God bless my husband. I love the man, but sometimes he drives me crazy. Well, crazier than I usually am.
Last night he had to take Sasquatch to hockey practice, which started at 7:00 pm at a rink one hour from our house. I did some quick mental math (homeschooling is good for parents, too!) and figured they needed to leave home around 5:30. This was the timeline of events as they actually happened.
4:30 - I start dinner preparations.
4:50 - I announce that dinner will be on the table in 10 minutes.
4:51 - Husband announces that he needs to "service the vehicles." In other words, he's going to change the oil and oil filter, check the tire pressure, & check other engine fluids, in not just one, but two cars. (NOTE: After 20 years of marriage, I know that "servicing" one car will take a minimum of 45 minutes and the assistance of both sons.)
4:51:30- My eyebrows begin to smoke.
5:00 - Dinner is served.
5:15 - Dinner is nearing room temperature.
5:16- My hair is smoldering.
5:20 - The first car is still up on lifts when I send my daughter out to tell Sasquatch he MUST come in to eat.
5:29 - My entire head is this close to bursting into flame.
5:35 - Husband comes in the house after finishing the first car. I ask, "Do you know what time it is?" and he says, "Time to leave."
5:36 - Husband leisurely strolls to the bathroom for a shower.
5:37 - I spontaneously combust.
Really, the guy has no sense of TIME. I, on the other hand, can pretty much plan any activity down to the minute, because I have a finely honed sense of how long everything takes.
For instance, when I enter the 20 Items or less check-out line at StuffMart with 4 things in my cart and only one woman ahead of me, I will spend 28 minutes in said line while waiting for the cashiers to change shifts and count the money in their drawers, the woman to sort her coupons, and another clerk to walk to the back of the store to the pet food aisle for a price check on Lizard Chow.
And if I have 57 items in my cart and desperately want to spend a few minutes in line reading that tabloid magazine article about Tom Cruise's mystery child who was actually conceived in an alien laboratory using the late L.Ron Hubbard's DNA, the checker will be ready for me in 3.2 seconds flat.
I know that there is no such thing as a "quick stop" in the post office. No matter when I get there, the guy from the Buster's Pool Supply and Winery will be there ahead of me with his weekly mass mailing that needs to be hand stamped. Twenty two minutes, at least.
Video store - I need 20 minutes just to look at all the new titles and complain that Hollywood isn't making good movies any more. Then I spend another ten minutes arguing with my son, Mr. Trigger Finger, about the moral value of video games that involve shooting other living beings, even if they do have 2 heads and spit fireballs. Twenty minutes later, I might end up with a movie, only to get home and find out my husband rented it the week before.
Today, in my doctor's office, I found out time actually stands still when I got hit with the one-two punch of "malignant" and "We probably got it early."
And a bit later, while wandering aimlessly through a craft store with the chilling words still ringing in my ears, I found out that it takes only two seconds for tears to start streaming down my face when I realize that I will never have enough time with my family, that this life is unbearably short, and that I'll absolutely never get those d*mn scrapbooks done.
"But as for me, I trust in Thee, O Lord. I say, "Thou art my God. My times are in Thy hand." Ps. 31:14-15