Two-Meat Tuesday (platter)
It’s not the big events in life, it’s not the cataclysmic, earth-shattering, heavens-open-up type of scenarios that matter, not on a Tuesday morning.
One: I grabbed a pole and scooted down to the banks of the river, not planning on any success. There, in the shallows in front of me, two nice-sized black bass were cruising along.
“There you are,” I whispered to the fish, immediately worried that a neighbor might have overheard me talking to fish.
I dropped magic bait in front of one. No luck. Wasn’t interested. I flipped magic bait in front of another, and before I got the bait back, it was generating some attention, then I lost the lure on a snag. My bad. Fish wins.
It was misting, raining, overcast, ugly, cloudy cool kind of a day. But warm enough for shorts. Not warm enough to fish in the rain, though.
Two: I was ambling along downtown, in meandering, afternoon way, not up for much and the new cell phone jiggled. I looked at the call ID, didn’t recognize the number, and answered, “Yeah?”
“Is Stephanie there?”
“You have the wrong number.”
In fact, I was much ruder than that. In fact, that was the third name, third call, and now I’m tired of it.
I realize that third call wasn’t handled in a diplomatic way, but after three calls, and hey, that’s airtime I’m paying for, I think I have a right to be rude. What’s troubling for me? Three different names. So that’s three different folks who’ve had this number before me. I guess the folks dialing the number aren’t big on updating records. They will after a earful of colorful profanity.
