Send it Back

We lost a dear friend in a car accident a couple of years ago. I miss him and I know the husband misses him more.

He was persnickety. He was well dressed and always pressed. He had great shoes -- I think you can tell a lot about a man by his choice in shoes. In all of our years of friendship, I don't think he ever received a restaurant or country club meal that was prepared to his liking. It was occasionally uncomfortable; he didn't care. Too raw or overcooked? Send it back. Not the way it was described? Send it back. Not hot enough? Send it back. In my world, I just choke it down. The food was never as bad as his reaction. I used to hit him and threaten to crawl under the table.

Tomorrow is my birthday. He used to send me flowers or show up with a card. (My friends are a little over the top.)

I love hearing the story about the day I was born. As they were wheeling my mother from the delivery room, they held me up for her to see. Her first response was, "Oh no, she has my legs." Lucky for me she was all drugged up. I'll bet she wanted to say, "Send it back."