Driving in Cars with Bill

Several times a year, Bill and I make the drive to Ohio to visit family. It takes a whole day, and Bill does all the driving. He’s not a good passenger, and he’s in love with his 300C. I just take a Dramamine and spend the day reading, napping, eating, and demanding rest stops. We spend a week visiting, stuffing our faces with my sisters-in-law's great cooking, and embarrassing our three nieces. We then haul our fattened asses back in the car, along with a cooler of the delicious food we have scored, and drive home to recover.

Now, the truth must be told about Bill: This totally laid-back man, who has only rarely raised his voice to me in 30 years, becomes a different person behind the wheel of a car. Mild-mannered Bill transforms into The Cursing Crusader of Cruise Control, The Mad Marauder of Momentum, The Dark Defender of Daring Drivers. And he is not quiet about it. Woe to the motorist that makes him hit the brake when his cruise control is on. 

Most annoying to him are the semis that pass each other going only two miles per hour faster than the truck they’re trying to outpace. On a two-lane highway, this earns them an Italian witch’s curse. A close second is the inconsistent-speed driver. Slow on the uphill, fast on the down. They're very difficult to pass, as they speed up when you pull next to them. Use your cruise control, people. Save the planet. And my sanity.

It’s not that I disagree with him. I do plenty of highway driving, and I know the drill. But ten hours of sporadic outbursts will eventually start getting on your nerves. On a recent trip, I decided to document some of them. Most of the time, I don’t respond. Other times, the temptation is too great.  Here’s a sampling of comments that go beyond a short, barked curse of “Idiot!”  “Shit!” or “Madón!” (Italian plea to the mother of Jesus to spare him.) They start out pretty benign and escalate as the day wears on.

Bill, sarcastically, behind a slow driver:  “Guess we don’t have to worry about getting a speeding ticket.”

Yvonne, equally sarcastically:  “Well, that’s a very glass-half-full way of thinking, Bill.”

Bill: “That guy’s annoying me.”  The driver on the right keeps pace with us as we’re trying to pass. 

Yvonne: “I’m quite sure that was his goal for the day.”

Bill: “Why is this truck in the left lane?  He’s not even going the speed limit!”

Yvonne: “Perhaps he didn’t get the memo that it’s a suggested minimum for the right lane only.”

Bill: “If you’re going to do that, at least accelerate!” A car has pulled out from behind a semi right into our path, causing the dreaded brake tap.

Yvonne: “I’ll assume the ‘asshole’ is implied.”

Bill, jerking the steering wheel: “Jeez!  Is that idiot drifting? Did you see that?”  The car to the right swerved, spooked by a merging semi.

Yvonne, grabbing the dash: “I think the guy on your left is wondering the same thing!”

Bill: “You son of a bitch!” as a truck with a trailer suddenly pulls out into the fast lane in front of us. “You could see that student driver for miles!”

Yvonne: “I’m sure if he knew that a far superior driver was behind him, he would, in deference, remove himself from your path.”

Bill: “The lady behind us is in a hurry.  Why doesn’t she get in the fast lane?”

Yvonne: “Perhaps she has her cruise on and is riding your ass in hopes you’ll go faster, so she doesn’t have to tap her brake. Just because it hasn’t worked for you, doesn’t mean it won’t work for her.”

There’s a slow truck in the left lane:

 “Asshole!” Bill yells, jerking the car to the right and gunning the engine to pass.

Yvonne: “I’m sure you’re angry burning of expensive gasoline showed him the error of his ways.”

Bill: “Well, it made ME feel better.”

Behind a car going downhill:

Bill: “Why is this guy putting on his brakes? We’re cruising down this hill 10 mph below the speed limit!”

When this reprobate turned onto the same road as we, Bill gunned the engine and shot past him. 

Yvonne:  “Another victory for the oil companies.”

Bill: “Wow, it’s 70!  That guy was REALLY poking! They must have raised the speed limit. Do you remember it being 70 here?”

