Time is Her Bitch

I have a friend. I’ll call her V. There’s V in the picture there.

Hi, V.

Hi, V.

V is a sweetheart. A funny, beautiful, principled, creative sweetheart. V hosts great parties. V is intelligent. V manages to balance sincerity and irony in a way most of us can only dream of. But V has a secret, an awesome, mind-blowing secret: V is the supreme ruler of time and space.


Amazing, right? I know, I can hardly believe it myself. But it’s true.


Oh, you want proof? You mean other than my good word? Well, just try to wrap your brain around this:


September 2007:

V and I were chatting early in the afternoon. I asked her what she’d done over her lunch hour.

“Oh, picked up my husband, took the dogs on a walk, ate. Then I took hubby back to work.”

“What did you have to eat,” I asked.

 “Chicken fried steak,” she replied.

I nodded sagaciously, commenting that leftover chicken fried steak is never as good as fresh.

“It wasn’t leftovers,” she said.

“Wait, you made chicken fried steak?” I queried, flabbergasted. For the uninitiated, chicken fried steak is not a complicated dish, just a labor-intensive one, what with all the breading and pan-frying and whatnot.

“Yep,” she replied, stoically.

“From scratch?”


“And you walked the dogs? All after picking up hubby and driving home in lunch-rush traffic?”


I was astounded. Simply prepping for that kind of lunch would have taken me an hour. And yet, she made lunch, took care of all manner of domestic busywork, and still managed to get back to work at exactly the one hour mark. And not rushing back to work, mind you, calmly striding in, a wee smile on her face.




Need more? Consider V’s average afternoon. She gets off work at 4:00 pm and must pick her husband up from work when his day ends at 5:00 pm. Now, I’m the kind of person who, given the same amount of time,  would maybe get dinner started, maybe sit down for a couple of minutes and watch a show or read a bit from a magazine and then have to speed off to pick up hubby and still arrive five minutes late. Yet V is able to get home, do twenty minutes of exercise on her elliptical machine, walk the dogs again, maybe do a little vacuuming, prepare a complete dinner (we ain’t talking Hamburger Helper here, either), and still get to her husband’s workplace with enough time to arrange herself seductively on the hood of the car á la that one Whitesnake video.




                Some skeptics might look at the evidence and suggest that it’s not so much a matter of V controlling the very fabric of time as it is a matter of my very poor time management skills. To which I give a very emphatic, Nuh-unh! V just rocks that way. And she has a StarGate in her closet.  





3 responses to “Time is Her Bitch

  1. Crazy Talk! Amazingly enough, you are my Kryptonite!!

  2. You’re right, she must be using some kind of minions, magick, or… or… a crock pot…

  3. I want a StarGate!

    Nice, picture btw.

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