I knew when I put the DVD in the shopping cart with the plastic storage bin that the DVD was going to slide under the storage bin. I knew that I would forget about the DVD once it disappeared under the storage bin, and I knew that I would neglect to pay for it.
I said to myself, “You’re going to forget about that DVD and be accused of shoplifting by the little old lady that guards the door at the Walmart.”
I did and I was.
I knew that Conner was going to be stung by the bumble bees that darted hither and thither among the herb plants.
"Conner,” I said, “You’re going to get stung by that bumble bee if you touch it.”
His eyes narrowed and his determination hardened.
“Don’t do it, buddy. I mean it. Don’t grab that . . . bee.”
He inched closer to the bees his hands clenching and unclenching. “Conner, you’re going to be sor . . .” I closed my mouth and saved my breath, because I am fifty plus years old and I know when a kid is about to get the snot stung out of him by a bumble bee.
I knew, and he did.
“Sherwood, don’t you think having an extra bottle of propane on hand might be a good idea to prevent grilling emergencies? You know, just in case?”
My husband’s eyes narrowed and his resistance hardened. I knew that he would not be purchasing an extra bottle of emergency propane, and he didn’t. So when he ran out of gas for the grill at Conner’s birthday party, with approximately seventy-two people standing around with their hotdog buns open and their mustard crusting over, I realized that being right all the time reeks. It’s a useless talent.
Better to spend your days ignoring people and do what ever you want to do anyway—like the government.
Linda (Told You So) Zern