Yvonne:  “I don’t remember. But that’s good – we’ll make it to the rest stop quicker.”

So, that’s the first hour. Fortunately, motion sickness medication leaves me too drowsy to scream at Bill or beat him about the head. Sighing, I just go to my happy place and leave him to his outbursts.

For My PC Parents

Whenever I learn that Peace Corps has had to withdraw from yet another country, I have a moment of despair.  I am sad for the volunteers, of course, who must leave not only the communities they have grown into but their work unfinished.  But mostly I’m sad to think of all the people who will not be helped because of something they are powerless to prevent.  Some act of aggression or greed, some political manipulation or decision made by a leader so far removed from their everyday lives sends ripples outward to affect even the unaware. When conditions become dangerous, I understand the need to remove volunteers to safety.  But when volunteers are targeted for aggression, because they are outsiders or just Americans, it is baffling to me.  It has happened all over the world to many groups, but that makes it no less incomprehensible that help is refused.

Perhaps it’s the name - Peace Corps.  Maybe “corps” implies an armed force bringing American ideas to some smaller nation. Perhaps they are considered a threat, with their high-and-mighty ideas of a better life. It’s hard to imagine how they could think that a single individual dropped into a small community could wrest control of their country from them, but then, I’m not in their shoes. I think of Peace Corps less as a group working FOR peace than as individuals coming IN peace.  They come, not to judge, discriminate, or take sides. They come to help.  They come to make a contribution, in the hope that it will, in some small way, help a person, a family, a community.

This is how I see Peace Corps volunteers. They’re not there to convert, though they may be religious.  They’re not there to spread democracy through the world, though they may believe in it.  They’re not there as Americans, though they may be very patriotic. They are just there as people wanting to contribute to the world’s people, to help in some way.  Even if they are there to bide their time while figuring out what to do with the rest of their lives, they are there.  Even if they are there because the economy is bad and there are no jobs for them, they are there.  They’re not waiting it out in a chalet in the Swiss Alps or a resort on the beach. They have not retired to a warm climate to play golf. They are not sitting around waiting for something to change, they are making a change. They have volunteered to be dropped into challenging places with cultures they’ve never experienced and languages they may never have heard.  And it may take months, and sometimes seem hopeless, but they find ways to help.  Small ways, big ways, simple ways, complicated ways.

They may help bring clean water, teach a class, build a business, give simple medical care, gather together children for activities. They offer skills and energy, a helping hand, a listening ear, comfort, companionship, understanding, caring.   They join communities, become part of new families, both gain and offer a new perspective on daily life, empower others and become empowered.  And they all teach.  Not just the ones in classrooms.  Their very presence teaches individuality, determination, resilience, self-respect.  Yes. This is what I can become with an education.  Yes.  Girls can do this, too.  Yes. It feels good to help others. Yes.  Even a small thing can make a difference.  Yes.  One person can change lives.

In turn, I think Peace Corps builds better citizens.  They cannot spend 27 months in another country, witness poverty and onerous conditions, and exit the same people they were.  They may gain confidence, humility, competence, ability.  But certainly, they gain a new view of the world, a different context in which to place countries other than their own.  And whatever new perspective the volunteers gain, it has to make them better citizens.  World citizens. 

I don’t think I’m being romantic or naive in my admiration for Peace Corps.  I’ve read many volunteer blogs since my daughter applied and served.  I’ve come to know the remarkable young people represented by this parent group.  Whenever I start to feel sad about the tragedies in the world or become cynical about the future, I have only to check back with them. They inspire me and give me hope.

Sing You Home

I’m coming to the end of the book I’m reading, and I just know it’s going to make me sad. I really want to know what happens, but I’ll read a chapter and walk away thinking, “I’m not going to like how this ends.” I’ve already cried twice while reading this book. It’s a wonderful story. I’m so invested. Too invested. I know better.

