Spicy

A colleague of mine recently asked if I was ever going to spice up my blog. He was referring to another blog he was following that had become.....well, let's just say, "informational."  I reminded him that my blog is for those who are not afraid to live with beige and I am an old school girl. Some things are best said only in a diary with a little key attached.

Just to be clear, even the lives of beige people can contain a little spiciness. In fact, just this week I experienced a few heart pounding moments as I drove my car well beyond the recommended mileage for gas consumption.  Idling at a very busy intersection with the little red gas pump symbol flashing at me and the zero-miles digital reminder is all it takes to get my blood racing. Trudging to a gas station with a red can is akin to wearing a scarlet letter "S" for stupid. I made a mental note to be more proactive at the pump.

Teaching middle school students has its snappy moments as well. There is nothing that says trauma better than herding 350 fidgeting adolescents into a stuffy auditorium for a group presentation. My fellow teachers and I post ourselves strategically throughout the aisles as our eyes furtively seek out malfeasant activity. We zoom in with laser like precision as we pluck out any stinkers, all the while smiling and nodding along with the presentation. Middle school assemblies are always just one rabble rouser away from chaos, therefore, vigilance is not optional.

Filing income taxes is another Bates motel event. It is anybody's guess how that will end. Each year I confidently pull out my file folder marked "Taxes" and smugly believe it will contain all the information we need for our accountant. Each year I realize that pride goeth before a fall as my husband and I slog through piles of random receipts, only to realize a few of the most important documents have gone AWOL. And each year I wonder if our marriage can survive another year of filing taxes. Miraculously, vital scraps of paper are located, numbers are crunched and a check is grudgingly written. We emerge from the tax office, vowing to read the tome called Taxes and You. (I am not even going to address the brochure my husband picked up at the office entitled, Divorce & Taxes.) We continue to cling to our dream of becoming tax savvy citizens, despite our dismal track record.

Last, but not least, we have rhubarb, a fruit/vegetable/greenish-red plant that has enough pucker power to shame a lemon. We live on the edge of toxicity each time we pull the leaves off the prized stalks, wondering if anyone has ever died from a rhubarb plant. An hour later we have the smell of a pie edging out our horticultural fears and we happily dish up another piece of dessert goodness.

There you have it. Life in the fast lane with a beige person. If you need a little more spiciness, you are just going to have find the key to my diary. Be prepared to weep.