Hello my blogger friends! I'm writing you this so you know I haven't died, or am sick again. My mom is in town. This means I have an actual person to talk to during the day instead of all your fine blogs. (I love ya but sometimes it takes HOURS for you to respond to my comments.!!!)
So I'm giving you fair warning that I will be back after Christmas. I will try to read your blogs as the days go on, in my spare five minutes. Please know that I love you all. This isn't goodbye, it's a "See ya later."
I'll post pictures of Christmas soon. It isn't you, it's me, really.
For those that asked, my piano playing went alright. My husband said, "There were a few times I wanted to groan but I didn't." (That means I hit a few wrong notes but no one had to restart or stopped or even turned around to look at me to make sure I hadn't fallen asleep on the piano....so I think it went well...no disasters.)
For your reading pleasure for the next few days, a letter to the man at the bank.
Dear Man Behind Me At the Bank,
Hello. You don't know me but we share the same bank. I was in front of you a few days ago, waiting in line to pay my truck bill. You were behind me. VERY close behind me.
I know some cultures stand close together as a sign of acceptance but WE weren't a part of that culture from the looks of your 6 foot plus stature. You were wearing HUGE boots. You were standing so close the your big feet kept touching the back of my shoes.
You must have known how big your feet were. You have been using them for 30 plus years, being generous. Why did you have to touch my shoes? What if they were "Air Force Ones" and you scuffed them? Like the song, I would have to get knew ones.
This isn't even the worst part of your bad line actions.
You get a phone call from Stacy. Stacy and you MUST have been dating at one point because you were nice and sweet when you answered the phone. As soon as she mentioned wanting her mail, you blew a gasket! (Yes, WE (meaning the person in front of me too) heard the WHOLE conversation. About her Victoria Secret magazines and her 'order' from a nasty store were on the way.)
No I don't care about her mail. I don't care that you broke up. Really, I don't care if she gets her package. Here's what I do care about...you YELLING into your phone, you spitting your saliva when yelling over the top of my head onto the paper I was holding, and you moving your feet to kick my SHOES!!!!
STOP doing that!! IF you weren't a foot taller than me, and looked like you could probably pick me up with one hand, I would have turned around and glared at you. Yes, the Mom glare.
Now Sir, IF we run into each other again, I will have to say something. For the health of the bank teller, who had to touch your gross nastiness on the paper, don't talk on the phone in line. It's rude.
Don't stand so close. I don't like smelling your BO. I'm pretty sure no one else does either.
Thank you Sir. I hope you follow this simple but IMPORTANT rules of line standing.
K, person in front.