I used to read a lot of complicated, dramatic fiction. Science fiction that would stretch the imagination. Mysteries that would challenge deductive reasoning. Suspense that would get the blood racing. But then my parents got sick and died within six months of each other. My oldest sibling became a paranoid schizophrenic and made it nearly impossible to cope. Made it impossible for my sister and me to properly grieve our loss, to process the sudden changes in our lives. Life became unreal. Reality became too much. Reading became about escape. I became a reader of romances. Happy endings. Always a happy ending. Distracting, sometimes humorous, sexy, clever…and not risky. Everything would turn out all right in the end. I really needed the happy endings.

It’s been three years since my parents died. Nearly as long since we sold our childhood home. My sister and I circled the wagons, became closer, survived. The nightmares are only occasional now. But I’m still reading the romances. The genre has expanded to mysteries and suspense. I’m even reading a series of futuristic romantic mysteries. But no matter what happens during the story, I know my main characters will survive and be together. Happy endings. I still need happy endings.

I picked up my current book at work. As I was flipping through it, there was a conversation near the beginning between a mother and daughter. It made me laugh. Humor between an eccentric mother and her pregnant, forty-year-old daughter and why they weren't friends on Facebook. I thought it might be a fun book to read. Too late, I realized it was a story fraught with disappointment, sadness, intolerance. Too late, I realized that I cared about these people and needed to finish their story. Because there was love in this story, too.

I’m so close to the end. I want the happy ending for them, for me. But I know I’m not going to get it. And somehow, the story of these fictional people will leave a hole in my heart. The knowledge that their problems are real and torment real people in the real world will increase the heartache. I know I have to finish the book, complete the journey, let the sadness roll over me. I’m not sorry that I read the book. I got a great deal out of it. Magical words, heartwarming acts, informative debates, pictures of the way the world should be, but isn’t. All of that will stay with me, and I will be richer for it. Perhaps a fair trade for the tears.

I may never give up the romances with their guaranteed happy endings. There are some great writers out there that can speak to the heart without breaking it. But maybe it’s time to risk more. There are hearts a great deal more scarred than mine that do. If I can see this story through, perhaps I can do it again. Maybe it will become easier next time to let the reality in. At least once in a while. Maybe.

Coccygectomy Fun

Many years ago, when Andrea was first in high school, she suffered a tailbone injury that required its removal. Because Andrea had suffered so long, and Dr. Leon Dickerson of the Charlotte Spine Center was the only one to offer her relief, a simple “thank you” did not seem enough. Nothing would. I wrote some new words to an old song, one of my very favorite things to do, and sent it to him with our undying gratitude. I recently came across the song, as well as Dr. Leon’s note of grateful delight, and decided to post it.

For me, it represents the end of a very difficult chapter in our lives – one in which we had to make a decision as parents that could have ended badly. We searched long and hard, found a wonderful surgeon, and placed our daughter’s future in his hands. He did not disappoint. Dr. Leon’s post-surgical excitement at the odd shape of Andrea’s tailbone was gratifying, but something more seemed to be called for. And so this song rip-off became the ode to our hero.



Sung to the tune of “Fun, Fun, Fun” by the Beach Boys [1964]


Well she went to a ballgame and she sat on a really hard seat, now
(…really hard seat, now, a really hard seat…)
Some more games with no pad for her rear and it really got beat, now
(…really got beat, now, it really got beat…)
And the pain got so bad that it knocked her right off of her feet, now
(…off of her feet, now, right off of her feet…)
But she’ll have fun, fun, fun, when her doctor takes her tailbone away.
(…fun, fun, fun, when her doctor takes her tailbone away…)


Well, she practiced in the drum line for band, tried to march in a game, now
(…marched in a game, now, she marched in a game…)
But the heavy bass drum wore her down and she just came up lame, now
(…just came up lame, now, she just came up lame.)
Though she marched competitions, we can tell that she’s just not the same, now
(…just not the same, now, she’s just not the same…)
But she’ll have fun, fun, fun, when her doctor takes her tailbone away.
(…fun, fun, fun, when her doctor takes her tailbone away…)


