Helplessly Held Hostage by Hormones

or homos as Grandpa Denny would say and cause great confusion like that Thanksgiving. It was at Great Aunt Hilda's, senile now, proper and uptight then. Child of the depression, forever frugual, she'd bought a tiny turkey, awkward to feed an extended family. "It's good, no homos in it, no homos in the turkey," Unco said trying to excuse the bird's bitty size. Hilda hardly recovered from her shock when it was explained Opa was trying to smooth things over, not make a strange slur. The turkey must have been small because it wasn't puffed up with hormones. Which I hate. It's not fair being a girl. Poor design it design doth govern in a thing so small. Don't like uncontrollable forces and rollercoaster's should stay storming Cyclones on Coney Island, tomorrow, yes. Endorphins, river, and driving saved the day. Managed to run myself into good mood midway through mile three. Just bumped into it as turned the bend after the second bridge and raced a flock of ducks downstream the Westkill. I won. Then tubed down swollen Schoharie rapids. The river's as rich with water as in month of May. Summer's been strangely rainy up here. Just finished family scrabble and while the Yankees may be five runs down, I'm still on a runner's high.