I’ve been called especially neat and even neurotically neat.
But today marks the first time I have ever be called pathologically neat.
Is it really so terrible to like to keep your place clean? After all, cleanliness is next to godliness, or so the old saying goes.
On the drive home, A---- pointed to a shrub-ish bush and announced in the calmest, most unflustered voice I could imagine, “That bush is burning.”
And it was. It was completely engulfed in raging orange flames.
Somehow, though, the only thing I could think (or not think) to say was, “That sounds awful strange coming from a Jew.”
Thankfully, he only smiled at me, offering, “It shouldn’t,” and we drove past, never pausing and left flaming piece of lawn decoration to worry someone else.
“Have you bled to death yet?” she asked, pausing only momentarily in what was proving to be rather incessant knocking at my bathroom door.
“Would I be able to tell you if I had?” I queried in return, doing my best to wrap the bandage one-handed.
“Good point!” she joked. At least she was enjoying herself. “Are you going to bleed to death?”
I, however, was more than slightly annoyed by the whole series of events. Annoyed to the point of snipping, “I might be persuaded.” I tried not to hate her for the snickering.
I don’t know why I let my body’s own foibles bother me so, but I do. I don’t necessarily want them to, but they do.
I believe that I shall have the cards reprinted so that they now read:
To whom it may concern: Dear Sir or Madam,
I’M NOT THE FRIGGIN’ NUTCASE HERE.
Cordially yours, with the utmost respect and regard,