Well, she missed playing softball and she spent the whole spring broken-hearted
(…broken her heart, now, it’s broken her heart…)
Cuz it hurt when she sat, when she bent, when she walked, when she darted
(…just couldn’t dart, now, she just couldn’t dart…)
Oh but things will get better after she and her tailbone have parted
(… really must part, now, they really must part…)
And she’ll have fun, fun, fun, when her doctor takes her tailbone away.
(…fun, fun, fun, when her doctor takes her tailbone away…)


Well, she had to take a pillow to school just to cushion her butt, now
(…to cushion her butt, now, to cushion her butt…)
And she had to use crutches at times it was too painful to strut, now
(…too painful to strut, now, too painful to strut…)
But it’s all over now that the doctor made his surgical cut, now
(…his surgical cut, now, his surgical cut…)
And she’ll have fun, fun, fun, now the doctor took her tailbone away.
(…fun, fun, fun, now her doctor took her tailbone away…)


Now, she’ll have fun, fun, fun! Dr. Leon took her tailbone away!

Ode To My New Kitchen Counters

I sweep the sponge toward the sink to a serenade of tings and plops,
As every manner of crumb and smidgen, heretofore unseen, hit stainless steel.
The dishcloth glides over the sleek and shiny surface,
Catching here and there on spots of inconspicuous residue.

What could that be, I ask in hushed tones, and from where did it come?
And whence this puddle in which I have, unheeding, laid down my mail?
Perhaps some errant condensation from my glass of chilled nectar
That lies in aqueous wait, unnoticed by the mortal lens.

And there, a russet splash, adding to the variegated pattern of my stone.
Gone with a swipe, a lonely remnant of my goblet of glorious Merlot,
As are the droplets of delicious marinara left too long to simmer
On the stove, bubbling and adding its color to the festive pattern.

Alas, there is the kibble that I heard but could not see escape the bowl,
That tiny morsel of feline sustenance that bounced away
To make its escape both from its fate and my perfunctory hunt.
And lo the twist tie I could not find to seal my bag of bread, reclaimed.

I thought life with you would be so carefree. No slave to every spot
As in days gone by, a yellow expanse tormenting with each speck.
No. You call to me like a siren, taunting me with the hidden mysteries
Of what could be fermenting on your delicious, shiny, carapace.

Carpet Spots

Ghostly spots where ne’er a spill
Has happened, they’re appearing still.
I spray and scrub until they’re done,
And weeks will pass. I’ll think I’ve won.

So slowly, then, they’ll show themselves,
As if they’re conjured by the elves
Or shades, or demons in the night
That set upon the land a blight!

Not once, not twice, but thrice I’ve tried,
So many potions I’ve applied.
But every time the shadows grow,
And whence they come I do not know.

Perhaps they are not of this world,
But from some dark existence hurled!
A portal may be trying to form
From worlds where alien hordes will swarm!

And I and my determined scours
Are all that stand ‘twixt theirs and ours.
With great Resolve and all my might,
I vow to not give up the fight!

With brush and bucket in my hand,
I venture forth to make my stand.
Breach the void I swear they’ll not!
Henceforth my war cry, “Out, damn spot!”

Over The Shoulder Boulder Holder

I have no pockets in my dress,
And my nose needs frequent blows,
So I stick Kleenex in my bra,
But it’s not the way that shows.

That makes me old and matronly,
Or at least that’s what I’m told,
But if I have to wear a bra,
Are boobs all it should hold?

A credit card and my I.D.
And perhaps a little cash…
When I don’t want to take a purse,
My bra will hold my stash.

At times a hair clip rests in there,
In case my neck gets hot.
And sometimes, when my hands are full,
My keys are in that spot.

It certainly can hold my cell,
When I’m waiting for a call.
There’s no chance that I’ll miss it,
With the vibrating and all.

I’ve even stuffed a camera in -
They make them small, but still,
No Victoria’s Secret bra
Will hold the stuff mine will.

