The First Slam

            The first slam of the microwave door occurred at 3:40 a.m.  The next slamming sequence started before six, and the final set took place around seven.  I got up at eight.

            Midst the slamming of the microwave door and the blazing of lights in the kitchen came the attentions of my calico cat who assumed since one person was up, I should be up, too.

            I am very, very tired today.

            Notwithstanding my weariness, I accompanied John and Mom on the monthly run to the coop for kitty food (700 pounds worth for the big cats) and Costco for our sundries (the most important one being six cases of Starbucks Frappuccino for Mom’s two-bottle-a-day habit).  Still recovering from pneumonia, John wasn’t exactly bursting with energy, but at least he was not coughing.  Mom made up for our lack of enthusiasm.

            Don’t get me wrong.  I am glad that she enjoys these drives so much.  Yet I must admit that the recirculation of the same conversational monologue every few minutes wears on me.  So I decided to try something new to see if I could divert the predictable flow of things:  I talked.  It only took a few attempts for me to realize that speaking created even more frustration.  Each sentence prompted a “What?” and required both repetition and explanation.  So I settled back and let the familiar refrains go by ad infinitum:  Lombardi poplars, the old farmhouse, her parents’ college educations, the somewhat fictitious gravel pit, and so on.  By themselves, they are interesting stories, but not so much after hearing them hundreds of times. 

            By the time we got home, I was about ready to crawl out of my skin.  John was ready for a nap.  Mom was ready to continue the conversation.