Good night sweet Faucet

After almost four years, 87 posts, and one thousand and eighty-four views (but who’s counting?), it’s time to say good night to my faucet blog.

Did the imaginary plumber (who wrote an imaginary faucet blog that I pretended to take over), an ordinary, everyday plumber that existed in my imagination, did he stop hearing the incessant imaginary drips in his imaginary head, make-believe drops that drove pretend him pretend insane? A small but ceaseless theoretical noise that kept him from writing a fictitious blog? And now, with the return of his imaginary sanity, this imaginary plumber has come to rightfully claim this imaginary blog, the one I’ve usurped, in my imagination???

No. At least, I don’t think so.

The truth is, I’ve decided, for now, to no longer give away my writing for free— that and to consider the use of more, at least not less, commas. I know, it’s a tenuous proposition.

I have a debut collection of humor writing coming out soon. Check it out at my fancy new website

Someday, I hope to start up another Humor Faucet. A better one, that includes more writers that are funny and are tired of getting rejected by McSweeney’s and The New Yorker. (There’s a strong probability that I will NOT include insane, fanciful plumbers.)

Until that day comes, keep the humor flowing. Good night sweet Faucet.

Every Other Wednesday

Every other Wednesday, you call.

I’m always working and can never answer.

You always leave a message.

Sometimes I listen to your message, which is always the same.

Sometimes I don’t. I get too busy. I forget.

But I know it’s there. The little red number on my phone tells me it’s there. You’re there. For me.

Every other Wednesday. At the same exact time.

You’re so precise and reliable. It is this dependable precision that keeps me alive.

Gives me what I need. Day after day.

Some Wednesdays I wake up and think, today is the day that you will call me.

It’s reassuring, to know that some one out there is thinking of me, is planning on calling me, is setting aside time to check in on me, to see how I’m doing.

Then I realize it’s the Wednesday in between the Wednesdays that you call.

I’m a little disappointed, but I know it’s only seven days until I will hear from you again.

Other times I wake up with the same feeling, or I have it in the middle of the afternoon, or sitting in traffic, or waiting in line. That feeling, that wish, that someone out there would call me, check in, see how I’m doing. These Thursdays, Saturdays, Mondays with no calls, no voicemails.

Or worse: Potential Spam. Which is an interesting term for another human calling me. Or maybe a machine that is an extension of a human. Spam. Affordable, salty meat.

It’s a misnomer. Potential spam is always spam and never anything else.

I get through those lonely moments. They pass, as everything does.

And then Wednesday rolls around again. You call. I’m busy. Later, in a free moment, I listen to your message. Informing me. A delivery.

Three 5 gallon drums of fresh, clean spring water, right to my door.

So until next Wednesday, my water delivery service.

Until 10:04, I wait for you with calm and deliberate patience.

Me and Julio, whistling, and a very strange sound

A little bit of music trivia for the Faucet tonight. What makes the high-pitched sounds at the end of Paul Simon’s “Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard”?

A) a Squeegee scratched across a dry window

B) a monkey

C) a soprano that has had too much to drink

D) a small furry animal under duress

E) a cuica, which is a Brazilian friction drum used in carnivals and samba music

Skip down to find the correct answer.

The answer is E, though if you listen closely on repeat, I think an argument can be made for D.

The Drip Drip Drip Has Started Again

Hard to believe, but this is my fourth year posting short humor on the Faucet blog. I will now insert a space to allow the shock to settle in for those readers unaware that the purpose of this site is humor, chuckles, even an occasional guffaw.

Also, for those unfamiliar with the history of my site, I happened into the Faucet blog when a plumber friend of mine named Joe (not the conservative activist) had to retire from both his profession and his acclaimed plumbing blog, due to an unfortunate and persistent dripping in his mind. (The origin of the dripping, it turns out, stems from a shower head incident.)

I recently spoke with Joe’s wife, Helen, a darling woman with a brownie recipe that is out of this world. She reported that earlier this month, the dripping inside Joe’s head suddenly went away. He woke up one morning and it was gone. Instead, he heard birds singing. I believe it was a Wednesday.

He felt so good that they decided to visit their “other” grandchildren in Florida. Sadly, these grandchildren are obsessed with the movie Encanto. You guessed it. He heard the song “Surface Pressure,” with the catchy but in this case unfortunate phrase “drip drip drip that will never stop” and the dripping in Joe’s mind, I’m sorry to report, resumed on the spot. He was so disconsolate, Helen said, that he didn’t even finish his brownie. That tells you something.