So when I sport my sturdy bra,
It now does double duty.
My “foundation garment” now
Holds both my boobs and booty!

Prologue to the Adventure

I love cats, but I am highly allergic to them. My allergist insisted on removing “cat” from my shot serum, because my arm would sport a softball-sized welt after my shots. “Do you have a cat?” he asked me in dismay, after weeks of this alarming result, “Or any pressing need to address this particular allergy?” Uh, not really, I guess. “Well then,” he sighed, “I would recommend we stop this particular treatment.” Hey, Dr. Dude, I’m not the one that started it. You get the big bucks, so why didn’t you ask me if I had cats? Before my arm exploded into a hot, red, ball of itching hell! Especially after the off-the-charts reaction on the allergy test! After the “cat” was removed from my serum, my arm only blew a golf ball-sized welt. He couldn’t remove the “dust mite” from my serum. Those little monsters are everywhere! Years later, I’m barely reacting to my shots, though I always know which arm gets the “dust mite.” It’s actually their poop that’s the allergen, to make it even grosser. I think they’re in the spider family. Like I need one more reason to hate them.
I remember my very first allergic reaction to a cat. Ninth grade. I was at the house of a fellow student, who lived a couple of blocks away. It was my first year wearing contacts, the hard ones, which is all that was available in medieval times. We were working on a school project, I think. I don’t remember if I played with her cat, or even touched it. But being unable to resist most furry creatures, I would bet that I did. My eye itched like crazy, and I rubbed it as I walked home. By the time I arrived at my house, my eye membrane had swollen so far over my eyeball, I had to use a little suction tool to remove my contact lens. Gruesome. Of course, I didn’t make the connection at the time, and since it never happened again, it remained a mystery. Only in hindsight have I made the allergy connection.
I can be around cats and suffer only a little sneezing. I can pet them, if I remember not to touch my eyes before washing my hands. I can even be in a house where cats live, if there is not a substantial build-up of dander. I once walked into a friend of a friend’s house, and within two minutes, was reduced to a sneezing, coughing, congested mess. I was accused of bringing some horrible cold germ into the house and apologized, unable to explain this very sudden onslaught of symptoms. We were there to see her new baby, so I’m surprised she didn’t call the CDC to quarantine me. Later, a cat sauntered into the room, and I had my explanation. I also had asthma so bad, even my inhaler couldn’t help me. I was forced to leave. I think my hostess was relieved to see me go. I’m sure she disinfected everything I touched. Her time may have been better spent vacuuming. But that’s just my opinion.
Years later, I entered the house of a new neighbor. Her home was lovely, and we curled up in her beautifully appointed living room for a cup of tea and conversation. I was there over an hour before her cat entered the room. I stared at it in shock, voicing my incredulity that she had a cat. I may have even uttered something inane, like “That can’t possibly be a cat!” I told my neighbor of that fateful day that I had nearly died from feline exposure. Subsequent encounters have enlightened me. Unlike my previous assumption, that I would know within minutes whether a cat lived in a house that I entered, I realized that instead, I would be able to discern only the vacuuming habits of the cat owner. Fortunately for me, I hang around with people who vacuum. I have abundant relatives, neighbors and friends who abide with cats, and I can often be in their homes for hours without problems. I have enough other allergies that I’m on medication, and I carry my trusty inhaler with me always, but I don’t often have to use it. And what’s a little nose blowing among good friends and family?

An "Oklahoma!" Christmas

Over four years in the making and born from the haunting strains of a spring high school musical, finally, Christmas lyrics to some of the songs from the musical "Oklahoma!"


IT'S A CELESTIAL WARNING
(Sung to the tune of "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning!)


There’s a bright golden star in the heavens.
There’s a bright golden star in the heavens.
The shimmering star is a beautiful sight,
And it looks like Judea is under its light!

It’s a celestial warning,
That’s what the magi will say.
They’ve got a magical feeling,
That star is pointing the way.




