Popcorn on Picnic Tables

After my walk with Lady Bear tonight we came home to find my Dear Husband sitting out back with a fire going in his outdoor fireplace.  We said our “hello’s”, and Lady Bear drank her fill from the pool, as she is apt to do.  I excused myself to get washed up.  While the water was running the breeze wafted some of the smoke up through the window.  Those two combined, and in an instant I was transported to the summer I was six.

We had a ritual, of sorts; at least it seems like one in as far as nostalgia goes.  We lived in a neighborhood filled with kids, where neighbors got to be life long friends, and so did their kids.  On our little corner of Burke street my dad would pile on the Kingsford, let us soak it with lighter fluid, and fire up the grill.  It was Saturday night, and we were cooking burgers outdoors. The Dads, mine and Mr. S, our neighbor, would sit at their picnic table, still in their Saturday work clothes, and play cribbage while we ran around, waiting for the coals to be ready.  The method of scoring cribbage baffled we little ones, and figured it was definitely a game for the grown ups, and we mostly left them alone.  The Moms would be in their respective kitchens forming patties, slicing tomato, washing lettuce.  If one of us was lucky enough to come in at the right time, Mum would let us pour the sugar down the funnel and shake up Kool Aid in the old milk jug we reused so many times it was stained pink.

Most often we’d eat indoors, but every once in a while both families would sit together at the picnic table, and feast on homemade potato salad, corn on the cob, watermelon and lots of burgers.  I loved that picnic table. It had wooden benches and a wooden top, and curved wrought iron scrolling leg supports.  Mr S. had to scrape and sand it every spring and then re-shellac it after a hard Michigan winter would make it all peel.  It was a rich golden amber color.  We’d play games of Monopoly on it, and I’d always want to be banker, not because I was good at math (which I was), but because I would cheat and give myself extra money whenever I passed GO, or bought my properties. I hate Monopoly, I never win, even when I’d cheat.

After dinner was done we were off to take our Saturday night baths, with lots and lots of bubbles from Avon’s pink bubble bath. Those were the best, because we’d sit in there so long we’d get all wrinkly, my two sisters and me, all together in the tub.  And if there were enough bubbles we didn’t even have to use soap! We’d just make mermaid shell bras, Santa beards and Pippi Longstocking pigtails until we were clean.  I’m sure a Barbie or two had to do some acrobatic high dives inbetween saving the Fisher Price Little People from killer sharks and swimming the wide, wide ocean.  Afterward came Johnson & Johnson’s “No More Tears” detangler, and sometimes, pink foam curlers.

But the night wasn’t finished. O no, there was one last thing.  We’d all be cleaned, combed, curler-ed and dressed in our nightgowns then head back out to the picnic table in the neighbor’s back yard, sometimes in slippers, but usually barefoot.  The dads would sit with a cold beer, maybe the moms too, and we’d have a huge bowl of freshly popped popcorn, rich with melted butter and lots of salt, and a little more Kool Aid if any was left.  We kids would melt the leftover styrofoam cups and Dixie plates in what was left of the coals in the grill.  I remember once having marshmallows, and watching them puff up in the heat before they’d catch on fire.  If there were any sparklers left over from the Fourth of July, we’d get to light them up too, twirling and dancing, pretending they were our magic wands.

Thoroughly exhausted, we were ushered up to bed.  We’d have our bedtime Bible story and prayers, be kissed and told not to have any feet fights.  This was a constant problem–the feet fights– since I shared a bed with my little sister.  It didn’t matter, we’d had a great night.

Lobsters in my Swimming Pool

Have you ever had dreams that just stick with you, no matter how bizarre?

Last night I had lobsters in my swimming pool. Even in my dream I thought that was very odd, since it’s not a salt water pool, and yet, they seemed quite content to be there, and stranger still I wasn’t freaking out about having them there.

The house was mine, but not the one I live in, and the pool was mine, but not my real backyard. My “neighbors” asked if they could have pictures taken by our pool, but they never said what kind of pictures, I never asked and I was quite happy to let them. That’s when we found the lobsters—hundred of them—and the water had been drained about 2 feet.

My neighbors show up in wedding attire: daughter in a gown, tuxes, flowers; the whole kit-and-ka-boodle. They also changed from black to Latino somewhere between their yard and mine. They were annoyed at the lobsters, and helped to fish them out, which then threw off the entire wedding schedule and dinner party. We suggested they cook the lobsters and serve them instead of whatever else they had planned. Everyone was very happy; we had lobster for everyone!

