The gnat in my Espresso

I’m a storyteller. Sometimes I tell long stories, and sometimes I tell a lot of little stories depending on how my brain is working that week. Also, there are several inches of space on page four that are begging for comic relief.

This week I have the attention span of a gnat swimming in a triple espresso, because it’s been that kind of week. Next week I might injure myself napping and write a boring long-winded story about it, because who does that? Me, I’ve seen me do it and recently.

So pardon me and my gnat while I tell you about my bite-sized adventures the past week.

My dad was a warlock

It’s funny how the oddest things bring back the weirdest memories. I drive to Lawton every week to pick up the paper from the printer, and on last week’s trip I took both hands off the wheel (God, please let this be past the statute of limitations and unrecorded) for a moment and held the steering wheel steady with my knee. It is unimportant whetherit was a hard or soft shelled taco.

The point is, I used to think my dad might be some sort of warlock because he could drive down the highway while steering with his knee. The TV show Bewitched was also very popular about that time so now it all kind of makes sense. But anyway, hi Dad. And if you are a warlock, I could use an attention span.

Own your freak flag

I was doing the usual on my way home from work one day - being the lead singer and dancer to Moves Like Jagger while driving - and a guy laughed at me.

Seriously, I’m hurting no one, minding my own business and spreading joy to myself and possibly another person or two. So I rolled down my window and yelled, “Your hair is FUSCHIA, and you’re laughing at me? “ He laughed and I laughed and we bonded and spread joy to each other. Then the light turned green and we said bye.

It couldn’t have been the socks

Apparently I’m the Punky Brewster of upper-middle-aged women according to a passive aggressive sales clerk at the Lawton mall, even though I always wear matching socks. That’s all I’m going to say about that.

Not your mule

Somebody who shall remain nameless and curdless wanted me to bring home cheese curds from Wisconsin when I visit my son next week. Let me be clear: I am nobody’s cheese curd mule. And I’m not packing a cooler. Also, I will eat them on my way home. It just won’t work. It’s not you, it’s me.

OK - No, it’s not the socks

I haven’t told my husband about the Punky Brewster story yet, because I’m afraid he’ll think his soul mate lives in Lawton. He, too, questions the existence of any fashion sense in me when I wear that particular shirt - an authentic charcoal western shirt with white cow heads all over it and white pearl snaps, three sizes too big. It got it at a resale shop for $8, y’all and it’s my current favorite shirt.

The gnat is tired, but well-dressed by my standards, and happy.