Working Saturday mornings just chaps my aging, sagging you-know-what.
God meant Saturday mornings to be reserved for garage sales and Sunday mornings for church, with the other five days of the week loaded down with the unending effort of paying our mortgages and supporting our part of the stimulus package payback.
But my boss Joy, who obviously doesn't read the same Bible I do, firmly believes I should work one Saturday morning a month. Don't get me wrong. I love our clients. And let's face it, I work in a heated pool all morning long so how hard could this type of work be. It's the missing of garage sales I'm objecting to here!
So yesterday was my designated Saturday morning. As you can see, it was so early when I went to work that this usually busy street was completely empty. Well, empty except for that little black thing in the turn lane.
My black-because-I-have-to-work-Saturday-morning mood jumped to the conclusion that there was a snake in the middle of the road. Its head was up, ready to strike out at cars not letting it cross the road to get to the chicken who had apparently gone before it.
Lo and behold, it was the worst kind of snake, the black with gold stripes Fickle Finger of Fate snake, mocking me for having to work on Saturday morning.
Curious, I slowed down to see what type of snake it was, if it was injured, and if I'd have to call IT Guy to put it out of its misery. We happen to like snakes. They do a lot of good keeping rodent population down and are so misunderstood. And they are not slimy as you were led to believe as a child.
Dang college kids!