The silver lining is that for the foreseeable future, I will continue with my fourth year posting humor on the Faucet blog. Helen is optimistic that if Joe can avoid hearing the Encanto soundtrack, that perhaps the dripping might shut off again. That would mean that Joe could resume working, and presumably, his well-received blog.

With the popularity of “Surface Pressure,” that doesn’t appear likely any time soon. For Joe, his family, and his loyal readers that continually email me with plumbing inquiries, I offer my condolences.

Len Speaks Up At Band Practice

“So guys, I’ve been thinking,” Len said, leaning his guitar against an amp.

“Uh-oh,” Tyrone said from his drum kit. “Did you hurt yourself?” He executed a ba-dump-bump with his drums.

“When you’re thinking, you’re stinking,” Bill said from his keyboard.

“No, seriously,” Len said. “I’ve been doing some hard thinking lately.”

An awkward silence followed. Bill looked at Tyrone and shrugged. Finally Sam, restringing his bass in the corner said, “Here we go.”

“It’s just, we’ve been playing together for three years now,” Len said, stepping into the middle of the garage converted into a rehearsal space. “We don’t play anywhere but the same old bar once a month. And they don’t even pay us.”

“What are you getting at? Sam asked.

“Yeah, what are you getting at?” added Tyrone, punctuating his question with the snare.

“Look, I love you guys,” Len said. “I’m not quitting the band or suggesting we break up or anything like that. It’s only…”

“Spit it out,” Bill said.

Len took a deep breath. “We’re not good song writers,” he blurted. “There, I said it.”

The band members looked at each other with puzzled faces. Sam cursed under his breath.

“We’re not just bad. We’re terrible songwriters,” Len said. “Not one of us can write a song worth a lick. Country. Rock. Blues. Funk. They all stink.”

“C’mon, get out,” Tyrone said. “What about the new one we just wrote last week? About the garbage disposal. It’s killer.”

“No,” Len countered. “It’s not. It’s garbage.”

“What about our best jam?” Tyrone contended. “Cold pizza.”

“I’ll tell you what about it,” Len said. “It’s a song about cold pizza.”

Sam finished restringing his bass and snapped the string aggressively.

“What about ‘Turd on the Run’?” Bill suggested. “Didn’t you write that Len?”

“Seriously? It’s a Stones cover,” Len said. “Exile on Main Street. Ever heard of it?”

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to listen to that album,” Bill said. “What about the one Sam wrote the other day, ‘You Wreck Me?'”

“Right,” Len said. “You mean you-wreck-me-written-by-Tom-Petty? Do you even listen to music?”

Bill frowned and tickled a minor chord. Sam was shaking his head and cursing.

“Guys,” Ken said. “Listen, we’re good musicians. We just write terrible songs. Sam, no offense, but your David Bowie thing of cutting random words out of the newspaper…it, well, it’s not working.”

“Whatever,” Sam said. “You wouldn’t know art if it bit you in the ass.”

“So what do you suggest?” Bill said.

“Unbelievable,” Sam said to the floor. “That you are guys are even listening to this.”

“Well,” Len said. “The other day I was learning ‘Golden’ by My Morning Jacket—cool tune, in open e minor tuning, I’ll show it to you— and I had an idea. We already play a couple of their tunes, so…”

“Call me a terrible songwriter,” Sam said, “when you bring in the worst sappy hogwash.”

“So my idea,” Len said, ignoring Sam, “is that we become a My Morning Jacket cover band. And I’ve already picked out a name. My Mid-Afternoon Backup Fleece.”

“Interesting,” Bill said.

“It is nice to have a backup,” Tyrone said. “When your regular fleece is in the wash.”

“What?” Sam shouted. “My Mid-Afternoon Backup Fleece? You can’t be serious. We’re a backup fleece? We’re not even a good enough cover band to be the regular fleece?”

“We could start out as backups,” Bill said. “And work our way up to being the top fleece.”

“Are you even hearing yourself?” Sam said, incredulous. “And why mid-afternoon? Can’t it just be afternoon?”

“I kinda like mid-afternoon,” Tyrone said. “It’s specific, but not too specific. You know, it’s not right at noon, when people are eating lunch, but it’s not too late, you know like 4:30 when everyone is tired and just wants to leave work.”

“Exactly,” Len said.

“You know what?” Sam said. “I’m out of here. I quit.” He shoved his bass into his case and stormed out of the garage.

