Practice Stuff

I was dreaming of eating my first piece of warm toast in over two months as I finished spreading chocolate-hazelnut spread on a slice of Bill’s homemade English muffin bread, when I heard the now all too familiar summons from the living room.

“Patty!” Mom called, as I was putting the lid back on the jar of spread.

I figured it was time to either bring Mom her morning cup of coffee or haul her to the bathroom to get rid of her morning glass of OJ.  I poked my head through the kitchen doorway and looked across the room at her.  “What?” I asked.

“Did you know that Luke Air Force Base is going to be practicing stuff?”

“Oh?  What stuff is that?”

“I don’t know.  Jet stuff, I think,” she said, still sipping her juice.

“And when does the stuff practice get started?”

“I don’t know.  Soon, I think,” she informed me, taking a bite from her granola bar.  “It’s going to get loud up there,” she continued, jabbing the bar towards the ceiling as she chewed.

“Up where?”  On the roof?” I teased.

“No, not on the roof, over the roof.  And it’ll be soon,” she professed knowingly.

“Whatever you say.  By the way,” I called over my shoulder as I went to retrieve my lukewarm toast in the kitchen, “are you ready for your coffee?”

“Not yet,” she replied.  “Maybe in another couple of minutes.”

I was halfway down the hall, heading toward the office, when the proverbial call echoed off the narrow walls.  “Patty!”

I stopped, backed up and peered around the corner, balancing my toast and a mug of coffee in one hand and a glass of Cran-raspberry juice in the other.  “What!” I asked once again.

“I need my coffee now,” she said, waggling her empty juice glass at me.

After dumping my rapidly cooling breakfast on my desk, I trudged back to the kitchen and poured her a cup of Breakfast Blend.

“And this couldn’t have happened 60 seconds ago when I was still in kitchen?” I asked somewhat acerbically as I set her coffee mug on the end table next to her.

“Well, I didn’t need it then,” she replied, handing me her empty juice glass, which she had stuffed with the wadded up granola bar wrapper and rolled up banana peel.  “Besides, you know I need to time it just right so that…”

“I know, I know,” I responded, putting my fingers in my ears and quickly retreating to the office before she could elaborate.

“What the heck is she talking about?” Bill asked as I sat down and stared morosely at my cold toast.  “What does she have to time?”

I sighed loudly and took a sip of juice.  “Coffee makes her poop,” I explained, “and she tries to time it for a Price Is Right commercial break.  After all, you know who the three most important people in her life are.”

“Yep,” he said, holding up his fingers.  “Drew Carey, Alex Trebek, and Pat Sajac,”

“That’s right.  And who comes in fourth?” I asked.

“Tom Bergeron!”

“Congratulations Mr. Bill.  You win the big prize of the day!” I shouted.  “It’s a not-so-brand-new piece of cold toast and an equally cold cup of coffee to wash it down!”

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