We'd just stepped out the back door, and were on our way to the pond, on a mission to snag two more catfish for Monday night's dinner. I'd stopped in my tracks and was gazing longingly at the lawn tractor. The utility cart was hitched to the back, and it was parked perilously close to my van. There was no peril in the making when Son3 parked it there -- certain peril loomed large, if I tried to back it out, and I know that because of what happened to the sawhorse that time I tried to back the tractor-cart combo out of the barn. Oopsie.
I'm so lazy!" I answered.
"WHAT are you talking about?" asked Charles.
"I was trying to decide whether or not to ride the lawn tractor to the pond. How sick is that?" I replied.
"Well, there's nothing wrong with that. You always have so much work to do," came the loving, encouraging reply from Charles. (*good husband* *good husband*)
"Yeah, but I don't do it! That's what I'm talking about!" And we shared a knowing laugh.
I walked to the pond...and back, when the catch o' the day was cleaned. I even loaded the dishwasher (AGAIN!). *unmerited, puffed up smile*
~*~ ~*~ ~*~
I sure hope OAO Daughter blogs about her husband's magical, mystical, inexpensive swim trunks he bought in Costa Rica, since she forgot to pack any into his suitcase before he left: Add water, disappear -- not the man, the trunks.
I recently tracked down a cherished friend from the past I've had no contact with in more
than three decades. She was my other mother, my drama coach, my own mother's best friend, and a light in my child life. My friends today might be impressed by (or frustrated with) the swell job she did teaching drama -- if I'm not the queen, I'm at least a lady in waiting. Betty's the only person in my life who's ever been able to convince me to sing a solo, and reflecting on days long past, I suggested if she could remember who was in those audiences, she should send notes of apology. True to form, she wrote back a lovely and gracious paragraph comparing Dumbo clutching the feather as he flew, and I fixing my eyes on the overhead light fixture as I croaked out "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," threatening to put Alfalfa out of a job. Everyone should have a Betty. Later, when I'd voiced my (wounded,) dissenting opinion in a phone conversation, she gasped, giggled, and said, "Oops, I'm sorry."
AlmostChickens only a mother could love?
I was tossing into the dryer the other day a wet washcloth with an assignment to wrest the wrinkles from the dry shirts I'd left lying in the machine for two days. I considered stuffing myself in there with them and taking a few spins. If anyone's tried that, let me know if it works.