The other band members looked around at each other. Finally Bill said, “Hey Tyrone, doesn’t your neighbor Barry play bass?”

“He does,” Tyrone said. “And he has lots of fleeces.”

Len picked up his guitar and played the opening riff to “Off The Record.” Tyrone and Bill looked at each other and smiled.

That Guy Interjects Into a Hypothetical Conversation at a Hypothetical Pearl Jam Show

Die Hard Fan A: So psyched to be seeing PJ live again! I can’t wait to hear this Gigaton show!

Die Hard Fan B: Me too! Been a die-hard ever since the Boston Garden in ’94. So amazing.

Die Hard Fan A: It was ’95 at Soldier Field in Chicago for me. Incredible three-hour show, in the middle of a brutal heat wave. Unforgettable.

Die Hard Fan B: And to be in the front row for tonight! A whole new album to pull from. This is going to be insane! Do you think we should remove our ten gallon hats?

Die Hard A: Yeah, you’re probably right.

(They remove their hats.)

Die Hard Fan B: So what’s the one song that you can’t wait to hear? That song that you want to belt out at the top of your lungs?

Die Hard Fan A: Well, this is a little personal since we just met, but it’s “Alive.” After going through the pandemic, I lost someone, it was really rough, but just to know that after it all, we survived, that we’re still alive. To hear that tonight would be pretty special. I’m going to sing it with my eyes closed, thinking about that person. How about you?

Die Hard Fan B: It’s tough choice. So many great sing-along’s. “Elderly Woman”…”Better Man”…for some random reason I love singing “Glorified G”. The new song “River Cross” would be cool.

THAT GUY: (from the second row) Not for me. It’s a no brainer. There’s only one song I want to sing tonight. A classic sing along. One of those songs that you can sing over and over and never get tired of.

Die Hard Fan A: What song is that?

THAT GUY: Only their best live song.

Die Hard Fan B: Yellow Ledbetter?

THAT GUY: Nope. A song that when you hear it live, you realize it’s one of the great concert sing alongs. Right up there with “Sweet Caroline.”

Die Hard Fan A: “Daughter”?

THAT GUY: No. “Bugs.”

Die Hard Fan B: I think we should put our hats back on.

Two Stuck Cups!

Our two Zak! cups are stuck!

We cannot use them, yuck yuck yuck!

Mommy puts them by the sink!

We cannot use our hands to drink!

Daddy tries to pull pull pull!

He is strong like a bull!

Will our two Zak! cups come unstuck?

Daddy says a word that sounds like duck!

Our two Zak! cups are still stuck!

We cannot use them yuck yuck yuck!

Daddy tries to twist and yank!

He uses his elbow like a crank!

Daddy’s hand gets an owie!

We can’t drink from our Zak! cups nowie!

Next morning none of the cups are clean!

But Daddy has knowledge of simple machines!

Our Daddy is so clever!

He uses silverware as levers!

Forks and spoons fly from the drawer!

Spatulas and tongs both hit the floor!

Daddy’s hurts his hand and yells ow!

We drink from bowls like kittens, meow!

Mommy ignores the cups by the sink!

What we will use for lunch to drink?

Daddy and Mommy make a bet!

Daddy goes on the internet!

He puts ice in the top cup!

He fills another cup with hot water, all the way up!

Will our two Zak! cups ever come unstuck?

Daddy burns his hand and says that word that sounds like duck!

Now comes the moment of truth, time to test!

Daddy pulls the top cup loose, and makes a big mess!

Everyone shout hurray!

Daddy is the hero for the day!

We can drink our milk, what luck!

With our Zak! cups unstuck!

Printing Frozen 2 Coloring Pages: A Cautionary Tale

“Daddy, can you print me out a Frozen 2 coloring picture?”

“Yeah…gimme a minute.”

“Daddy! Can you print me out a Frozen 2 coloring picture? PLEASE?”

“Uhh…hold on a sec…I’m trying to get this done.”


“Look in the cabinet. We have five hundred coloring books.”

“But I want Frozen 2.”

“All right.”




“Hey! Don’t bother Mommy. She needs to rest.”

“Then can you please print me a Frozen 2 coloring picture? Then I’ll leave you alone. I promise.”

“Fine. Let me just send this email real quick…OK. Now, let me close this other window down…I’ll do that later…all right. All right. Frozen 2. Coloring pages. No problem. Daddy can do that for you. Let’s get to Google… Frozen 2… coloring pages…here we are. Which one of these do you want? There are 25,500,000 to choose from.”