There’s more to the dream, and it makes even less sense than lobsters in a fresh water pool. The “neighbors” revert to being black, and it becomes day time, sunny, blue skies—all the previous events happened in the misty dark of night. My yard no longer exists and we’re now at a posh resort. I’m beginning to wonder why I’m even part of this celebration since I hadn’t met my neighbors until they asked to use our pool for a backdrop, but I am feeling very comfortable and welcomed.

The party ends with guests driving away in very big, flashy cars of indistinct make or model. I begin to walk home, and find one lone lobster trying to crawl down the street, heading for the open water of the sea. It’s trapped under a ball cap and my dreamer’s perspective changes and I am now an observer, not a participant. I look up to the observer “me” and I know the look. “What do I do with a lobster? I hate lobster!”

I wake up.

I wonder what tonight’s is going to be…

Love in the Fast Lane

Not long ago, a teenage MySpace friend –he was the lead in a play my kids were in (I did his make-up) so let’s not even head to the gutter–  posted something onto the Bulletin board and asked this question:

How soon is too soon to tell someone you love them?

After some careful thought, and since Sonny Boy has a girlfriend now too, this was my reply:

You should only say that when you are ready to take care of that person for the rest of their life and put all of their needs ahead of your own, and give up your right to hold a grudge when they screw up.  Before that, it’s not really TRUE love, it’s hormones on infatuation crack.

I had to choose my words very carefully.  If you’ve been reading here, you already know I can get a bit long winded.  This young man is devilishly handsome, a rebel on the outside, but not to his core, and very bright, but also 16.  My words could have been taken as very preachy, pathetic, overly protective, out-of-touch.  Love is a very delicate thing for any of us–but at 16?! It’s the be-all and end-all, over-the-moon crazy fantastic, but very rarely the real true genuine thing. How many high school sweet hearts do you know who are still together, and still in love? I know three couples.

I wanted to add to what I told him, but brevity was necessary, again the “preachy” factor.  This is what I have told my own kids about “wuv..twue wuv” (sorry I love the Bishop from Princess Bride).  Falling is easy, staying takes a lot of hard work and commitment.  Staying in love is a CHOICE, not a feeling. Telling someone you love them should wait.  If it’s really real then you may have the rest of you lives to tell them just how amazingly profoundly they turn your insides to jelly.

This is something else a young man should know about his young lady:  she is a fragile and delicate thing.  Now don’t go sending hate mail about being equal to men. This isn’t about equality in the workplace or society.  This is how we are created, emotionally.  We girls may be tough as nails on the basketball court, or court room, or the assembly line, but when the man we love best of all does something to wound our soul, it’s like putting palm trees on the north pole.  It will kill it faster than you can say POOF!  Knowing this, a young man needs to be very careful.

The other thing he needs know about the heart of the female persuasion: it was designed to be given away– once.  Females were created with a need to be loved. Males were created to be protector and provider of that love.  When a guy tells his girlfriend he loves her, she is inclined to think “he’s the one” and it will last forever.  He more often than not says this to get some quick action, and will move on when he’s tired, bored or finds someone else who catches his eye. That leaves a young lady’s heart bruised, jaded, broken; and she’s less willing to trust the next guy who says “I love you”.  Eventually she may stop altogether, but gets into relationships just so she won’t feel the lonely ache in the pit of her heart.

I LOVE YOU are three of the most powerful words on the planet.  I wish more people treated them that way.  And my mySpace friend sent a reply.  He said it was the best advice he’d gotten back, and then reposted my answer for all his world to see.

Knees, Revisited

I had my appointment with the orthopaedist.  I’ll get to what he said later. First, I need to give an impression of his office.

On the wall was a list of all the doctors who participated in the practice itself.  There must have been at least a dozen, all etched in a glass wall plaque that measured a good 18″ x 36″– good to see where my co-pays are going.  They also had three –3!– receptionists working the front desk receiving patients as they arrived for their appointments.  There was seating for at least 50 in the waiting room, which explains this next part: pagers.  You know the kind, too; the kind you get when your favorite restaurant is busy and “buzz” you when your table is ready.

