Muddy Shoes

It was brought to my attention that some confusion might exist about The Banterist, a blog I read by a well-regarded blogging humorist and list under, “Blogs I Like” and my love of bantering. They share no relationship other than 1) I love the word banter/ing/ist and use it/them whenever I can; and, 2) They are both a lot of fun.

 

One of my friends called me, appalled, saying, “What is this Banterist thing and Nazis?” She seemed outraged; I’m guessing thinking I’d turned into some kind of supremacist or something—I was confused. Then, I realized The Banterist had done a satire of Hitler in his bunker recently. Apparently, that satire eluded her. For the record, Hitler is not funny. Making fun of Hitler is. And, bantering does not make me a Nazi.

 

I hate muddy shoes. I had an unexpected doctor’s visit with my daughter this morning. Getting her out of school is like getting gold out of Ft. Knox, or getting me to watch a football game, it ain’t happenin’, at least not easily. Post-doctor, I pulled back up to the school to see the entire student population pouring out onto the track field—or as it was now, rain-soaked and trodden on by 1,600 little feet—a veritable giant pit of quicksand. Someone had pulled the alarm again—great, that’s got to mean canceling the school dance again as punishment—so no downtime for mom this week. By the time I found her class, her teacher, the attendance lady, and had daughter deposited properly, my shoes bore no resemblance to the stylish black togs they once were. I looked down in horror at the same moment they were cleared to return to their classrooms. Timing is everything.

 

Muddy shoes, along with the rest of me back in the car, I frantically whizzed back downtown with 10 minutes left until my very important conference call was to start. I zipped into the parking garage, peeling rubber as the toll arm raised, with two minutes to spare. The garage was full, and there were 10 cars ahead of me who had realized this as well. For the next 20 minutes, I experienced both the “up” and “down” portions of the garage with no luck. I screeched out of the garage, praying for a street spot, which after eight or ninety turns around the block, I got. So, it was a 30-minute spot, it was still a spot. Great. I raced to the elevator (the slowest in town), dried mud falling off with every step. I shoved the elevator door aside on my floor and leapt across the room into my chair with ballerina precision, one dialing finger poised for action. I dialed. No call. The call was canceled because everyone had the same kind of day I had.

Published on: Mar 30, 2006