It’s strange. I am the one in our family who deals with the city’s Parks and Recreation department. I sign the kids up for summer camps and swim lessons, I take the occasional evening class, I buy the seasonal passes and sign the checks. Yet every piece of correspondence they send to our house is addressed to my husband, who has never dealt with them at all. I can only assume it’s because our water bill is in his name, so that’s how the city bureaucrats have us labelled.
My cat is absolutely nuts for processed cheese food product. Not real-type cheese, but the fluorescent orange stuff that squirts out of a can or comes in a pouch to put on your macaroni. When I make macaroni and cheese for the kids, he’s right there by their chairs, purring expectantly. I don’t remember him liking it in his younger days. I wonder if this is an example of how old folks develop strange tastes. He certainly has gotten demanding in his old age.
People have begun asking me, as they do every year, if I’m “ready for Christmas.” How does one answer this? Usually I just respond with a weak, “Guess so,” for I have no idea what criteria they are using for readiness, and my own holiday-related goals do not need to be completed by the first week of December.
To the gentleman who leaned on his horn: that flashing light on the back of my car is called a “turn signal.” In many places, including the state of North Carolina, this flashing light is used to indicate to the surrounding traffic that the vehicle is slowing for a turn. Had you known this, perhaps you would not have felt so personally affronted that my vehicle’s deceleration was causing you to take your foot off the accelerator for a fraction of a second. If, on the other hand, you were already aware of these things, feel free to shove that horn up your ass.