I’ll take “Things I’m Good At” for $1000, Alex

I kind of woke up in a mood to toot my own horn this morning. I’ve told y’all before that words of affirmation are my love language, so I’m affirming muh-self in this dissertation of all of the things I’m really, really good at doing. It’s fine if you feel a pang of jealousy; these things happen when you meet the master.

Firstly, I have the “late game” on lock. You know (or maybe you don’t), the never on time, sliding in minutes past a time assignment, also known as tardy to the party. I don’t know what it is in me, but some dark spot in my DNA (that obviously didn’t code from my mother or father’s DNA but it’s somewhere in the genetic chain) has this thing for time constraints. It doesn’t like it. It’s a literal fight within my flesh to make it somewhere on time. And please spare me any nuggets of advice on “how to be on time.” I know some of these strategies, but the Grim Time Reaper in my soul just.can’t.do.it.captain. It’s just me, y’all. Mark my words, Kimbrell Stern Funeral Home…I’ll be late to my own funeral. Now, this languishing ability leads to my next skill set:

Making excuses…I can spin a semi-believable yarn at a moment’s notice. In fact, when I’m en route to various places where I’m expected at a certain time, I’ve got a short story prepared that is filled with allegory, alliteration, and altruistic undertones ready to spill on the waiting party. It’s a gift, people. A gift which I don’t deserve, but will use with reckless abandon. Once I get there…

Next, I have an amazing ability to clean my plate. Not the soap and water kind of cleansing, mind you– rather the shovel to mouth method. Leaving things on my plate is also a gift given by my makeup. My family likes to eat. Some more than others (ahem), but food is our jam. I think serving others food was my maternal grandmother’s love language. Every Sunday, we would roost like vultures at her house after church for lunch that she had prepared for us. If you didn’t go back for seconds, she might check your head for fever. And at the kids’ table, where my cousins and I all sat until we could be accepted at the adult table (and that didn’t happen until you went off to college, which was fine by me because sitting at that particular table usually required cleaning plates in the actual sink after the meal was consumed, and as I said…that’s not my method), we would often hear at the behest of our Mimi that we join the “Clean Plate Club.” Not being one to turn down an invite to a club, I joined that cult every.Sunday. Heck, I insured my membership every time I sat in front of a plate of food. Happy to say, I’m still a member of this prestigious club that’s dues are paid in waist sizes and thigh gaps.

Moving right along…I’m a tenured employee of FBI. FaceBook Investigation. I can find out more info than you care to know about your pest control agent, your child’s fencing instructor, or even one of your shady family members. I don’t need much information to go on either…I can garner insight in to the person in question’s life without a search warrant or a password protected, highly encrypted, fire walled data base. All I need is a Facebook springboard with a Google-capable search engine, coupled with my internal antennae that are attuned to otherwise inconsequential facts (thanks, ADD…you do have your merits). Want to know where your OB/GYN vacationed a few years ago? I got you. How about the incarceration history of the neighbor that lives next door to your step grandma? On it. Here’s one– your enemy’s sister’s ex-boyfriend’s baby mama’s shoe size? I KNOW THIS, MAN. Don’t worry, I’m not stalker status, but the real FBI should contract my services. I can do it in my PJs. (And please note aforementioned attribute: fabricator of tales. I can fill in the blanks with my imagination.)

Last horn toot for this post: I win at napping. Accept it. Give me a semi-soft spot, like a bed of pinestraw or leaning against a stuccoed wall, and I will nod off in Guinness Book speed. Give me a really soft spot and I’m already asleep thinking about it. Naps are crucial to my other gifts I’ve mentioned. Let me explain in a quick example:

If you give a Betsy a plate of chicken pot pie, she’s going to want seconds. After cleaning her plate of the second helping, she’ll decide she needs to lie down for a bit on the couch to stretch out that belly full. As soon as her head hits the pillow, she’s out like a light for a good hour or two. After she’s sufficiently napped, she’ll wake up to discover that it’s two minutes until dismissal for her son, so she’ll run to get her car keys, carefully careening down corridors then coasting cautiously into the carpool chaos. (See what I did there?) Running five minutes late, she’s relieved to see that she’s last in the long line but not terribly late, so she can avoid apologizing for being tardy and instead take a few moments to look at Facebook and begin digging up some intelligence on the new boyfriend of her good friend’s oldest daughter. She’ll do the research pro bono, because she cares. However, her friend will pay her in a glass of wine, and you know what happens when you give a Betsy a dish (wine glasses included in this category)…