This morning I began my day doing someone else’s job. That’s nothing new, but today it was especially aggravating as I’d previously explained to my co-worker I didn’t have time. Today is the day I cook for my senior citizens, so time is already precious. And yet I fell victim to what I always do: my conscience is motion activated and it doesn’t have an OFF switch. So I did the right thing…setting up a display in an un-air conditioned room that was over 100 degrees from the day’s previous heat. I was cheerful to those I came in contact with but when I got into my car, I groaned. Loudly. I don’t believe in cultivating ulcers by internalizing. Turning the A/C full blast, I aimed my car towards my office and turned up the volume on the radio. Donna Summer was singing, “She works hard for the money, but they never treat her right.”
I burst out laughing. I swear my car has a sense of humor.
Talk about an accident waiting to happen! On my way to work I passed a man riding a bicycle. On the wrong side of the road. Against traffic, which was veering wildly around him and into my lane. He had a pair of crutches balanced on the handle bars and a small oxygen tank in his other hand. Looking in my rear view mirror, I saw he was wearing an oxygen mask. I can only imagine the expression on a cop or medic’s face if this guy gets into a wreck…he’s already got half the equipment he needs to recoup with him.
One of my husband’s archery customers bought a new bow, a dozen arrows and a quiver to hold them in. Unfortunately, the customer only remembered to take the bow and arrows. As he lives far enough away that a return trip for just one item would be expensive, my husband agreed to mail it. This meant I got to add a trip to the Post Office to my usual Saturday list of things to do.
After terrorism, the first thing a postal worker asks after “Regular or express mail?” is “What’s in the box and is it dangerous?” Now the guy working the window is use to my husband mailing items so after the first couple of trips, there was no longer any joking discussions of how dangerous a bow or arrows were when shipped separately…unless someone could throw an arrow by hand with lethal results. Postal Guy knows my face but doesn’t always put 2+2 together until he sees the return address.
So on Saturday I smiled, handed him the box which he laid on the scale with a grin. When he asked what the package was, I replied, “A quiver.”
He stopped smiling and looked confused. I kept smiling but felt confused. He looked at the package, balanced perfectly on the scale, then back at me. Puzzled.
It was then I realized why. It was all I could do to keep from laughing. He thought I meant the package was a quiver, as in shaking. Biting my lip, I managed to spit out, “To hold the arrows.” He nodded sagely. I made it out without laughing.