If we were having coffee, I’d tell you to pass the cream and sugar, chuckling as I pour them into my cup, because the barista always manages to put too much expresso in my milk, and I probably shouldn’t be ordering coffee anyway, since I never liked the taste of it, and adding more sugar to anything cannot be deemed healthy. I’d consider ordering tea on my next visit to the café, since the only coffee I ever drink are flavored lattes and frappuccinos, and maybe I’ll lay off the sweets next time too—trying to lose weight and all.
If we were having coffee, I would proudly tell you that I finally listened and responded to God’s call for me to be a teacher, using my natural talent of writing to offer biblical teaching and insight to as many people as I can. Teaching doesn’t always have to involve standing in front of a group of people, which has always terrified me. And I’ve always been more eloquent in my writing anyway. So, after sporadically sharing it on this blog and others, and even on a short-lived Hubpage, my project, Sunday Morning Word, finally has a home, and it’s looking quite welcoming and homey on a new clean, quiet blog. I’m so excited to share its content, starting with my first post, “Why Do Bad Things Happen to Good People,” which should be an inspiration to anyone who is currently going through a hard time in life.
If we were having coffee, I would tell you that at age 25, I fear I’m getting senile. Last night, I forgot I had a load of clothes in the washer, and I’ve only just now put them in the drier. Thankfully the weather is not too hot or humid, and the clothes don’t smell moldy, so maybe I can get away with not washing them a second time and wasting water, energy, and detergent. Another “senior moment” happened when back to back two phrases that should’ve easily come to mind, like “activate a credit card,” and “engage with an audience,” completely escaped me, and I sat there frozen for minutes (I am not exaggerating), thinking, “What’s the word. What is that word?!” Dementia runs in my family, and it terrifies me that I could be losing it already when there’s still so much to do. So maybe I should pay closer attention to what I’m putting in my body, i.e. drink more water, eat more “brain food”—salmon, carrots(?)—get
more anal stricter about my diet again because that belly pouch is starting to come back and the number on the scale is going in the wrong direction. Plus it’s just over two weeks before the start of bikini season, and I’ve got to get in shape!
If we were having coffee, I would show you pictures of the herb garden I planted—because I finally got fed up with paying $4.00 a pop for herbs and spices at the grocery store, and fresh always tastes ten times better that freeze dried, store bought, or picked too damn early anyway. The basil is looking delectable, and the marjoram, parsley, and thyme I can’t wait to eat, but my cilantro is struggling and hanging on for dear life, and I’m so bummed about it because I was really hoping to use it to make some authentic Mexican guacamole, or salsa, or cilantro lime rice for a southwestern dish. So if you’re a foodie or you have a green thumb, I could really use some advice on how to save my dying cilantro. My dinner plans are in a crisis!
If we were having coffee, I would tell you that while watching a kids show on qubo tv (don’t ask), I heard a little girl, maybe five or six, say she wished she was 25, and immediately I said, “No you don’t,” because I’ve been at it a little over two months now, and this 25 shit ain’t all it’s cracked up to be, and how exactly do you “adult” anyway, because I’m pretty sure I’m not doing it right, in fact, nine times out of ten, I have no idea what I’m doing, but somewhere in the nonsensical definition, it’s called “adulting,” so I just BS and roll with it.
If we were having coffee, I would tell you that my granddaddy is selling cakes for $2 a slice at the bowling alley to raise money for the cancer foundation at our local hospital. It’s just one of many fundraisers he has leading up to the annual bowl-a-thon he hosts in honor of his second wife, who died of breast cancer. We had five cakes (four of which Granddaddy made himself) on display—lemon, five flavor (vanilla, almond, butter, pineapple, and coconut) plain and with icing, chocolate, and almond—plus a dish of banana pudding. Twice I had to resist the urge to smack some people. The first was a lady who stuck her nose all up in the cake, like she couldn’t smell it from 10 feet away. Don’t you hate it when people do that? The second was when a man paid for his cakes with a $2 bill. I would’ve kept that! They don’t make those anymore; in a few years, they could be worth more than two dollars!
Despite minor setbacks, we made $119 this weekend and will be back again next Saturday. Of course, I’ll probably be doing all the work because Granddaddy and his lady friends just sat off to the side, gossiped about Trump, and occasionally yelled at people waking by who tried to pretend they didn’t see our delicious cakes (diabetes the excuse). But it doesn’t bother me—hey, I used to work in food service, I’m a pro at it—I only ask that somebody pay attention to take the money because I don’t want to be handling the desserts and touching dirty dollar bills too. That’s just nasty.
If we were having coffee, I would glance down at my watch and say I have to run, because there’s always something urgent on my calendar that completely slipped my mind until now—me being so forgetful and all. I would thank you for this lovely chat, and promise that I’ll let you speak next time, but you’re such a good listener and I just get so carried away sometimes. I’d sneak a wink at the barista on my way out the door, and halfway down the street, I’d spin around and rush back in to get my cup of milk with too much coffee that I absently left on the table.