I get buzzed and a minute later a medical assistant takes me back to get x-rayed.  After I’m excused from the x-ray room I’m left on my own to find my way back to where I started from.  The hallways aren’t marked, and it’s a labyrinth.  I wander past another administrative work station with at least 6 staff milling about, chatting.  (More co-pays at work, I see.) I end up back in the waiting room, but at the opposite end from where I had originally found a chair.  I have no idea how I managed this. At least this end wasn’t as crowded, and I was relieved to not have to sit directly next to anyone else.  We’re a curious lot, we humans, and I didn’t want to get caught staring blankly into space and have someone think I was staring at them.  Worse, I didn’t want anyone staring at me.  “She’s too young to have joint problems…If she lost some weight, maybe that would help…Poor thing, she’s here all alone…”

Okay, so maybe no one was going to judge me and why I was there, but I just hate the thought of the possiblity. Ladies, I know you know what I’m talking about here, because we’re all guilty to some degree.  Gents, if you think I’m over reacting, then you really won’t understand.

I am called back in to an exam room– I think–the place is so big I can hardly hear my name.  I’m usually the only one with my first name, but the place is still packed, and now I’m not so sure about that, as the waiting room is filled with people older than myself, all born in a era when my name was more popular. Again, I can see the need for pagers, as impersonal as they are.  But they don’t use them for this part of my visit. I wish they had.  Thinking to myself, if it weren’t for all the privacy rules, wouldn’t it just be easier to send someone through the office with the patient’s name on a placard, like the limo drivers at the airport.  Wouldn’t you feel more special to have someone come searching for you, eager to escort you to your next stop in your day as opposed to have your name called out anonymously from a doorway?

I meet with the doctor, who flips a switch on a digital monitor, and there are my knees on the screen.  (More co-pays at work; what happened to the lighted wall board?). We talk about my problem, he touches my kneecaps, has me do some extensions to feel for himself what’s going on inside.  I tell him I’m training for a marathon, and he looks at me like I’m nuts. (More time to think I’m being judged, o joy.) He tells me running would not be good for my knees– this I already figured out, that’s why I came; now tell me ‘why’.  He says it would be helpful if he could have seen the kind of shoes I was training in.  TA DA! I produce two pair from a back pack, and now he’s no longer judgemental, and is slightly impressed.  (Yeah, uh huh, I got you on that one!) Bigger surprise, they are the kind I should be wearing for the kind of ankle structure I have (Double boo-yeah!)

Chondromalacia patellae It’s a big fancy word for bad kneecaps, they are getting pitted on the back side where the joint itself rubs against it.  It doesn’t hurt-yet- but I expect it will some day. It is a form of arthritis, and there is no ‘cure’ and I asked about possible kneecap replacement.  Not possible without doing the whole knee.  So I have to live with it, which is what I’ve been doing for a while now.

And so I walk. I’ll still be doing the marathon in October.  I’ll just finish about three-and-a-half hours after the winning runner.  That’s okay with me, finishing is what I’m after, and that is a WIN for me.

Introducing…

SATCHEL!  We got a kitten almost three weeks ago.  I finally caved in, and in spite of my allergies, decided we needed a cat.  We’ve had a continuous problem with mice in the house, and they refuse to eat the poison, or be caught in traps. They’ve been around long enough to share the secrets of these things with one another, and therefore can avoid them. I HATE MICE! More than I dislike cats.

Don’t get me wrong, cats are okay, but they just aren’t a dog. You know, who greet you at the door with wagging tail and slobby kisses, come when you call, and if you’re lucky, learn a few tricks. Cats don’t play fetch in the yard, don’t take their people on walks– or in Lady Bear’s case, drags me through a near-run.

Satchel is very playful, and atfter a few shots with the spray bottle has learned to leave my house plants alone. He has a knack for attacking your ankles and toes.  He also loves Lady Bear, who floats between adoration and toleration of him and his antics.

We took him to the vet today, and got him started on his first shots.  He doesn’t have worms, which is fabulous as Lady was eating his litter-covered poo.  The vet also said it can be normal for kittens to try to nurse, even as adults, said it can be a “comfort thing”. Lady being the mothering sort, is quite content to let him.  She’s even producing a little milk. So it’s really good he doesn’t have worms, or we’d have to de-worm the dog again, on account of the poo eating, Lady could just pass them back to the kitten.

Satchel is now 2.6# and long– so says the vet. He’s got a bit of white on his front paws, and white knee socks on the back, along with a sprinkle –as in 6 strands–of white fur on his forehead, a white crest on his chest, his belly and in his bikini area, if cats were to wear bikini bottoms.  He’s pretty cute if I do say so myself.

I have to admit I am enamored of this little creature, who will give rough tongued kisses on occasion, and will curl up in my lap for a snooze.  He nibbles on my fingers, but the kids aren’t used to kitty teeth, and say it hurts.  They waver between liking him a lot to not at all, depending on everyone’s mood that day.

