The General and I went to the grocery store in Dripping Springs yesterday afternoon. Of all things, we needed to get Pita Bread. The lady at church who sets up the Lord’s Supper for our monthly communion service, thought the little squares of …. Who knows what, purchased from a Christian church supply company left a lot to be desired. She colored outside the lines and replaced the tasteless who knows what with Pita Bread.
No one has complained of chipped teeth since she opted not to use the stale who knows what. I don’t think the box of who know what came with an expiration date, but even fresh, it tasted old. Pita bread is better!
Our church observes communion on the third Sunday of each month, and the thoughtful lady that handles getting the elements for the Lord’s Supper in place is out of the country. Consequently, she asked the General if we’d fill-in in getting things ready for this Sunday.
Before we’d gone ten miles, the yellow light indicator alerted me of the need to get gasoline for my truck. Otherwise, we would not have gotten back home. I always get a lecture when the low fuel light comes on if the General is with me. She thinks of me as the guy that waits until the last minute to do anything.
It’s been a long while since I’ve run out of gasoline, but it happens about every fifteen years. And yes, for the record, the General always has encouraging words. My automatic default is to stare into space as though I’m in a trance when she is sharing a teaching moment with me. Some folks might think I’m being passive aggressive, but that is only your best guess. I’m not rendering an opinion. How’s that for vested interest?
While it may be true that the General was writing in cursive by age two and learning a second language about the same time, prudent judgement would dictate that she would refrain from telling me she fills the tank in her car when it is approaching half empty.
While that may have been true decades ago when she was still working, except for the last three months when she was chauffeuring me to doctor’s appointments, she seldom chooses to drive. To her credit, she was a good sport while I was not behind the wheel.
Her most often asked question now that I’m driving again is: “How fast are you driving?” Why she asks is beyond me. She knows fully well how fast I’m driving before she asks the question.
If I had been writing cursive at age two and learning a second language at the same time, I would have the ability to ascertain that it feels better to purchase $50 of gasoline instead of $103 of gasoline.
Perhaps with that thought in mind, I’ll stop more often. Over the long haul, the price is the same, but the jolt to my wallet feels better at $50.
All My Best!
Don
Carpe Diem 