White Trash

My day began at 6:50 am, when a certain young man announced that he was ready to start the weekend. By 2:30 pm, I had made breakfast (and lunch), read the paper, worked on a history lecture, talked with A on the phone, sent a few e-mails, made a grocery list, emptied the dishwasher, cleaned the kitchen, started a load of laundry, made the beds, worked out, cut the grass, and weeded the pumpkin patch.

So I poured myself a glass of iced tea and crept upstairs for a nice hot shower, some ESPN college game day, and a little rest. As I was lying on my bed, wrapped in my towel, and starting to drift off to sleep, I heard the magical music of the ice cream truck, trolling the neighborhood. Summer is fast fading away and the ice cream truck may not be round again, so I called to JT to run out and flag him down, while I grabbed something to wear and a few dollars.

We made it to the curb on time ---- JT shirtless and me in the first dress I could find (my pool cover up – at least it was clean). And nothing else. The boy picked his popsicle and Mama paid.

We walked back to the house. Mission accomplished, even if we were both a little compromised by our half-dressed white trash ways.