He’s a keeper.  Now if he can just get rid of the mice.

Knees

I woke up this morning thinking I’d had a bad allergy attack overnight, but it turns out to be the start of a summer cold. I’ve been keeping a steady stream of decongestant and allergy pills going through me all day, and still I can’t breathe. I think it’s been working its way here for a couple of days. I’ve been dragging my feet, so to speak, and now I know why.

I’ve had random stressors bombarding me lately. Sonny Boy had the rear-ending episode, the car’s been in the shop for other reasons, we got a kitten and Lady Bear has been eating his poo—covered in cat litter (gross!). The kitten, who’s name is Satchel, has to go to the vet in the morning. I have to see an orthopaedist about my knees, one makes a popping/crunching sound when it bends, which you can feel if you put a hand on the kneecap. I’ve been mentoring a group of people for this season’s Team in Training events, and have been trying to train and fund raise for my own. Sonny Boy got a job, and I’m not sure exactly where he’s working. He got it through Girlfriend’s “Parental (something, something)”. I just prefer to call him her “other” step-dad—her dad is gay. Sugar Bug is going to a camp next week, and I’m chaperoning the trip. We have to make sure all of her diabetes Rx information is all with us. Money is tight; gas costs a fortune and I quit my job in March. Sonny Boy and Girlfriend have an escalating situation with a Young Lady who used to be his “special interest”. (Her parents wouldn’t allow her to “date”, and so they just made moon eyes at each other, and talked on the phone, sent e-mails. He chose to end things—a year ago— because it couldn’t go anywhere anyway. Well, now Girlfriend is in the picture and Young Lady thinks Girlfriend stole her boyfriend. Apparently that is just the tip of the iceberg.) And, did I mention I’m getting a cold? Yeah, I think I did.

It sounds like I’m complaining. Does it sound like I’m complaining? I’m not trying to, just stating facts of my life right now. What I should be doing is getting on my knees in prayer, searching God’s timeless and ageless wisdom to get me through. Except if I lay in bed, I’ll fall asleep, and I can’t literally sit on my knees, because they’ll go numb.

I don’t want sympathy. I’ll take donations for my fundraising efforts, and I’ll take your prayers.

Un-ordinary People

I went for a walk with Sugar Bug a couple of hours ago. We went up the main street past the city cemetery. After I told her I love cemeteries, she wanted to know why.

“There’s so much history buried in there. People who have lived their lives, gone places, done things. You know, just ordinary people who went about their business.”

“What kind of people?” she asked.
“Well, some were parents raising their families, dads who went to work. Some were in the military and fought in wars.”

“I don’t think they would be ordinary. I think that makes them un-ordinary”

“Which ones are ‘un-ordinary’?” (I knew she meant extra-ordinary, but I didn’t want to correct her; grammar lessons could wait. I wanted to hear what she said.)

“The ones in the military. That makes them special, because they were there ready to give up their life so someone else could be free. That makes them un-ordinary.”

“I suppose that does, then, doesn’t it. There are a lot of people who don’t think the same way today.”

“Why don’t they?” (She has no idea how loaded that question is in a post-modern 21st Century USA.)

“Well, back when those people were alive, they –and the culture and society — used to think it was a privilege and a duty to serve their country. It was an honor for them to be in the military. They did it out of respect and honor for their country.”

“O, that definitely makes them un-ordinary.”

[ I thought of telling her that back then they didn't think about whether it was the nations business to be there, if the military action could be politically and socially justified, or if it was 'the right thing to do'. They left that to politicians and government to sort through; they joined because they wanted to serve, not earn a free college education. That's what I wanted to add, but I didn't. I'll let her 10 year old innocence stay intact for as long as it can. I'll let her patriotism stay strong, so she can still think people today serve their country in the military because of love of country-- nothing more, nothing less. ]

Un-ordinary indeed! To her, they are heroes, and that’s the kind we need to look up to more often.

One. Word.

I got tagged in this game, and now am going to play.

One Word
You.
Can.
Only.
Type.
One.
Word.

Not as easy as you might think!

