I've left the Pastor and children at home to fend for themselves while I attend the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop in Dayton, Ohio.
As I drove through downtown Cincinnati in rush hour traffic this morning to get here, my phone rang. The Pastor was calling to ask me where he could find the syrup. That was it. No "how are you" or "where are you," just syrup.
Now we know I'm easily replaced with Aunt Jemima. In fact, the only difference between us is that Aunt Jemima (wisely) doesn't have a cell phone. Well, she's probably sweeter than me too.
Later the Pastor texted me a photo of his dinner. It was an Indian Taco. He captioned the picture, wanting to make sure I knew that he has not gotten to eat an Indian Taco since we got married.
Yes, somehow our union has prevented him from going to the Indian Taco stand less than a mile from our home for the past seven years. What was I thinking all those nights I cooked dinner? I have clearly been holding him back.
If you happen to be in the neighborhood, feel free to drop off a casserole.