Butterflies

Some days it takes a lot of effort to be cheery. For one thing, when did eating become such a big deal? Between getting food, getting food ready, eating, and cleaning up afterward, there is precious little time for goofing off. Then there's keeping life generally in order. Jerry complains whenever he trips over the smallest little thing that I might have dropped on my way in the door. If it's too big for him to step over, why can't he walk around?
So while my time is being wasted on details, my brain is free to go where it will. Which is the problem. When I'm doing things I don't like to do, I think of all the other things that tick me off. Like why buses are so big. Or people who walk down the middle of the grocery aisle unwilling to leave just a narrow path for me to get through. Or check out clerks who think that anyone, including the baby in the cart in front of me, wants her to croon and cluck at the little tyke instead of doing her job.
On good days, I try to laugh this stuff off. I don't want to end up like Donald Duck, fuming and sputtering over every little thing. Which reminds me of a poem that Sandy once quoted for me. I can't remember all the words except for one line, “don't shoot butterflies with rifles.”
Okay, but I can think of a few things I would like to shoot. Hmm. Maybe I could use a squirt gun? That idea cheers me up.
Nancy Sherer