"Chauffeurs and Chefs"
                                    By Kelly Tomlinson

  As a teenager I was told on numerous occasions that driving was a privilege, not a right. Those words fell upon deaf ears many years ago but ring true now with my MS. Delayed reaction time and leg weakness have made me realize I should drive only when those symptoms are not present. This could be considered by some to be a loss of independence but my feelings are one of excitement on hitting the jackpot with my own personal chauffeur. Yes, I'm just like Donald Trump!

  Actually I have two chauffeurs at my beck and call, my wife and my teenage son. I prefer to have my wife drive me rather than my son because my trips with him at the helm are a payback for my younger days when I terrorized my grandmother while driving her around town in her car when I would visit. She would beg me to slow down but I gave her the excuse that it was necessary to drive at the speed of light in order to burn the carbon out of her engine which had accumulated from her sluggish driving habits. She was that well-known little old lady who only drove her car very slowly to church on Sunday.

  Now when I ride with my son I just grin and bear it, knowing that I am paying for my past transgressions. Hopefully the fingernail marks I have been gouging in the dashboard on the passenger side every trip taken with him are getting deep enough so that he will reconsider his job duties as my chauffeur in the near future.

  Since I already have a couple of chauffeurs I thought it would be appropriate to also have a butler and a maid to complement my household staff. As I drift off into a daydream state I see my butler bringing the morning paper and my cup of coffee into the bedroom. He then proceeds to lay out clothes which I will be wearing for the day, shines my shoes and asks me if there is anything else I need.

  Meanwhile in another part of the house the maid is busy doing laundry, cleaning house and polishing the silver. I am abruptly brought out of my daydream state by my wife who has been reading this over my shoulder. She jerks me back to reality by bringing to my attention the fact she fills those shoes also.

  In a desperate attempt at damage control I wholeheartedly agree with her. Quickly remembering which side my bread is buttered on, I remind her that she is also my personal chef, and in my opinion the best there is. I proceed to name off two dozen of my favorite dishes which she prepares and it seems to diminish the look of disdain she has been giving me. Whew, that being said and done, I am confidant I will be able to safely sleep with both eyes closed tonight

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