Saturday, June 18, 2011.
Familiar Breakfast, But With Trouble.
We were on our way to the Courtyard for breakfast when a motorcycle cop burst out from the bushes and pulled Mary Ann over. She had seen him, and so came to a Mary Ann-style complete stop at the stop sign. That means rolling a little. (Without a policeman watching, she would have slowed only to about five miles per hour, at least.) I was astonished. Usually I'm the one who gets the book thrown at him for microscopic infractions, while MA gets away with doing sixty in a thirty-five and running red lights.
She gave the cop a little lip. When we drove away, she averred that this was all my fault. My complicity: I asked her to take the back-road route. In the years when the kids and I went to breakfast every Saturday, we always went this way, and it's nostalgic for me.
This turned into one of those really stupid arguments in which both people get into an unreasonable snit. We wound up going back home. Then we each drove off in different directions. I completed the breakfast mission, then picked up my laundry. That's a Saturday routine I haven't practiced since messing up my foot. I lugged the large load up the steps with some difficulty. I would be damned before I. . . well, you know the rest.
I had three hours of radio to do. By the end of it, MA and I had thawed out and made amends. But we didn't go out to dinner. She spent the rest of the day collecting her old columns into a book, and I wrote stuff like this.
