This week's piece might turn out to be rather brief. Now quit with those celebratory displays. Honestly, they are getting rather old at this point.
Here is the thing, I'm simply going to use this space to kind of get something off of my chest. Actually, isn't that what I usually do, now that I ponder? What I mean is I have to kind of complain about something and since I am so very private, I decided to utilize the column for such shenanigans.
It is now Wednesday afternoon very close to 4. I do not have a lot of time for this because my sister and brother-in-law are in town. My sister, Pumpkin—also known as Jill, comes to visit every year at this time due to the Pumpkin Fest. After all, this is her season because of her nickname.
Just for those who might be new to this blather, I must explain that Jill has always been the favored child. (Really when one thinks about it the other choices are Lisa and Brother Blaine so our parents really had no option. I believe this is considered to be a digression so we are good to go. Wow this also unfolded in parenthesis. Need I go on?)
Because of the above-mentioned, my childhood friend Kim Abbott dubbed her as the Pumpkin. Now that I ponder again, Kim is also responsible for the nickname “Germ,” which she gave to my father due to his German heritage. Again with the digressing.
OK, moving along to something, ANYTHING at this point, the reason why I am pressed for time is this. We are being rounded up like cattle and prodded into going to Greenville for dinner. As was mentioned in a column a few weeks ago, this is Mother's modus operandi any time a visitor arrives in town. (Visitor can now be defined as everyone from a family member to the mechanic, local grocer, repairman, etc., etc.)
We were originally scheduled to make the Greenville journey last night but I insisted that we reschedule due to the Democratic debate. I about choked the life out of our dear Pumpkin when she had the chutzpah to mention that I could record the event. I refused and I got my own way, which has been pointed out to me over and over and over again, at this point.
This week is very busy for me in terms of, oh, making an actual living. I am currently buried in work, quite literally as it is strewn all over my work area which happens to be my actual bed. However, we must go to Greenville and we WILL enjoy it.
Not only have I been delicately (?) reminded that it was MY idea to change the date of the dinner but I have been told at least 15 times, by various members of this motley crew, that we are leaving for that destination at 5:30.
As we were exiting Mother's house last night after enjoying a meal prepared by my brother-in-law, who shall remain nameless for his own protection, Mother yelled out, “we leave at 5:30 sharp!”
I called next door today before starting work simply to say hello and was told by Pumpkin that we are exiting, stage left, at 5:30. I then telephoned Mother at work on a non-related issue. At the end of that short discussion, she said, “remember, we leave at 5:30.”
Now, no offense here but I am a 51 year old woman who is known for being extremely punctual. Why does Mother find it necessary to impart this news to me with every turn? Why would Pumpkin think that I had to be told ONCE again about the *&^%$ time of departure? WHY?
I got with my cousin this morning and told her that if I hear the number 5:30 one more time, I was actually going to leap into Edna, (van), zoom across the yard and take out the entire family in one swoop. Be on the lookout for the following headline in a future issue of this award-winning publication. “Local woman runs over relatives after being told 17 times when they were leaving for dinner.”
My family has infiltrated various businesses because Meadville Medical Center just telephoned to confirm an appointment that I have with them next week and the woman in registration said, “Lisa, remember you leave for dinner tonight at 5:30.” What is happening here? Make it stop. Please have it go away. I can't take it any longer. (Am now clutching a pillow whilst rocking back and forth in a corner as I utter the previous statements.)
Good gravy! I must sign off and pronto. It is now 5:25—YIKES, hold me.
(I have to say that I am very appreciative that my mother is still alive, well and hungry. Even though the Greenville merry-go-round has approached once again with speed and agility, it's better than the alternative. Know what I mean?)
THE END.