“Hmm….no…no…no…scroll down. That one! I want that one. Elsa in her beautiful dress.”

“All right, let’s see. I’ll click on it. Hmm…Pinterest, I think Mommy has an account. Log in with Google account…I think it’s…password invalid….lemme try…password invalid…ugh. What about another picture? Let’s go back.”

“That one. I want that one. Elsa in her castle.”

“No problem. Let’s see. Open it up. Visit page. Loading…OK. Looks like we have half of her face and half of her castle.”

“I want the whole thing.”

“Maybe I can zoom out? Let me try. No that’s not it. What about if you fold it over and trace the other half?”

“No. I want all of Elsa and all of her castle.”

“Let me try landscape…no. What’s with all these ads? Close this. Your video will play in five seconds. What video? Why is this so difficult? Forget this. Let’s try a different one. I’ll go back. All right. Pick again. Still 25,499,998 to choose from.”

“That one. The one with her cape. She’s so beautiful.”

“Got it. The one with the cape. Visit page…loading. Ah, here we go. Perfect. The whole Elsa. With her dress and cape and look, the whole castle in the background.”

“Yes! That one! Perfect! I love it.”

“Perfect. How many copies?”


“Five. No problem. That should keep you nice and busy so Daddy can get his stuff done. I need to get these picks in before kickoff. Let’s see. Create an account?”

“El-sa! El-sa! El-sa! Fro-zen 2! Fro-zen 2! Fro-zen 2! I love you Daddy! You’re the best.”

“You bet sweetie. I love you, too. Oh…looks like I have to create a uluv2color account.”

“Da-ddy! Da-ddy! Da-ddy is the best!”

“You know it. OK. Username Daddyisthebest. Re-entering password. Done. Check. Download software? Why do I have to download software?”

“I have the best Daddy in the whole world!!!!”

“I don’t think I should have to download anything. What does Mommy do? Where does she get all the pictures you color?”

“She just prints them out. Right when I ask her. Can you PLEASE just print this? I’ll never ask for anything ever again!”

“All right, fine. Let me download this software. Should be a moment.”

“You’re the best daddy in the whole world.”

“You’re the best daughter in the whole world. Looks like the download is complete. Open this… There’s the coloring page…Now I need to enter…what? Personal information? Address? Monthly income? What the—?”


“All right all right all right…address line 1. Zip code. Cell. Birthdate. Last four digits of my social security? Why do they need that?”


“Whatever. It’s just the last four.”

“ would like to access your camera…what is going on? Why do they…”


“Um…hello? Who are you?”

“I am a nameless one. I have come to know that all names are shackles. There is only one name. Bubba The Great. All other names are chains.”

“Ohhhh… kaaaay. Look I’m just trying to print out an Elsa coloring page here. Not sure about all the software or personal information…Can you help me print out the page with the flowing cape and the castle and the dress?”

“Bubba does all things. In Bubba We Trust. There is nothing that Bubba cannot do. I breathe because Bubba breathes. My heart beats because Bubba’s heart beats. Bubba is the great and all-knowing leader and he will take us to our true home. Bubbalandia. You have been selected to join us in the Great Bubba-beyond.”

“Yeah, that sounds…um, nice and all. But I just really need this coloring page for my daughter. She ducked under the desk when you came on the camera. Sweetie, come say hi to the nice man in the red robe. She’s shy. Show him your Elsa dress. She’s crazy about Elsa. See, I was just doing a little work, paying some bills, and, to be honest, I’m in this NFL pick ‘em league…”

“Silence. Bubba will free you from these chains.”

“Chains? I’m not chained to anything here. What I was saying is the first picture she wanted was on Pinterest, but I couldn’t log in. Then the second only had half of Elsa’s face. That’s when I visited your site.”

“Stare into the Great Swinging Bubba Eye and all things you need will fall away. You will lose your blindness and acquire true sight. You will see Bubba’s Way.”

“Are you saying that if I stare at this swinging flashing eye thing, then you will get me an Elsa coloring page? It has to be Frozen 2. Heaven forbid—”

“All needs are met once you share in the vision of the Great Bubba.”

“Fine. Let’s make this quick. The game kicks off in fifteen minutes.”

“Bubba is the great leader. Bubba sees and knows all. Bubba is my master.”

“Bubba is the great leader. Bubba sees and knows all. Bubba is my master.”

“Bubba is the great leader. Bubba sees and knows all. Bubba is my master.”

“Bubba is the great leader. Bubba sees and knows all. Bubba is my master.”

