Seriously? Late Again?

“Yes we’re friends, but you aren’t important enough for me to show up on time.”  Isn’t that the statement that is being made when we constantly show-up late?  From the perspective of the person waiting, that is how it feels at times.   “I don’t really care that my lateness causes ripples to everyone’s schedules…my time is more important than yours.”

Today it’s “San Francisco Bay Gourmet Coffee – Breakfast Blend” brewed in the Keurig that is fueling my furiously typing fingers.  It’s a new brand that I bought on Amazon and it’s actually really good.  It has a solid, bold flavor that is full and pungent.  It’s also interesting because the k-cup doesn’t actually have a full “cup” attached (see below). Rather, it’s the top portion of a normal k-cup with a mesh-like bag containing the coffee beans hanging underneath.  It’s priced a little more reasonably than other brands, it brews quickly and it tastes great!

San Francisco Bay Breakfast Blend

OK, let’s be real, most people are late on occasion.  Life happens, traffic happens, etc.  I realize that. I’m specifically thinking of those people we all know who have that reputation for being late to everything.  You know…those friends you have to give the fake start time that’s half-an-hour earlier than everyone else so they’ll be on time?

Why are some people ALWAYS late? I don’t get it.




We could hear her shrieking from three rooms away– the sound of it caused chills to tap dance up my spine and neck. As she entered the dimly lit room where we silently sat draped in the shadows, she anxiously scanned the crowd. Her tear-streaked face was a twisted mass of agony, as though she were suffering from pain akin to what ancient Indian braves inflicted on their prisoners after a successful war party raid. Then she saw me.

“Oh God, WHY, WHY, WHY!!! How could she leave us!” As the left shoulder of my suit coat was quickly being soaked by the seemingly endless, gushing Niagara from her eyes, her ragged breathing caused me to pause with momentary concern. It was as though she was being forced to breathe through a straw…she just couldn’t get enough air in spite of how much she heaved and strained. The sound of it was making my ear ache. My body was being shaken as she shook; I was a slave to her tight embrace. People stared. I stared…at the floor.

double-ugly-cry-faceIt was the funeral of my great-grandmother, and the quivering mass of wailing flesh latched-on to me was a great-aunt who absolutely couldn’t stand the deceased. Better yet, great-grandma hated her equally as much, maybe more. I…hate…drama.  Continue reading