"Just tell me what you want, hon..."

These are strange days. Not necessarily awful, not necessarily great. Just wonky. A month's worth of rain this week might have contributed. Surely.

Having immersed myself in work and slightly misaligned conversations with the boy I don't really blog about, I looked around and saw a domestic catastrophe. Not of the worst kind... Don't get me wrong: I've been in far untidier homes. But it's sure not working for me. So I decided to give myself a day to run the overdue errands and do the laundry and floors. A day to take care of me, if you will.

I bundled up and brought my shaggy-haired morning self into the bustle of the town where I've discovered wreaths atop the telephone poles, all sparkly for the approaching season.

Exiting the post office, I smelled the unmistakable evidence of breakfast. The kind of breakfast that once compelled a whole gaggle of friends to crowd into a single booth to rehash last night's long-awaited party. The kind you and your honey like to visit in cozier times, on lazy weekend mornings.

In an odd and unexpected rush of sponteneity, I decided to head over and have a huge breakfast. My solitude is irrelevant amidst the bustle of Tex and Shirley's, with its packed parking lot and tired servers.

Quickly choosing the menu item that most closely seemed to answer my cravings, I was informed that I'd chosen wrong. As I paused to reconsider, my unsmiling server declared:
"Just tell me what you want, hon... I'll know how to write it up. It'll be cheaper."

As she walked away, I felt the wry smile creep over my face. Time was, I would have cracked a joke about wishing I could figure out what I wanted, and I'd happily let her have a stab at it. These days, I know exactly what I want. And there isn't an aproned lady in the world who has the ability to give it to me.

In other news? I'm light years closer to making my dreams come true than the perpetually disappointed woman in the booth behind me. Something to put in my pocket...