ON THE ROAD TO JUDEA
(Sung to the tune of "Surrey With The Fringe On Top")


When I hit the road for Judea
Load my camel up and say, “see ya”
On my way toward Nazarea, guided by a star,
Will I meet a mage from another
Land, a sage and star-watching brother?
Will we travel on with each other to a land afar?

The road is dusty and the ride is hard,
But I’ll cross desert and valley.
No mountain so high and no river so wide
It can make me dither or dally.

Where’s the bright new star gonna lead us?
Where’s the bright new star gonna lead us?
Where’s the bright new star gonna lead us? Will it take us far?
On the road to Judea being led by a star!




EVERYONE MUST BE COUNTED IN JUDEA
(Sung to the tune of "Everything's Up-To-Date In Kansas City)


Everyone must be counted in Judea;
They must go to the places of their birth.
We Romans need a census, so we can tax you right.
We want to see exactly what you’re worth.
So hit the road, and head back to your birthplace.
We just don’t care how far you have to go!
Get yourself a donkey, load up your pregnant wife.
We really couldn’t care less if we disrupt your life.
So suck it up, and don’t you whine about your pain and strife!
We just don’t care how far you have to go! (No sir!)
We just don’t care how far you have to go!




I'M JUST A SHEPHERD ON THE HILL
(Sung to the tune of "I'm Just a Girl Who Cain't Say No")


I’m just a shepherd on the hill,
Watching the sheep safely graze.
Nights can be boring; it’s so still!
I’d sure prefer working days.

Then one night, while I am guarding sheep,
A host of angels tells me I should go!
I should leave my sheep, and leave my lambs,
And find the babe beneath the heavenly glow!

Now I’m a shepherd who feels ill.
I should have stayed with my sheep!
I knew that baby would keep.
Now I’m in doo-doo so deep!
A bitter pill!




THE ROMAN AND THE CHRISTIAN SHOULD BE FRIENDS
(Sung to the tune of "The Farmer and the Cowman Should Be Friends")


The Roman and the Christian should be friends.
Oh, the Roman and the Christian should be friends.
One man likes to pull his sword;
The other praises Christ the Lord,
But that’s no reason why they can’t be friends.

Everyone in Rome should stick together,
Everyone in Rome should practice Zen.
Don’t throw stones at the soldier’s horses!
Don’t toss folks in the lion’s den!




OH, CHRIST IS BORN
(Sung to the tune of "Poor Jud Is Dead")


Oh, Christ is born.
Jesus Christ is born.
All gather round his manger now and pray.
There is frankincense and gold
And a drummer boy so bold
All for the baby lying in the hay.
Yes, sir. Bring myrrh.


OH, JUDEA!
(Sung to the tune of Oklahoma!)


Oh, Judea, where the Father sent his only son
To be born of Earth, a virgin birth
And we’re pretty sure the only one!
Oh, Judea, now the world will never be the same
For the Son of God this earth has trod
Now we do weird things to praise His name!
Like dragging a pine through the hall,
Or shopping like mad at the mall.
And when we say, "Hey! I'll pay another day!"
We're only saying, "Shop til you drop, oh Judea,
Oh Judea, let's play!”

Platitudes

Hope springs eternal
Hope springs eternal
They say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger
How much longer must I wait
To be stronger?

Survival of the fittest
Survival of the fittest
They say that it's natural selection
Here's my question: Will I know
When I've evolved?

Love is the answer
Hate is a cancer
They say the greatest cure is in our laughter
That's what I'm after, to be cured
And self-assured


We live and learn, sometimes we grieve
We raise our children, watch them leave

We lose our fathers and our mothers
Leave our sisters, bury brothers

One more goodbye
A weary sigh
Now move along
Life goes on


To every thing there is a season
To every thing there is a season
The cosmos is beyond my comprehension
To what dimension will my soul
Achieve ascension?

