When I am dead and gone to this world and my children are gathered in an overheated and overpaid lawyer’s office, salivating over the decor of my home which I lovingly refer to as Early American Garage Sale. I have instructed the lawyers to look into each of my children’s expectant, yet sorrowful, faces and say, “One minute.”
Twenty minutes later, they can divy up the contents of my life, a collection of rocks, baby teeth and stonewashed jeans. Let’s not forget the giant bag of mismatched socks we gathered and decorated as a pumpkin for Halloween.
Over the years, in the space of a “One minute..” I have been able to highlight my hair and then run to the salon to fix it, try on 7 outfits with accessories just in case I have somewhere to go,( besides, work, the grocery store or the mall.) I have been able to clean my car, watch an informercial on lint cleaners. You get my drift. When I ask, ” Set the table or brush your teeth or stop texting at the table, please. ”
“One minute, ” my teenage daughter will respond as if the weight of unloading the dishwasher was a comet thrown from space.
“Justa sec,” my seven-year old will say. And roll her eyes.
Yes, I have a wish to go out like Liz Taylor, 15 minutes late to her own funeral, having the last laugh. This morning as both daughter’s were calling me from separate rooms, I was tossing the clothes into the hamper and running around the kitchen, “One minute!” I yelled. Hmm… The apple doesn’t fall from the tree.