

Also, I’m writing this on my phone because I’m too lazy to go upstairs to my laptop and I know if I do I’ll just end up pinning recipes for cheese and stalking people and learning about the complexities of mountain goats. I have at least 17 unfinished blog posts on there that will probably never come to fruition. And at least on daring expose on mountain goats. BriWi will probably be intrigued when I pitch it to him. Scandalous animal stories are best journalized (reported? Anchored?) by dashing NBC reporters of the night.

Sometimes I wish the words from my head could just appear on screen, but that would mean our devices have mind-reading powers and that’s just one little hop skip and a jump away from mind control which I’m pretty sure is what that Will Smith movie with the dog was about.

(Don’t worry, this is all completely relevant to my iced tea story.)

((Even if it isn’t, you now know to be on the lookout for mind-control iPhones and mountain goats. You are welcome.))

I was up all last night because of the loud, flashy thunderstorm worthy of a Tony nod. I started thinking (never a good thing) and tweeting (even better) about crocodiles climbing stairs and Hillary Clinton. No, I mean, not crocodiles climbing both stairs AND Hillary. Two separate thoughts.

So anyway, I was up til like 4am and then had an early breakfast & Downton Abbey date with Dara this morning and then had to run errands and then came home and took a nap for two hours. I woke up super groggy and decided I needed caffeine, but was too lazy to make coffee (laziness is my main quality) and decided to grab an Arnold Palmer instead.

It was from a box in the garage, so it wasn’t cold (annoying because I like all my beverages super cold and refuse to put ice in anything but water or cocktails because I’m stubborn, another shiny personality trait), but I went with it anyway in hopes the caffeine and sugar would jolt me awake.

I came back inside, cracked open the can, and a mysterious, foggy whisp came floating out.

What. The. Hell.

I could understand foggy whisps if this was soda or if the can had been cold, but it was room temperature and uncarbonated.

That’s when it hit me.

Obviously, this is a fraction of the spirit of Arnold Palmer (I’m assuming this is the guy on the box with a golf club since I don’t follow golf because it is dumb) ((also assuming he is dead because the picture on the box is black and white and golfers tend to be stuck up Republicans and Republicans don’t take artsy black and white photos)) (((this could all be wrong, I assume a lot of things))).

But honestly, this is both the greatest and the scariest idea ever. Think about it: you die, and your ghost-self decided to have a tiny piece of you put in every can of iced tea you sell in hopes that some unlucky thirsty fool will put his mouth to the hole too soon and get a mouthful of dead guy fog. This is an excellent soul-possession opportunity and way better than whatever cryogynic crap Walt Disney’s got going on.

I’m onto you, Palmer.

UPDATE

After posting this, I immediately received 37 tweets telling me that Arnold Palmer is not dead. My lack of desire to fact-check is the #2 reason I would never be a journalist (the first reason being that I would only report ridiculous non-news stories about baby haircuts and potential Elvis sightings).

I would have written this update sooner, but I was about 3 hours late to pick-up my dog from the groomer because I was busy sleeping, eating, and writing this original post.

So, I willingly concede to the fact that Arnold Palmer is not dead. However, I am still not convinced he is not undead. He is definitely still haunting my iced tea in some way, shape, or form. Allow me to clarify.

There are two significant possibilities that would explain both the mysterious whisp and Arnold Palmer’s current animated presence.

1. He is a zombie/vampire/combination of the two.

This seems highly possible since I’m told he’s somewhat of a “legend” (like zombies and vampires). Obviously the whisp is his breath of death that vaporizes inside your cranium and eats your brain while feeding the undead body of Mr. Palmer your knowledge and energy so he can shoot holes in one or whatever golfers do.

(What do golfers say when they win a hole? Do they just do that sad clap? They should shout “HIO!” (Hole. In. One.). That’s what I would do. Although it sounds like I’m cheering for Ohio which is not true because it’s my 7th least favorite state.)

((The reason I have such a disdain for golf is because I was forced at a young age to act as caddy for my father on extremely boring and tedious 18-hole outings. I wasn’t even allowed to drive the golf cart. I later rebelled by stealing a golf cart and going off-roading in the backwoods of Mississippi.))

So, we have the possibility that our friend Arnold (who is, in fact, a Republican. I was right about something) is undead.

2. He is a Voldemort-like being who stores his horcruxes in cans of his delicious beverage so they may attach to the living souls of its consumers, Harry Potter-style (SPOILER ALERT. Actually, that’s not a spoiler because if you haven’t read all the HP books you deserve to have your brains eaten by zombies or your soul possessed by a Republican).

I like this idea the best, but I am absolutely open to other possibilites.

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Secret fantasy

I’m a total fangirl. I have been from the moment I laid my little 9-year-old hands on my first Harry Potter book. I went to the midnight releases at my local bookstore and would read each book non-stop from the stroke of midnight. I cried through the entire 7th book, sobbed through the last movie, and devoted an entire paycheck to my visit to Wizarding World. This summer, I visited the Harry Potter exhibit in Times Square and was passed by at least 20 tour groups as I spent the entire time reading every single detail and soaking it all in.

It was not easy for me being a huge HP fan growing up. My friends here in Jersey kind of suck. Some had read the first three books and given up, others only saw the movies. I didn’t haveĀ camaraderieĀ and had to go it alone. But this almost made it more special for me: it was all mine and I didn’t have to share with anyone.

Besides being a total fangirl, I am also a daydreamer. I am constantly inventing crazy scenarios in my head, ranging from hopping a plane to Africa to live with the giraffes to various scenarios involving my secret crushes. When I didn’t get my Hogwarts letter, my 6th grade self had to turn to other fantasies. And that’s how my plan hatched.

I wrote a letter to JK Rowling, telling her about my idea for an American school of witchcraft and wizardry. The fourth book had come out that summer, so I knew that other schools besides Hogwarts existed.

My idea involved Hogwarts teaming up with the American school to defeat Voldemort. Of course, Harry would find his love interest, a brunette American girl who would charm her way into his heart. And obviously this character would be played in the movies by myself. I’m short, so I’d be a perfect match for Daniel Radcliffe and a way better romance than stupid Cho or Ginny.

I waited patiently for a response, but it never came. I knew she was likely flooded with fan mail, but I was certain my letter would have stood out from the pack. I decided she had stolen the idea for herself and I would soon see it in an upcoming book. At that point, I would find an agent and make sure I cleared my schedule to be available to audition for this role at a moment’s notice.

With each of the last three books, I continued to hang onto the hopes that my story line would come into play. Even at 18, when the last book came out, part of me was still wishing. My moment never arrived.

I’ve forgiven JK Rowling for killing off some of my favorite characters, but I still haven’t totally forgiven this. I would have been awesome in those movies. But for now, I’ll settle for practicing my wandwork and re-reading these amazing books at least a thousand more times.