This morning after tennis lessons…
Don’t you love how ‘tennis lessons’ makes it seem like I’m living an extraordinarily luxurious life, throwing dinner parties and garden teas and all?
It’s mirage. Unless dinner parties include extra-large red plastic cups and paper plates? Then, by all means, I am the portrait of high society.
Continuing with my story…I stopped by the house to raid the change bucket for half-and-half money. I desperately needed a cup of coffee, even if it was decaf, but I’m a total coffee snob. I just can’t drink coffee without cream. Low-fat milk is unacceptable and skim milk is an insult to my morning mouth. Fringeman is to blame for making me a cream and sugar addict.
What can I say?
Sign me up for an anonymous class.
Because Tuesday is not Monday and the clouds happened to align in the shape of a bleeding heart, FringeMan drove through our street just as I was about to walk up the stairs. He hung a twenty out the window and told me to get gas. It was a drive by cashing. I must admit, I do love when my man waves money at me.
After piling the kids in the car, I deliberated on whether I could drive the extra five blocks to get half-and-half without first getting gas. Coffee was definitely the priority. Since our gas gauge is broken and I probably guess mileage like I guess the balance in my checking account, I drove directly to the gas station where I proceeded to make my son pump my gas.
Call this post Confessions of a Diva, because I never pump my own gas. Now ladies, take a chill-pill. I already hear the tsk-tsk in your voice. I embrace the age of equal rights, voting privileges, and the option of climbing the corporate ladder. I just hate the smell of gas on my hands. Besides, FringeMan really is a gem. He usually always thinks to check my car for gas. It’s probably easier than fetching me at two o’clock in the afternoon when I’ve broken down in front of the grocery store. Regardless, FringeMan is my knight with five gallons of gas.
Hmmm…that probably didn’t sound right.
I’ve been married for nearly fourteen years. Yes, I was a child bride. Now I am twenty-eight. And one half.
Fourteen years ago pay-at-the-pump wasn’t so popular, and since I would drive ten miles out of my way to find a full-service gas station, I rarely operated the very technical and highly confusing pumps with glowing lights and buttons. Some of them even talk to you. Heaven forbid. People do not speak to me before I’ve had my coffee. Imagine the irritation a talking pump would cause?
Let me just blurt out my twenty-eleven faux pas – I could not get the pump to work.
A nice man rescued me, and then he helped the old woman behind me. I didn’t feel so bad after I saw granny having difficulty. After all, she’s got years of experience on me.
I got my gas.
I got my half-and-half.
I wasn’t really a child bride.
I most certainly am twenty-eight.
You can all take a collective sigh of relief and wonder why I bother to recount the minutiae of my day.
I have no answers. Now excuse me while I go lounge by the pool and eat bon-bons.