What goes around, comes around
What goes around, comes around
The world, so often good, contains such evil
Causing upheaval of my faith
Beyond retrieval

Life is what you make it
Life is what you make it
They say the meek among us will endure
I'm not so sure that they are right
Stand up and fight
With all your might.

Her twisted sense of humor...

Her crooked little glasses
Slip down her crooked nose.
Sitting on her crooked spine,
She curls her crooked toes.

Her loudly clicking knee joints
Along with clicking jaws
Will join the clicking symphony
Of all her clicking flaws.

She passes out in bathrooms.
She passes gas in bed,
Then passes on each odd idea
That passes through her head.

She flashes glares of warning
As her damn hot flashes strike,
And won’t care whom she flashes
As she strips when flashes spike.

She writes her thoughts in journals
And she writes a blog to share.
She writes in stream of consciousness,
And sometimes writes with flair

How ends this senseless rhyming?
What ends this silly trend?
How can the ends be tied up?
It ends like this: The End.

Lazy Girl

I was staring at the coffeemaker this morning, wishing it were the weekend. Not because I had to get up at some ungodly hour to work, but because on the weekends, Billy-Bob fills my coffeemaker. My sweet hubby’s coffee is too strong for me to drink, so I have my own little machine to make my weak, but necessary, brew. Billy-Bob would never tell me my coffee was terrible, but he manages to convey the sentiment in subtle ways. I am not so kind about his brew. I watch him grind the beans that he roasted himself on the back porch, and as he stuffs the filter basket with an ungodly amount, I bring my hands up to encircle my neck and make strangled gagging noises. On the few occasions that I have attempted to drink his coffee, I have loaded it with milk and held my nose. Were Billy-Bob forced to drink my coffee, like that could ever happen, I’m pretty sure he would respond in much the same way as the Texas rancher in a romance novel I read. Forced to drink hospital coffee, this rancher commented in what is now one of my favorite metaphors of all time: “I could get stronger brew if I put a coffee bean up a duck’s ass and filled my cup downstream.” Thankfully, my hubby is not a Texan.

Billy-Bob gets up first on the weekend. When he’s awake, he’s up. He dresses, retrieves the paper from the end of the drive, and begins his daily grind. Rising from bed is a longer process for me. I tend to stretch and roll like a fat, pampered cat deciding if anything is really worth getting up from this warm, comfortable spot. After several minutes of yawning and bemoaning the necessity of getting up at all, I eventually slide myself out of the bed and over to the sink, only to see in the mirror what the fat cat dragged in. The temptation to return to the bed is barely resistible. By the time I am lured downstairs, still in my jammies, by the need for coffee, Billy-Bob is drinking his. He greets me with a smile, and occasionally throws caution to the wind by saying, “Good afternoon.” But all is forgiven when I walk over to my coffeemaker and find it filled with water, a filter jauntily perched atop the basket. Scoop in the coffee, press ON, and out comes the nectar of the gods. Sweet Jesus! Sweet hubby.

As I stared at the empty coffeemaker this morning, I imagined the maw of the empty reservoir was filled with fresh water, glistening with the light’s reflection, winking at the filter’s jaunty paper hat. I found myself entertaining the thought of asking my hubby to fill my coffeemaker before he goes to work! I could feel my own eyes widen in surprise. My god! I am a Spoiled Princess! I AM a Lazy Girl! My dad had tried to tell me for years, and I would bristle at his words. Now I knew. How did I react to this startling revelation? Did I set out to disprove it? Did I attack the crumbs on the counter or assault the clutter on the kitchen table? Did I destroy the dust on the furniture or decimate the detritus on the floor? Did I decide to vigorously vacuum or launch a load of laundry? No. Lord, no. I made my coffee and turned on my laptop to write this piece, once again passing up a distasteful task for something I enjoy doing. It’s been twenty years since I went into therapy and learned to embrace my Inner Bitch. Certainly I can do the same for Lazy Girl. I’ll learn to wear her like a badge. Complaints can be sent to Imalazygirl@email.com. That and a bean up a duck’s ass will get you cup of coffee.