Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous

Not only is the title of this post a Good Charlotte song of junior high times, but it's also something that doesn't make sense to me.  Life is so complicated for some people.  They go to school so that they can work, to afford the lifestyle they always dreamt of.  You graduate, get married and have kids.  You're back at work so that you can afford someone to clean your big house, someone to maintain the magnificent yard, and even pay someone to take care of your own kiddos.

Where's the happiness in life if you don't have time to enjoy YOUR life?  When work comes first there is no time for other things.  Some kids spend more time with nannies than they do with parents.  Some adults spend more time working to pay their mortgage than they do enjoying their house.

I hope I never fall in this trap.  I think simplicity is the best.  I'm not saying that I want to live in a trailer, but ya know.  And lastly, I'm grateful for these workaholics, because I'm a nanny, and they pay dang good.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:

When I Hit That Person

A few weeks ago I was backing out of my roommate's work in the 9th & 9th area.  Teenagers were walking home from school, but I didn't notice.  I had ran inside to borrow a key from her and then jumped in my car to get home.  I looked over my shoulder and started down the long driveway.  As I made it down the hill and leveled out on the sidewalk I felt a big thump.  Did I pop a tire?  Was that an animal?  Why was a wannabe fashion blogger running towards me screaming "OH MY GOSH" with her hand over her mouth?

Oh.  It's because I hit a PERSON.  He was just strolling down the sidewalk, and I hit him! And knocked him over.  Flat on the ground.  I looked in my side mirror and saw his friend laughing at him as he was struggling to stand again.  I glance over at the diva again and still, she's screaming, horrified.  I'm horrified too but I mean he's walking--it's not like I ran him flat over or he flew through the windshield.

(MEANWHILE my roommate Amanda is inside her work and hears the screams, looks out the window and just sees feet poking out the side of my car.  It must have been a bad angle.  She comes outside)

I ask the Asian high school student if he is ok and he wouldn't accept any help from me. The little horrified missy is still screaming, but also doing one more thing with her free hand that isn't covering her mouth.  She's typing my license plate into her white iPhone.  I ask her to cut it out--nicely and with a smile of course--but really?  I'm 21 and I'm a good person--I'm not just going to hit and run.  I tell her I don't know if I should call the police or what but I have it and that she doesn't need to take my license plate.  I asked her what she was going to do with and it and I think she said "I don't know" but her voice was muffled by her freshly manicured hands with shellac.

He gets up, and I give him my name and number on a sticky note.  The funny thing about this pad of sticky notes is that I haven't used it since I wrote my information down to give to a lady in the last car accident I was in.  (These are the only two incidents I promise).

Things turned out fine, the girl went shopping, the boy walked home, and I drove to Chick-Fil-A to calm my fast beating heart.


I ♥ my CR-V

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