Yesterday, I accidently stepped on the cat’s tail, and she let me know I’d committed an error of a horrendous nature. I apologized profusely, of course, but she wasn’t in the mood to forgive. She doesn’t take kindly to tail endangerment. This isn’t the first time I’ve apologized to my pets — or conversed with them — far from it. When my dog is lying on the stairway landing and I have to step over her, I say, “Excuse me,” like I owe her that. I also speak platitudes to my animals. They are so pretty. So darling.
I do not consider myself an excellent driver. I am good, or maybe just OK — around a B-minus to a C-plus if I were giving out grades. I am not great at maneuvering into tight parking spaces or knowing when it is my turn at a four-way stop. I am unsure of the direction to rotate my steering wheel when parking on a hill. Despite my shortfalls, I do understand roadway etiquette, or the unwritten standards of protocol every license-wielding driver should abide by.
All right, enough is enough already. I give up. I’m throwing in the workout towel, hanging up my tennis shoes and reaching for a thick slice of pizza — with extra cheese, please. It’s become too much — diet and exercise, exercise and diet. I’ve been traveling the road to fitness for weeks now — my commitment is beyond monumental — and today I stepped on the scale see the same old familiar numbers staring back at me. Again. My scale has become a permanent fixture fixated on my failure to lose and even though they say numbers don’t lie, I’m crying foul. Something is amiss.
The hardest part about going on vacation is getting going. The energy and effort required to plan and pack can leave you weary and in need of a vacation — especially if you fulfill the role of predominant packer for your pack. At my house, vacation preparation involves about 2,537 unique tasks. My husband is responsible for a number of them — filling the vehicle’s gas tank, mapping our course on the atlas, carrying the cooler up from the basement and bringing the luggage out to the car. For those who are counting, that makes four.
There’s a buzz circulating in small-town USA, and I’m not talking about the anticipation of Justin Bieber’s upcoming birthday. I came across a new item at the grocery store. There, between the strawberries and pre-cut watermelon, sat an unassuming bag containing three fruits. At first glance, I thought they were apples because that’s what they looked like. Then I saw the label: “grapples.” I read the word with a short “a” so it rhymed with, well, apples. The association seemed pretty obvious.
My husband is not a frequent shopper. He avoids the hobby. Abhor is a strong word, but I think it’s pretty close to how my husband regards the in-store experience. You can imagine my surprise when he initiated the task last Saturday. We were out of town, at a weekend sports tournament with one of our kids, hanging out in the hotel between games, when he stood up from his chair and uttered the five words I’ve honestly never heard him say: “I’m going to the mall.” I would have accompanied him, but someone had to supervise our kid. So I sent him — alone. Innocent and inexperienced.
It’s been said that nothing is certain except death and taxes. From now until April 15, the majority of law-abiding citizens will be compelled to pay attention to the latter. I’m no exception. I pulled out my tax stuff last weekend and attempted to make sense of those pesky little things called numbers. I sat at the dining room table, accompanied by a heaping pile of receipts from 2013, and scanned each slip for business expenses and other tax-deductible items.
We’ve sunk to a new low. It’s a fashion faux pas of the dire, denim variety. I’m referring to jeans — waistbands in particular. Do you remember when pants used to sit at your waist, not three inches below? Now, we wear low-rise, which is designer secret code for ugly-butt, muffin-top. Low rise is nothing new. They’ve been around for years, and quite frankly, the trend is making me cranky.
I wanted a kayak. It was a simple request I repeated repeatedly. I talked about how we would go kayaking this summer on the lake. We’d have a blast making family memories while building our triceps and getting a tan. I communicated as clearly as I could, in English, which is the language they speak. I wanted a kayak. They got me a blender. There was a reason for their actions. They like smoothies. And, despite the allure of a sleek kayak cutting through the cool, clear water, it was a distant vision. In Minnesota, you can’t kayak in the winter. You have to wait until summer.
Go green! Reduce, reuse, recycle! Be kind to Mother Earth. Protect our planet. The taglines promoting ecologically correct behaviors are as vast as our earnest plans to follow them. We want to do what’s right, even if it takes a little more effort, so we bring our cloth tote bags to the grocery store and put our cardboard, metal and plastic into the recycling bin each week. We are doing our part. Despite well-intentioned efforts to be green, we’ve become a throwaway society.