1. Where is your cell phone? Purse

2. Your significant other? Arnold

3. Your hair? Disheveled

4. Your mother? Survivor

5. Your father? Married

6. Your favorite thing? Sleep

7. Your dream last night? Forgettable

8. Your favorite drink? Water

9. Your dream/goal? Unfound

10. The room you’re in? Family

11. Your ex? Somewhere

12. Your fear? Widowhood

13. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Content

14. Where were you last night? Festival

15. What you’re not? Debt-free

16. Muffins? Naaahh

17. One of your wish list items? Apple!

18. Where you grew up? Michigan

19. The last thing you did? Read

20. What are you wearing? Glasses

21. Your TV? Basement

22. Your pets? Three

23. Your computer? Full

24. Your life? Good

25. Your mood? Fair

26. Missing someone? No

27. Your car? Old

28. Something you’re not wearing? Socks

29. Favorite Store? Target.

30. Your summer? Fundraising

31. Like someone? Definitely

32. Your favorite color? Yellow

33. When is the last time you laughed? Ummm?

34. Do you cry a lot? Easily

35. Who will/would re-post this? Nobody

Seen of the Street #4: Flashback to My Youth

I got a distressing call yesterday afternoon from Sonny Boy. “Mom, I just rear-ended somebody with the car.” I was tending my flower beds that are starting to get out of control from all the rain we’ve had lately, and the crab grass shoots are trying to take over again.

My parental freedom flashed before my eyes. My head started swirling with thoughts, the first was ‘he’s going to get a ticket and lose his license, then I’ll have to start driving him all over the place again, along with driving the girls because I can’t send him.’ In no particular order came: how am I going to tell his dad about this, was anybody hurt, how much damage was done to our car or the other guy’s. I told him I’d be right there– he was right in front of Girlfriend’s house, which is a couple of blocks away. **Sigh** I’m dirty, smelly, in old flip flops, my hair’s in a bandanna to keep sweat from dripping in my eyes, in clothes which don’t “go together” and now I get to walk through the neighborhood.

I called the non-emergency number for the police as I walked and learned the accident had already been reported and that a car was being sent. It took the dispatcher three attempts before I finally understood his question about gas leaking from the vehicle. [Mental note to self: get hearing in right ear checked. Blast all those loud concerts in my youth. Wait.. that blasting is probably what did my hearing in. Double-drat!] I called Sonny Boy back to say I was on my way and would be there in a minute or two. Just before he hung up I could hear the him and Girlfriend talking about finding the owner of the car, and heard an unfamiliar male voice in the background. Sonny Boy was explaining he had just run into his car…then, nothing. He was gone.

At the scene I find the two of them and the owner of the Unfamiliar Male Voice standing in the street surveying the damage. Sonny Boy introduced me: “This is my Mom.” I may have asked what happened, or maybe not, or he just started talking. “We just pulled out of the driveway, and since there wasn’t anyone parked across from the end of theirs I pulled out really wide because I had room. I looked down to grab my drink and when (Girlfriend) reached for it at the same time I let go so she could have it and looked up and there was the back of the car. I ran into it before I had a chance to stop.” He was saying he was going maybe 5 MPH, and the more he told the story, the faster he got. It went to 10, then 15, then 20. I was ready to tell him to stop telling the story or he’d end up with a speeding ticket by his own admission!

We sat in the shade on the sidewalk, and I idly pulled up weeds next to the short retaining berm we sat on. Sonny Boy sat with his face in his hands, and asked “Are you mad?” I wasn’t–honestly, I wasn’t– disappointed, yes; mad, no. My disappointment wasn’t even in what happened, just that it was so much sooner than I had expected. To avoid answering I started pouring water into my mouth and mumbled “My mouth is full, I can’t talk.” Girlfriend started to laugh. ( I have to explain. In our home, if you get caught talking with your mouth full, you get your hand smacked– parents included. To avoid answering a question any one of us has, on occasion, popped something into our mouth.)

“Am I grounded?”

“Yep, probably.”

“Well, it was fun while it lasted–having my license.” (He got in two months ago.) We both were waiting for a ticket to be issued, which would end his driving until his 18th birthday; so says Michigan law. Which made me think again about having to be Chauffeur Mom.

He was going over what happened aloud again and again and he couldn’t figure out how it happened. He had his hand on the wheel still, but we need a front end alignment, and when the rear wheels went over the speed hump slightly crooked it must have lurched the car to the side. That’s the best we can figure.

While I’ve been playing this whole episode over in my head it made me think back to the first accident I ever had. I was 16, a Junior and it was winter. I was driving home from a basketball game still in my cheerleading outfit, and had two other girls with me. They lived near to me and was driving them home. One of them had a crush on some guy, and we decided to follow him home. I didn’t care, there were two ways for us to get home, and this was one of them. We were about 50 yards behind them when I hit a patch of black ice and slide from the left lane across the right lane and into a snow bank. A man in his 50’s, I’m guessing–he looked older than my parents– hit the rear end of Mum’s now snow-bound car. To this day, I can’t say for sure if he even had his head lights on, but I think not. I got a ticket for “Improper Lane Usage” and 2 points on my license. I dreaded calling my Dad.

