Sass and The Soap Box

I wore out two or three soap boxes before I realized a person has to choose their battles. Not just everything is worth a blistering tirade or even a thirty minute tantrum. But this past week someone mentioned that the time would be changing in about a week.

I drug out the soap box, spit on my knuckles and prepared to fight.

I crawled up on the soap box, looked around at the motley crowd, cleared my throat dramatically and got ready for the speechifying. There were probably more than one of those traveling charmers selling snake oil who contributed to my DNA, and my oration would no doubt bring big changes to those of us who hate that Saturday night when we have to change the time.

A couple of hours later I was still ranting. The only person left sitting in the audience was Uncle Moe. He’d forgotten to turn on his hearing aid and I found out later he’d told Aunt  Oma Lynn to go on home and fix supper. That he’d stick around and buy the snake oil when I finally brought it out to sell. He figured it might help his bursitis and maybe even his hearing. Fine bunch of family they were. If I couldn’t even get the kith and kin to rally behind me how was I supposed to lead the troops in protest to the White House.

Oh, well, I’d just call the AARP and give them a healthy piece of my mind. They’ve got all these commercials out now about not messing with AARP. Evidently they’d never recognized the problem and would be delighted that I’d brought it to their attention and AARP (That is pronounced Arp, kind of like Harp without the H for all you youngsters out there) had political pull. I've been a member for years and unlike the folks on the commercials I do know Arp pretty good. I drug the soap box into the living room, sat down on it and dialed the 800 number.

A right sweet, very young voice asked if she might help me and I asked her if she’d brought her dinner to work with her. She informed me that she certainly had. A ham and cheese sandwich on white bread with mustard. That was good because what I had to say would take a little while and she could eat while she listened. I commenced to telling her the problem and every now and then I’d hear her utter something kin to a sigh, so I knew she hadn’t fallen asleep. When I finished she asked me what kind of snake oil I was selling.

It was time to quit fooling around with the small potatoes and go straight to the big boss man. Family wasn’t interested. Arp, even if she could run in spike heels, didn’t understand. Sometimes to make changes a body had to march alone. But they’d all be sorry when I saved their sorry old hides from dropping graveyard dead from overwork.

I polished up the soap box, drug it down the hall to my converted bedroom/office and dialed the number. When the White House answered I asked to speak to the man himself. The lady said that wasn’t possible. Folks just didn’t call up the President of the U. S. of A and expect him to walk out of an international conference to visit with them.

“Well, I am a voting citizen of this great nation and as such I should have a say so in this business,” I said with great authority.

“Just what business is that?” She asked.

She should have never made that mistake.

I commenced to telling her that I didn’t want an extra hour of day light. What we had was enough. My body couldn’t take another of yard and garden work after supper. It was about all it could do to keep up with the hours of daylight that it had. My stomach got so confused last year that at dinner time it didn’t want to eat. Then an hour later when I was forty miles from anything edible it had to digest part its own lining, which has eighty million fat grams and four hundred calories per tablespoon. I gained sixteen pounds of cellulite on my thighs because of that extra hour of daylight.

I let her have it with both barrels for about fifteen or twenty minutes. When I finally wound down she told me she still wasn’t authorized to call the President of the United States out of the meeting but if I ever wanted a job selling snake oil she knew where I could get a bright red wagon with gold stars painted on the side.

I kicked. I screamed. I stated my cause. I stomped a hole in my soap box. But they are going to change the time anyway. I think I need something with a little more kick than sweet tea!

REMINDER: The drawing for a signed copy of Lucky in Love will happen on Sunday...all the names from folks who comment this week will go into the famous red boot for the drawing. Good luck to everyone and I love, love, love your comments!