That was my Last Nerve

When Grandma Mayse said this, every child in the house ran for cover. Most of the time, the recipient of the switch, belt, or occasional broomstick were my two only slightly older than I uncles, Fred and Charlie, but we all had guilty consciences.

I was about five when I realized that it was better to simply do what she told me than to risk getting caught. My three cousins, Jim, Dave, and Karen, all younger than I, must have been more observant than I. I don’t remember them ever getting a “whuppin”. Then again, maybe she liked them more, or maybe she was getting older and didn’t want to chase kids around the house. She did, however develop quite a pitching arm. It wasn’t unusual to see a shoe flying from one room to the other.

I had a picture in my mind of what her “nerves” looked like. Since they were so easily broken, I imagined them as little flash-bulb-like bubbles floating around in her head. Since it wasn’t unusual to hear, “That was my last nerve,” I thought she must get a fresh supply every day. A sin on the part of her charges made one of these little things pop and sent her into warrior mode. When someone took her last nerve, the guilty party had a price to pay.

Now that I’m an old lady myself, I appreciate the “last nerve” theory. I had one of those days today when my “bulbs” popped off and on all afternoon. Most of it was my own fault.

First, I lost my keys. I knew they were in the house. The car was here. I was here. Ergo, the keys must be here. The key locator doesn’t work right, so it was search high and low time. It took me all day to find them in a “Ross” bag with something I was going to return.
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Then I lost my Mr. Fitbit. Again, I had it on my arm a few minutes earlier. I didn’t leave home. It must be here. Do dogs eat Fitbits? Still haven’t found it.

The worker who was supposed to be here Monday and didn’t show up, didn’t show up Tuesday, finally texted me at three p.m. Wednesday and said he would call me at four. It’s now after seven p.m. and I haven’t heard from him.

To cap it off, I overcooked the asparagus. Eating floppy asparagus isn’t punishment enough since I gave most of it to the dog. THAT was my last nerve.

Someone around here needs to be punished. I don’t have a willow tree in the back yard. Maybe I should cut one of those rose stems with the big thorns on it and give myself a beating. OR, I could hit myself in the head with a brick, but how would that be punishment? The way my brain has been working lately, it wouldn’t hurt.