Carlos has a serious issue with time, being late almost, almost, always. On the other hand, I was raised to almost, almost, always be early.
The other day, though, I got stuck at work chatting with co-workers and was late picking him up; he was annoyed. And we had a small spat about it, where I apologized—I should have called—but also reminded him that he has no sense of time and he is almost, almost, always late and has no issue with making people wait.
Cut to this morning; we had to leave early because Ozzo had a surgery and a dental cleaning planned and we had to have him at the vet’s office between seven and seven-thirty. We usually have breakfast at 7:30 so I suggested Carlos, who gets up first, have his breakfast first, and I’d eat after we dropped the dog off because I don’t need to go in as early.
I awoke at 6:45. We had fifteen minutes to leave, so I jumped out of bed and brushed my teeth, got dressed, threw on a ball cap and went out to the kitchen where Carlos … was preparing to make a couple of Café con Leches! I said:
“We have to go! We have to get Ozzo to the vet before 7:30.”
Carlos was stunned:
“Well, when can I have breakfast!”
“You’re right, call the vet and tell them we’ll be there at eight or so … after you have breakfast because they’ll wait on surgery for your breakfast!”
This is the same man who, when we lived in Miami, had a forty-five-minute commute to work each morning, and one morning, as we ate breakfast, he noticed he had just twenty minutes to get to work.
“Oh my god! I’m gonna be so late …”
I started to get up from the table.
“…so, I’ll have one more piece of toast.”
Seriously.
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