Is it plagiarism if you admit you stole the idea? I think, if I remember correctly, that you only plagiarize someone if you don’t credit them. So what I’m doing, this morning anyway, is just jump-starting my own post with help from someone who obviously had more coffee than I did. See, Mopey Chick, who writes one of my favorite blogs, had a great post about driving the same exact route for so many years that she actually recognizes some of the “regulars” on her commute. Of course, her version is much funnier than my synopsis. I’m just trying to get past the guilt for stealing her idea. But it reminded me that for the past 10 years, as I have driven the exact 17-mile route, this really annoying woman takes the same route and is always just a car’s length ahead of me. And do you have any idea why this poor, unsuspecting woman annoys me? It’s simple. She has a vanity plate (that’s what they are called here, anyway — you know what I’m talking about — those personalized license plates that you pay DMV extra $ to make for you?) that says “Praline.” And I have no idea why, but it just bugs the hell out of me. Every day she makes the same commute. She’s dressed for the office, obviously, so she doesn’t work at a candy store and make the world’s best pralines. She appears to be her early 50’s, with grown or nearly grown kids, maybe even grandkids. (This is all my imagination talking here.) And her license plate just bugs me. Is she as sweet as a southern praline? Is that her name, God forbid? Is it a play on words, like “DADDYZGRL,” that I’m just not getting? And WHYTHEHELL is it important to me? Geez. Maybe I should take a different route.

I’m rambling — again — today, because once again the weekend was too short. Those little people that live with me and call me “mom” needed, well, all sorts of parent-type attention, again. There were errands, chores, and one helluva football game on Saturday, then more of the same on Sunday — only this time replace the helluva good college football game with one not-so-bad sixth grade one. So now I’m here, totally exhausted, and these people, these people that say I work here, want me to, well, work. And that’s just not working out for me. I mean, a sistah needs a break, knowwhatimean? Add to all this the fact that I volunteered to make dessert for the office Thanksgiving dinner Thursday (I know, I know, I could have just contributed cash towards the purchase of the rest of the food, but noooooo…I have to set myself up to make a dessert, the flavor, creativity, and presentation of which will either make or break my reputation here — it’s a weird place). I have to help my son finish up his high school application, taking care to word everything just right so that he can get into this incredible high school, after which I will gnash my teeth and wring my hands wondering HOWTHEHELLI’MGONNAPAYFORIT. . . Aaah. There. Funny how typing really fast and really hard can be so therapeutic.

So it’s a typical Monday, and my post is filled with the typical ranting and raving of a lunatic with way too much to do. The coffeepot will be empty, no doubt, when I go to get a refill, with some lame-o coworker having drained the pot without bothering to turn off the machine, and I’ll stand there, and stare, and wonder if I should make more or just let someone else make it, but they are tucked away in their office, waiting for me to make more. . . . And then I’ll rinse my coffee cup dramatically, put it aside, and huff off in my typical passive-aggressive manner, being sure to make all the appropriate grumblings and rumblings as I pass the obvious offender’s door. Sigh.

Happy Monday.

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