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People who know me will tell you I’m organized. The obsessive compulsive, anal retentive kind. I like everything to be in its spot. A friend of mine used to call my apartment The Museum. And when you don’t do things my way, I’m most likely thinking there’s something wrong with you. In fact, a good part of my real job is organizing. Organizing people who don’t really seem to want to be organized. I’m working on being more patient, as I’ve been on the verge of a stroke for the better part of the past four months. But it’s hard to develop patience when you just want to rip that thing out of someone’s hand to do it right because they are either a) too slow to do so, or b) too dumb. 2.0 assures me that soon everyone will succumb to my correct ways, but that in the meantime I’m just going to have to accept the imperfections of the average human being.
We like to tease my sister because she has real trouble remembering when Bill Beaucoup’s birthday is. She, too, is super organized, and she is one of the most thoughtful people you could ever meet. She lives in fear of missing our dear father’s birthday because it happened once. A few years ago she called him two days early to wish him a happy birthday. She was convinced she had the right day, and was pretty dang happy that she had managed remember the bloody date after so many near misses. Now she calls me to confirm before making the Birthday Call, as she never wants to hear Bill Beaucoup utter the words, “thank you dear, but my birthday’s not for two days,” again.
So, when I was planning an upcoming weekend away, I was very sure to consider Father’s Day. I didn’t want to leave Bill Beaucoup sans child on his big day. I made calls, requested that brunches be moved, booked plane tickets accordingly. I actually rescheduled a trip for him. I’m a great child. Then I planned a kick ass barbecue for him. Homemade coleslaw and lemonade. Meat and fire. A basket of goodies to munch on as a take-home prize (all the stuff he’s not allowed to eat). We had a great time yesterday.
If only yesterday had been Father’s Day. If only I hadn’t told Bill Beaucoup that he was barking mad when he mentioned that Father’s Day isn’t until next week. If only I hadn’t told him that he was clearly senile for thinking so. If only I hadn’t insisted that Father’s Day is, and always has been, on the second Sunday of the month. If only Bill Beaucoup weren’t going to be totally alone next weekend.
I guess every winning streak has to end.