It's a wonder I can get anything done at all during the work day. Not that I'm working, you know. It seems I should have something to show for that time between when I rise at 4:50 a.m., and when I go to bed at 2:00 a.m. But I don't! How can that be?
Did you know that Val spends three hours on the road every day? That's right. THREE HOURS! An hour-and-a-half taking The Pony to school for his tutoring assignment and back home. Then another hour-and-a-half going back to pick him up. PLUS, Monday I had an extra hour of drive time getting a lab to take the blood I was trying to give, and Tuesday I had a three-hour breakfast with my sister the ex-mayor's wife, and yesterday we had an extra hour getting that universal charger.
So I hit the road but the road hit back. I thought I'd take the world in a hit and run attack. Now I'm center state and it feels bizarre--WAIT A MINUTE! That never happened! That's the lyrics for REO's "Rock & Roll Star!" For a minute there, I was livin' the dream. Seems like only yesterday I was contemplating changing the name of my garage band from Mommy's Got a Headache to Other Dogs' Anuses. How time flies when you're shuttling an overgrown Pony to and from kindergarten every day. I have not even had time to step off the foundation and mark with wooden stakes and string the location of my proposed handbasket factory. Or work on the proper sentence order of subject, predicate, and prepositional phrases.
I am all fired up about this little writing hobby of mine. Ain't that how it goes? You get bit by the bug, then you don't have time to scratch! I have submitted two entries to to different contests so far this week, AND written 12 blog posts, and I've got a most scathingly brilliant idea that I am working on for an online opportunity. If I can get my 17-year-old out of kindergarten, I'll have three more hours in my day. I won't just get started and have to staunch the flow of my creative juices while navigating scofflaws on the highways and byways.
He'll be gone to Missouri Boys State soon enough, and I'll be crying that he's not here. Then I won't feel funny any more, and my creative juices will dry up like the California water supply.
Enough of this time-wasting! I only have six hours and forty-five minutes until bedtime!
And SOMEONE has offered to read your writing--both cheeks' worth--so get busy.
ReplyDeleteThere's a soon-to-be-a-retiree that's sitting on pins and needles waiting...(She has nothing else to do except keep tabs on the mental patient she lives with.)
You sending your boy to reform school? Disregard the red head's comments. I will gladly look over your work as I deal with you know who.
ReplyDeleteI'm at a loss as to why the Pony doesn't have a driver's license and a hot car (say a 1970 AMC Gremlin) to speed back and forth to his kindergarten class. But, call me old-fashioned. I may not understand this generation. (What is it anyway? Gen-X? Z-bras? Ozarkers?)
ReplyDeleteSioux,
ReplyDeleteThat cattle prod is growing uncomfortable, Madam! I am busy digging holes in the back yard to stash my summer checks before Hick realizes that I have been paid through August 31.
I daresay my seat cushion of blazing flames is more comfortable than pins and needles. I think I can wait her out. I think her mental patient might be able to outwit you. Don't turn your back.
*****
Linda,
It's the other boy that needs reforming. This one just needs exposure to societal mores. I must respond to the redhead's comments or she will leave more comments and more comments.
Thank you for looking over my work. It needs to see the light of day every now and then, or it grows stagnant.
*****
Catalyst,
Let the record show that The Pony has had a Ford Ranger since he was 15-and-a-half. It's not quite a 1970 AMC Gremlin, nor is it his father's 1980 Olds Toronado. He has renewed his driver's permit TWICE, but is balking at the license.
The Pony is a part of Generation Z. The ones who don't care enough to give themselves a name. Sometimes they are just called The Generation After The Millennials. According to The Pony, he is part of Generation "I Don't Know."