She couldn't seem to make up her mind. . . .

December 2, 2010



I consider myself a fairly intellligent person.

Not just book smart, but someone with an understanding of how to tackle the problems the world has been known to toss at me from time to time.

Except one.

Her name is Emily.

She hates getting out of bed.

In another universe, this wouldn't bother me.  I wouldn't care what time Em gets out of bed.

Unfortunately, I don't live in that universe.

I live in this one.

The we-only-have-one-car-so-if-you-want-a-drive-to-school-you-NEED-to-get-out-of-bed-on-time-so-as-to-not-make-the-other-people-who-require-the-morning-drop-off-service-that-seems-to-be-a-part-of-our-lives-at-the-present-time-LATE-universe.

Em doesn't appear to live in the same universe as the rest of us.

She lives in the I-can-get-up-whenever-I-want-and-if-people-don't-like-it-they-can-just-suck-it-up-because-it-is-my-RIGHT-to-expect-a-drive-to-school-in-the-morning-universe.

If Em wants to be late for school everyday, and face the repercussions of being late for school everyday, I wouldn't be the least bit concerned.

Except for one, extraneous factor.

His name is Keith.

Who is taking an 8.30 class this term.

And next.

Keith has never liked being late.

Which makes him the anomaly in this family, where everyone, except him, was born running behind.

Including Stephen.

Being late upsets Keith.

In fairness, he has grounds for being upset.

He is always up on time, and ready to go at a time when, if everyone else was ready to go, would ensure that no one arrived anywhere they had to be, late.

Keith can do in 15 minutes what takes Em three hours.

How long it takes Em to get ready doesn't bother me.

The fact that she won't get up in enough time to do what she needs to do in order to be ready on time greatly distresses Keith.

And usually, if we are running late because Em didn't manage to all the things she needed to do in the morning when she was supposed to be doing them, I will drop Keith off first.

For some reason, this morning, I didn't make the requisite turn to get Keith to class first.

Instead, I was on autopilot and headed in the direction we go to take Em to school.

Causing Keith to inquire about my unexpected change in direction.

Much silence ensued.

That seething, angry, tense silence.

Keith for being late.

Em for knowing she was the cause of Keith being late.

Me manning the steering wheel, trying to get the car to move faster so I could deposit my angry charges and retire to the peace and quiet, the sanctuary of my office.

After dropping Em off at school, while speeding toward the university to get Keith and his angry self out of the car, he pipes up from the backseat with words of wisdom that would have made Solomon proud:

"You know, when you drop Em off first, we're all late. When you drop me off first, Em is the only one late. Which is fine because it's her fault we're late in the first place. Just saying."

Short of threatening Em with the school bus, which leaves at 7.30 in the morning, meaning she'll have to get up at 4.30 in the morning to get ready, or conversely, that she'll have to use her entire paycheque to cab herself to school in the morning, I don't know what to do.

Suggestions welcome.

Please.

For my sanity.

Or at least to hold on to what little is left of it.





Last night's book club was, as always, entertaining.

Even though I didn't read the book.

I'm not a big fan of war books, in part because I'm not a big fan of war.

The nice thing about a book club, at least this one, is that reading the book is not a prerequisite for attending.

Good thing, too, because from October to April the likelihood of me getting the chance to read the books is slim.

The next one is Steinbeck's Cannery Row, which I will read over the holidays, because a huge Steinbeck fan I am.

And I may actually have the time.

One of the best things about attending book club is the food.

And last evening was no different.

Dates from Egypt, stuffed with almonds, a cheese ball, and another cheese like spready thingy that looked really good, and was because there wasn't much of left of it come the end of the night, the biggest shrimp I've ever seen (even though I don't like shrimp, I was impressed), large, juicy red grapes, skillet made date balls, and the piece de resistance. . .

A blueberry lemon flan.

And how much of this festive fare did I partake of?

Two dates and a small, and I mean small, slice of flan.

A glass of water.

That's me.

The life of the party.




Until I became a part of this book club, I had never even heard of a Yankee Swap.

Now, consider me a huge fan.

Nothing brings out the true colors of women more than a Yankee Swap.

The carefully groomed manners disappear faster than the desserts.

Polite, well educated, civilized women become as ferocious as traders on the floor on the stock exchange.

Friendships are temporarily put to the wayside in the pursuit of the choicest of offerings.

I am still smarting over the loss of the book of squished fairies.

I've learned a trick or two, however, about how to successfully master the Yankee Swap.

But last night, Lady Luck of Yankee Swaps shined down on me, and I didn't have to pull out any of my usual tomfoolery.

Why?

Because I was the recepient of number 1.

And if you know the rules of Yankee Swap, then you know that I was sitting at the top of the gift pile.

Because once everyone made their choice, opened it and became attached to it, I was in the grand position of taking it from them, should I chose.

I selected a lovely gift. . .four mugs in a lovely box from Bowring.

And until the end, I was very happy and content with my choice.

Until I saw the one thing that sent my heart a flutter.

Given my love of mugs, there was only one thing that could give me pause to consider trading.

A scarf.

More precisely a pashmina.

From the 10,000 Villages sale I missed because that was the week I spent in bed.

Sick.

Miserable.

Knowing that just a few minutes away was a shopping spree just waiting for me.

When the pashmina and the handwoven basket in which the pashmina was nestled came into view, trumpets blared inside my head and a Wilma Flintstone and Betty Rubble cry of "charge it" was careening through my brain.

Polite, kind, gentle me, when it was time for me to decide whether or not I would keep the mugs or visit misery upon a fellow book club member who was sitting content in the knowledge that her booty was safe. . .

I chose pillaging and plundering, practically cackling with glee as I crossed the room for what was, in my mind, the cream of the Yankee Swap crop.

Nothing like taking something from someone who really wants it to bring out the best in me.



Title Lyric: You Owe Me an IOU by Hot Hot Heat