I am a piece of work.
By my own admission. Given the chance, I would have my hair down to my ass with a beard to match. Unfortunately work gets in the way. It is rather difficult running a cash register when you have to keep tossing your beard over your shoulder.
And not everyone is understanding when they come across a long hair in their freshly ground hamburger.
Which is another question. After 28 years in retail food, I still don’t know why they call ground beef “hamburger”, or “hamburg”. There is no pork in it. It is only beef.
Whatever.
Driving up to the school the other night to pick up The Princess from her last volleyball game, I whipped the truck into a parking place and sat back to watch the parents. You have the Mom’s with their cutesy cars who are always talking on their phones. You have the Mom’s with their vans who are always staring off into space. And you have the Dad’s with their humungoid vehicles that could be used for world dominiation.
And then you have my faded red 12 year old Toyota with a stereo that is worth more than the truck. Blasting out Linkin Park.
Not many of the parents talk to me.
I think that I like it like that.
Namaste.
