Sacred Cows

Hubby requires three squares a day.  For my part, popcorn would suffice.  That’s better than somebody on FB this week: “Fruit Loops for dinner? I’m thinking so.”  This whole “dinner every night” thing is overrated. I think it’s a sacred cow that could be taken down from its place of worship.

I’ve been going to the same church for nearly three decades.  There’s always coffee.  If the coffee person retires, somebody else takes over.  We all like grabbing a cup.  If the dear soul is AWOL, I’m sorely disappointed.  This new person has spoiled us with flavored creamers.  We now have a sacred cow that is a product from a cow!

Speaking of church, I have created my own sacred cows.  I have my self-designated parking space, and every Sunday I save our seats.  It started when I wanted to be near the nursery.  But that was over in 1996!  Holy cow!

Speaking of babies, I sold a rocking chair last month.  It was wretched when I got it (for one dollar), and by 2010 it was gnarly!  But every time I wanted to downsize it, I’d hear, “Mommy, you  can’t sell it!”  Talk about a sacred cow: that one probably had 20-year-old milk.

This week we’re getting a new roof.  My elderly mother-in-law has been milling around here, asking questions—her specific daily naptime is being infringed upon. When she was surprised they weren’t finished (in one day), she screwed her face up so tightly I thought I’d have to pry her nose out manually.  So much for the sacred napping hour!

And not to bring it up out of season, but yeah, every Christmas I am blessed to be invited to a few  “draw the number” gift exchanges.  I like them well enough, but I’m starting to think it’s a tradition that could go bye-bye—except that it is, indeed, a sacred cow.  (Is it possible to “tip” a sacred cow?  Nah, somebody would have a cow.)

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