And I mean “Boy” with a capital B.
And my morning began with such promise…
The New England humidity had broken. The early morning sky was baby blue and filled with whispy, innocent clouds. The sun offered such warmth and delight. My husband and I took a brisk, dawn-inspired walk though our little town.
When we arrived back home, my routine began. Iced-coffee waited in the refrigerator. Ice cubes were all fresh and new in the freezer. My special, tall iced-coffee glass was sparkling clean.
But wait. Where were the straws?
Dang. I don’t… and I mean don’t… drink cold beverages without a straw. It’s just one of those idiosyncrasies that other people may not understand, but that’s the way it is with me. I need a straw with my iced-coffee.
I fumbled through my cabinets. I searched through drawers. I even dug through my beach bag, hoping that this good grandma would have a couple of straws stashed for drink emergencies.
No. Nothing. Nada.
But then… one last futile attempt turned up (key word: UP) something that, well… tickled me pink.
A straw hidden way, way, way in the very, very, very back of my “catch-all” drawer. I gingerly picked it up. I nearly caressed it. Then it struck me.
And it tickled my funny bone… so to speak.
The “straw” was a remnant of an evening a l-o-n-g (pun intended) time ago… Audrey’s bachelorette party. New York City. LIPS Restaurant. The Ultimate in Drag Dining.
Lots of happy women in a l-o-n-g (there’s that word again) limo.
Ah. The straw was, well… check out the photo.
But that’s OK, because I was just going to enjoy my iced-coffee this morning. That’s all. So I plopped in the “straw” and took a l-o-n-g sip.
Then the phone rang. It was Audrey asking if I could watch her two older guys while she took the two little guys to an appointment with their pediatrician.
“Of course,” I said. And ten minutes later, the boys were happily sitting at my kitchen counter.
Then the unthinkable happened.
William was silent. Staring. Inquisitive. “Grandma,” he whispered, like the answer was going to frighten his shoes off, “What is that straw?”
Oh. No. Not the “straw.”
Yes. The “straw.”
“Well, Honey. That is, um… a, um… um…”
And the back doorbell rang. Oh. Boy. It was our UPS guy. A guy who often comes to my back door. A guy who is a nice guy. With a family. Who, on this particular day, offered to BRING MY RATHER LARGE (as he put it… how could he have known?) PACKAGE inside.
Oh. Boy. The “straw” sitting so proudly in my iced-coffee right on my kitchen counter. My grandsons’ knit brows.
It was “touch and go” for a l-o-n-g moment… but I managed the package, the door, the thanks and bye-byes without a hitch.
And back to the boys… all 3 of them!
“Guys,” I said as I whipped that straw out of my iced-coffee and into the nearest receptacle… my beach bag, “That is just a crazy looking baseball bat with two baseballs.”
Silence. Then, “Can we play Nick Jr. on your computers?”
Guys. You can do ANYTHING. ANYTHING at all.
Whew. Now I only hope that mum’s the word. Or even better… grandmum’s the word.
Until, that is, this old gal opens her beach bag at a family gathering!