If You've Got An Itch.

It's early on a Sunday morning. I've got the jitters. It's a very big day at church and I can't be late. Inappropriate.

Note: DIL, that one's for you.

Son is carrying my stuff to his car. To drive us to church, for which we still cannot be late. Son is carrying a big box with a tablecloth and large, filled easter eggs and eighteen verbena, potted in little eco-friendly containers and a large outdoor music speaker and a picture of Jesus, yes. And more stuff like markers and papers and scriptures.

Note: It is a big box. But Son is a big man, yes.

He walks to his car. It is white. It is nicer than my car. But that's good because soon Grandboy will be riding in that car. And it needs to be nicer and safer and comfier and air-conditionier and smoother-ridier and soothing-auxiliary-iPod-compatiblier and whatnot. For the Grandboy, yes.

Son is standing by the trunk. Now he is rubbing his leg on the trunk. His upper leg, yes. It's not working, he says, and appears to adjust his rubbing somewhat.

Note: I am not sure what is not working and frankly, I do not want to know.

Wait. That is a lie. I have to know.

As it turns out, Son has a keyless entry system to his nicer-car-than-mine. If the key is in his pocket, say, and he comes close to the car, it recognizes the key in some miraculous way and pops the trunk or opens the doors or even turns the car on.

Note: The rubbing has nothing to do with it.

That is, the car recognizes the key in some miraculous way and pops the trunk or opens the doors or even turns the car on unless he does not have the keys in his pocket after all. Then it's mostly just a scratching post.

Heck, yes!