“You will do as I command.”

“I will do as you command.”

“Remove your clothes.”

“I am removing my clothes.”

“Daddy, why are you naked?”

“Get dressed in red. Only red. No other colors are permitted in Bubba’s kingdom. Go sit outside and wait for a red car. Bring your checkbook, your credit cards, and all your financial information. Tell no one what you are doing. Bubba despises loose lips. Say this now with firmness. I will obey.”

“I will obey.”

“Daddy! What’s going on? I’m scared. Who were you talking to?”

“Bubba is the great leader.”

“Daddy, why are you putting on Mommy’s red jacket? Where are you going? Are you going to get my Frozen 2 coloring pages?”

“Bubba The Great meets all needs.”

Letter To the Parents of the Woman in Front of Me in the Hotel Coffee Line

Dear Parents of Oblivious Bitch,

I was in a hurry. Correction. My wife and I were. Even though we were on a weekend-get-away. We were in a hurry. You’ve been there. I’ve been there (recently). We’ve all been there. And your oblivious bitch daughter has been there. But she was probably unaware of that, too.

As you know, it’s not a good feeling. You’ve got somewhere to be and a limited amount of time to get there. There’s the inevitable traffic, red lights, etc., There’s a pit in your stomach, a voice saying over and over: Hurry up! Get going! Let’s go! And you hear this voice from the moment you wake up.

You hear it in the shower. While getting dressed and brushing your teeth. While hurrying out the door, making sure you don’t forget anything in your haste, like a hotel room key, car keys, phone…whatever. Then you hear the voice get louder and more urgent as you decide whether to wait for the elevator or make a dash for the hotel stairs at the end of the hall.

You hear it, insistent, as you get on the elevator, stopping at every floor, as the person nearest the buttons apparently is unaware of the door close button. But, finally, you make it to the ground floor and the voice quiets. You think, we’re going to make it. We’re fine. Let’s stop and grab a quick bite at the continental breakfast, but then you hear it again. Louder and more insistent than ever. You hear it in the coffee line behind your oblivious bitch daughter.

I know I’m in the second person here, and it’s kinda weird, but I thought you really should stand in my shoes, which happen to be in line waiting for coffee behind the oblivious bitch that you raised. So let’s keep going!

You realize that she’s talking both on her phone through an earpiece and to her friend in line. She’s having two conversations, neither of which are very interesting or have much in the way of anything remotely worth sharing. She’s just like, talking, to both people, but not saying anything, to either one of them. It might be strangely fascinating, if you weren’t so pissed off, in a hurry waiting behind her.

Your daughter is wearing trendy workout attire but it’s unlikely she is either coming from or going to exercise. Now the hurry-up-voice inside your head starts to scream obscenities because your daughter is taking what feels like a century to prepare her light roast hotel coffee with cream. It’s excruciating watching her open the creamer. Then she goes for a second creamer and the voice inside your head yells another expletive because now you know how long it’s going to take to open that creamer. And your fear is confirmed. There’s no learning or improvement in the second creamer opening process. It’s agony. She has long, well-manicured nails, but somehow can’t seem to get the necessary leverage or pressure to lift the little flap part. In fact, the thought occurs to you that maybe you should reach past her and just open one for her, when somehow, despite her shoddy technique, she manages to open the second creamer and moves on to sugar.

You watch in horror as she moves through one, two, and now a third packet of brown sugar. She is telling someone about the brown sugar, whether it’s her friend or the person on the phone is unclear. Brown sugar is everywhere on the counter. A legit line is forming behind you, us. Your oblivious bitch daughter now can’t find the stirring rods, the little wood sticks, even though they are right in front of her face. She does manage to recognize them, like somehow the light traveling from the ceiling and windows, reflecting off the wood sticks, is traveling slower, much slower, into the pupil that is essentially just a hole in your oblivious bitch daughter’s eyeballs. She begins to stir her two creamer three brown sugar light roast hotel coffee like she is on a veranda, looking out at a glorious sunrise beyond a gentle flowing river, with birdsong in the air, like she literally has all day to stir and sip and enjoy her coffee. The whole process has been surreal, slow-motion, a coffee hotel line nightmare.

As mad as you are, as anxious and annoyed, you can’t help but be curious, even amazed, that your oblivious bitch daughter wouldn’t cast a single glance at the growing line behind her. Seriously, not even one little check over the shoulder. No teensy glimpse out of the side of her eye. Nada. It would be incredible, if it wasn’t so necessary and urgent for you to have caffeine before speeding off into traffic.