When I told him what happened, he surprised me by not flipping out, or yelling. He first asked if everyone was okay, if the car could be driven home. Then he asked me something that took me completely by surprise and has stayed with me ever since. “What did you learn from this?” he asked.

What did I learn!?! That was crazy! All I could think to say, and this is still my opinion some days: “Don’t drive in winter in Michigan.” What on earth kind of question is that to ask your daughter after she’d been rear-ended. I could never figure out why he asked me that, ..until yesterday.

The officer arrived. It wasn’t a very long wait, but long enough, like waiting for the executioner’s axe to fall. You know it’s coming, and you know it’s unavoidable. With a prodding of “On your feet sir,” he was up, getting his papers off the hood of the car. Office asked to see it all, asked about what happened. The Unfamiliar Male Voice said Sonny Boy came to find him and then admitted he would have driven off if it were him. Officer lifted his eye brows and cocked his head– he was impressed. He could have driven away, but instead stayed to face his Driver’s License Executioner.

In that moment, I was proud of my son. The Officer found him at fault, but did not write him a ticket. Sonny Boy and I both know he should have gotten one, and deserved to. The dread washed from behind his eyes. He’d received an act of mercy, and he knew it.

We were talking later that night about what happened that day. He’s been waiting for the Parental Axe to fall, too, and wanted to know what sort of trouble he was in. I asked him what my dad asked me: What did you learn from this today? The look on his face must have matched my own all those years ago. He wasn’t expecting that one at all. I wanted him to remember that taking your eyes off the road, even for a split second, can have very serious consequences. I pointed out that it was just a parked car, but suppose it was someone’s child who ran into the street to chase after a loose ball, then what? I’m not sure the gravity of that possible scenario has sunk in.

What did I learn, after all these years? Parents have lessons to give, and a child can learn from them, even 23 years after the fact. And, if we don’t learn from our mistakes, and teach that to our kids, we all shall be doomed to repeat them.

There’s Just Never Enough Time

Lately, it seems, I just don’t have enough time to get any amount of productive work done. I’ve been “time challenged” for long while now, and even my top speed is still slower than most.

Just today I had a deadline for getting some letters ready to be mailed (there were 180+ of them, by the way), and I had to make more copies of its contents in order to finish. I talked to my DH for some reason that escapes me right now, and he started to take on a very patronizing tone about the task at hand and my inability to keep track of time. He kept repeating himself, and I was starting to get mad. Even now, it’s starting to make my blood roil (grrrr…rr). He kept repeating himself, to the effect of “Are you going to be done on time?..Other people are counting on you, they trusted you to get this done for them, you know…Are you sure you’ll be able to get it there on time?” All I could say was, “I know.”

When I got off the phone, one of the kids said to me “What is it that you know? You kept saying ‘I know, I know.’”

Yes, I know, okay?! I KNOW! I know! Now leave me alone! Sheesh! I am not a 10 year old; I don’t like being talked to like one. I don’t like being reminded of my faults on a regular basis. I don’t like being reminded that I’m “time challenged”. No Sam I AM, I do not like it here, or there. I do not like it with a dish, or a fish. I do not like it Sam I Am, I do not like it one little bit! I can’t like it with a train, or with a plane, because apparently, according to some I’d miss the whole stinking trip!!

There are other things I’d rather be talking about here tonight, because I have precious little time to sit and write, but this is just sitting here, stuck in my craw and I have to rant and stomp my blogging feet. I’m sure he meant well, but…

On top of that, Sonny Boy came home from Girlfriend’s house and wanted to know what I needed the car for, for the next day. He started to sound a little like his Dad for a second or two. He needs to be to his baseball game by a certain time, see—7:00PM actually—and had to make sure I’d be home in plenty of time so he could use the car. He didn’t say anything like “Mom can you drive me?” It was, “What do you need the car for tomorrow? I have my game tomorrow night.” (Emphasis mine) Just the way he said it made me think back a few hours to the phone conversation with DH. I’m trying not to read too much into what Sonny Boy was saying, he just wants to be on time.

It seems to most of my household, I can’t be trusted with that. Sad thing is, they may be right. But I still don’t like it, to be late or to be talked to that way.

Am I really that bad?