The past couple days I’ve had many situations where I find myself saying, “Um . . . No.”

• At the endodontist’s office (a.k.a. my dentist’s “special friend”) when they took my blood pressure and asked me if I jogged (I wish).  90/50:  that qualifies as alive, jes?

• That evening as I was recovering and the Little Man wanted to play “pull dad’s chair over to where Ma is sitting on the floor so as to stand on chair and get better air when bodyslamming her.”

• When asked “Don’t you like James Taylor?” at Bible Study the next morning (there were threats of a karaoke machine, and when I started whimpering, my dear “friend” Paula announced to the entire group of women that they couldn’t do it because I don’t like James Taylor.  Or attention.  To which she drew a lot to me.  People gasped when they heard I didn’t like the whiner songwriter:  what is *up* with you people?!!?).

• When talking with a medical assistant at the dermatologist’s office because we hadn’t heard back in a few weeks regarding test results and she said, “I tried to contact you:  aren’t you at —.—.2482?”  Try 2483.  That would help.  Or calling the secondary number I left.

Hubby’s also had the opportunity to respond similarly, such as when the Little Man tries to play with his new toy, when the cat tries to sleep on his head, and when the people who own the house next door ask if we saw the tenants move out because they’ve suddenly disappeared and didn’t clean up so much.

By the by, if anyone wants to move into a three bedroom, three full bath house in a great neighborhood across the street from an adorable park next to some pretty decent (or at least tidy and non-bothersome) neighbors, I might be able to hook you up. 

Daily Drivel