What a bitch.

After an eternity, she is done. It’s over. All things must pass. She is still talking. Little nonsense sentences that cause a rise in your blood pressure. Who she is talking to remains unclear. Finally, though, it seems the debacle is over and the rest of the poor, tired, weekend- hotel-chain-guest slobs can get a cup of joe already. But no.

Your oblivious bitch daughter needs a sleeve and a lid. She futzes around for another decade, like it’s the first time she’s ever done this and the lukewarm hotel coffee is scalding lava. Time is literally crawling. The voice inside your head is so mad, it is beyond screaming mad, it’s a vicious impotent tone, saying very dark, sarcastic things. Like there is some weird pleasure in the agony that is this line, which is now almost behind you to the door. Still! Not so much as a glance back. From her or her bitch friend. And now you begin to wonder about the friend. What kind of bitch person is your bitch daughter friends with that she can’t even turn around and say excuse us, on behalf of the bitch daughter?

Almost…almost…the lid is on. The sleeve…yes…almost…it’s unfolded now…it’s in position, careful…sliding…almost…yes. The sleeve is on. Both the lid and sleeve are on. When there is no applause the room feels empty. The first recognizable human characteristic manifests itself as she now disposes of the empty creamers and the used stirring rods in the correct little coffee garbage can receptacle. It’s slow, but at least she does it.

I should pause here and say that I’m not taking joy in this. This is not vindicating. It doesn’t feel good, like you think it might. I’m not doing this for pleasure— rather, I feel a true need to inform you. Because that wasn’t the end. If it was, I would’ve rolled my eyes, complained to my wife, and then laughed about it while sitting anxiously at a red light before gunning it at the green and driving like a maniac on the highway. Like a normal person.

But no. It wasn’t the end.  

Your oblivious bitch daughter decided at that moment to also get a hot tea. That’s right. A coffee and a tea. And that hot water, as opposed to the lukewarm light roast, was clearly very hot, so you can just imagine, but let’s not focus on that, for now.

Instead, let’s call attention to the astonishing detail that your oblivious bitch daughter did not throw a glance behind her on the way to this second beverage. One glance, one apologetic look with an insincere smile, and this letter doesn’t get written. I might think it. But the actual writing of it would not occur.

Obviously, it’s too late for your oblivious bitch daughter. I’m quite confident that if you called her up and asked her if the hotel near the beach that she stayed at on a Saturday, with three weddings going on, was busy, she would say no, it was just her and her friend that is ok with ½ of a miserable conversation.

Enough already. I’m exhausted, you’re exhausted. But this NEEDS TO BE SAID. WRITTEN. In no uncertain terms.

You failed as parents.

Like big time. Your grade is an F. I can’t help but wonder. Why didn’t you smack her on the back of the head, like the rest of us do, when you were supposed to? When she was seven and taking forever putting syrup on her waffle in the hotel breakfast line. That’s all it usually takes. A few smacks. I’m sure you’ve been successful in other facets of life, as evidence by the nice workout clothes, well-manicured-creamer-fumbling-nails, phone and earpiece you probably bought for your oblivious bitch daughter that almost certainly doesn’t work or contribute in any meaningful way in society. But you failed as parents. And not just your daughter. You failed all of us.

Good day,

A Concerned Citizen


As if to confirm just how appalling of a failure you are as a parent, not three hours later, after my wife and I were late to that thing we went to, I was in a gas station behind a woman wearing a fanny pack and a t-shirt that said, “You will see me struggle but you will never see me quit.” She bought a diet cherry Pepsi, a large bag of FUNYUN’s chips, and a Hershey bar. She took a really long time finding her credit card in her fanny pack. Her t-shirt really told the truth. It was a real struggle. Then she realized that the diet cherry Pepsi’s had some kind of two-for deal. She bought another one, heading back to the cooler. She fumbled with her phone and keys and the fanny pack all over again. She had questions about the payment and some obscure gasoline rewards program that the non-native English-speaking gas station attendant either didn’t understand or know about.

        Now, you might be thinking, two sodas, a bag of FUNYUN’s, and a Hershey bar is not a proper lunch time purchase. And that might be true. But that it is not the point. The point is there were two distinct differences between these two experiences.

  1. I was not in a hurry.
  2. She apologized. Once at the beginning and once when she went for the second Pepsi. And then, for good measure, she wished me to have a “blessed” day. I will, I said. I will, right after I write this letter to the parents of this oblivious bitch.