Saturdays are supposed to go like this:
We sleep only moderately late. We decide how we’re doing breakfast–then we do it. Mother may fix her to-die-for pancakes or we may fix our own boring breakfast–cereal or egg and toast. Then we walk to Starbucks while Mother has her boring oatmeal. David gets the house coffee with room for cream. Sometimes he sneaks in a roll if mother-in-law’s nutty wheat pancakes weren’t part of the plan. I order a tall coffee decaf frappuccino with a tiny bit of chocolate syrup on top.
We sit outside if it’s nice. We talk about the week, our kids and grandkids, what we’re not getting done, and our retirement, which we’re also not getting done. After we’ve had enough sustenance to get us home, we walk back from St. Arbucks, as my friend Brother Mapes calls it.
None of this happened today. One little thing got us off track. We had to be at the bank and post office before they closed. We also had to get back so David could install a new garbage disposal. Maybe that was three little things got us off track. We did have lunch (too late for breakfast–but I don’t care for breakfast much anyway–unless it’s Georgia Lou’s crunchy nutty pancakes). We were together. We did talk. But I didn’t get my walk and my frappuccino.
David is in the kitchen crouched over a shiny new garbage disposal while I’m in here talking about it. Some talk. Some do.
We were supposed to be retired in Oregon in a brand new house in the country just the right distance from two of our grandkids. I was supposed to have frappuccino and a walk and a house in the country. Do you see my hands on my hips and my lower lip down to my chin?