The Brady Bunch was my favorite show when I was little, for many reasons:
1. They had a huge house, no part of the house was on wheels and none of the children were ever asked to run the lot-rent check up to the office.
2. They had a live-in maid. That meant they were rich, and being rich meant they might adopt me. Of course, I would still visit my parents on weekends and I'd probably bring them some of the porkchops and applesauce that Alice had made.
3. They had a sliding door that lead to the backyard.
4. They had a backyard.
5. There were 3 boys and 3 girls.*
6. All of the boys had dark hair and all of the girls had blonde hair. I became anxious when Marcia's hair started getting darker in season 4.*
7. Each child had a step-sibling that was their exact age.*
8. They had family meetings and the kids actually had a say in how the family was run. Their parents never said stuff like, it's my way or the highway and don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.
9. Alice always wrote the meals on the chalkboard in the kitchen. There were no nasty surprises at dinner. Like your mom sneaking sliced turnips in with the fried potatoes, and then telling you that if you could tell the difference, you didn't have to eat them. Then when you could tell the difference because turnips, when held up to the light, have veins in them, your mom lied and said no, that's a potato and made you eat it anyway.
10. They had a laundry room. That meant nobody had to be forced to go on weekly trips to the laundromat, where your mom got mad if you and your best friend had races with the rickety metal carts and accidentally bashed them into some dryers and then the girl at the counter told on you and your best friend because you decided to pass the time by having a belching contest. And then your mom made you throw out your sodas, even though you weren't done with them yet.
11. Alice always gave them a snack after school, and it was usually cookies and milk. Nobody had to go to the creepy neighbor's house after school and watch religious programming until their mom came home from work because they were too young to be trusted with a housekey.
12. Nobody ever got spanked in The Brady Bunch. The parents just sat the child down and explained how disappointed they were and then gave them a reasonable consequence. No child in The Brady Bunch was ever made to wear their mom's old glasses from high school as a punishment for faking their vision test in the 3rd grade because she wanted glasses, and the parents never said stuff like, if i ever catch you [fill in the blank] again, i'm going to knock you into the middle of next week or you're cruisin' for a bruisin'.
13. Mr. Brady never asked the kids to pull his finger. Not once.
*due to my obsessiveness, matching-but-not-completely-matching was paramount to me. For example, Marcia could be matched to her sisters due to gender and hair color, but she could also be matched to Greg due to age. Greg could be matched with his siblings as being one of the children, but he could also be matched with Mr. Brady because they both slept with Carol, only Greg did it in real life and Mr. Brady pretended.
How Google Trends Is Going To Make This Post Full Of WIN. Oh, And Technorati Can Go Suck It. Plus, I Make A Whore Out Of Glenn Beck.
I recently checked my Technorati score and discovered that my authority (ah-thor-i-tay) had dropped by 50 points, apparently because I don't utilize Google Trends or any SEO to determine what my posts should be about. Instead, I write about stuff like asshole ex-husbands and anorexia and imaginary conversations and ADHD and plant rape and all kinds of other stuff nobody but me and my flunkies followers appear to be interested in.
Let's see here, from what I gather I need to go to google trends and find out what the hottest topics are right now! Then, I need to write a blog about one of these trends, and just sit back and watch the hits come in, right?
But....wait. What if I used more than ONE search term? What if I used.....NINE!!! Nine of the top search terms in the past 24 hours??? Well, I do love a challenge...
Ok, so here are the nine searches and terms I'm going to be using in my post. Don't think I'm going to just throw nine terms at you and click "publish post", because that would be lazy and lame and it would stink of desperation. No, I'm going to weave the following terms together to form a cohesive post that draws the reader in. Just watch.
1.Corned Beef and Cabbage
2.Vanderbilt
3.Insidious
4.Gonzaga
5.Banshee
6.Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows, Part 2
7.Tibetan Mastiff
8.Glenn Beck
9.Talbots
The Story
A long, long time ago in a Wizarding World far away lived a young, coltish male wizard, by the name of Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows, Part 2. For the sake of brevity, we will just refer to him as Harry or Harry Potter.
Harry was not a boy, but not yet a man. It was the spring of his sixteenth year and he was looking for gonzaga, or, as we say in the Muggle World, trouble. Harry Potter had learned the term gonzaga from his very favorite professor at Hogwart's Academy one dark, stormy evening as they lounged before the large, crackling fireplace drinking brandy that recalled memories of gravel and pink hair-ribbons and girls named Nancy. Who was Harry Potter's favorite professor? In a word, Insidious Vanderbilt.
Insidious Vanderbilt had coined the term gonzaga during the summer he turned 18 and toured Europe with only a thumb, a tight bottom and a pair of shapely legs to get him from hostel A to hostel B, and he insisted that it be pronounced in italics at all times, or else. Harry Potter didn't know it at the time, but Insidious Vanderbilt had two weaknesses. A love of Corned Beef and Cabbage and Talbots, his faithful but n'er-do-well older brother. Talbots also had the family weakness for Corned Beef and Cabbage, and it would prove to be his undoing. His undoing, indeed.
Now, in the deep, dark woods of The Wizarding World Of Harry Potter lived an evil, ugly ogre-troll that the schoolchildren had cruelly nicknamed Glenn Beck. Glenn Beck adored living in his little piece of the woods and he drew a large, proprietary circle around his hut and threw rocks at any woodland creature who dared to come near his cottage. Glenn Beck was very short and warty, with lank, greasy hair and terrible acne. He also had stinky flatulence due to his disgusting habit of eating the leftover Shawarma and Falafel that the schoolchildren tossed by the wayside as they scurried to and fro. Glenn Beck had a secret love of all things Middle Eastern, and he had read the Holy Qur'an from cover to cover, several times. He had converted to Islam in his early 20's, and he never failed to unroll his prayer rug 5 times a day so that he could praise Allah.
However, Glenn Beck was leading a secret life that his 4 wives knew nothing about. He had produced a boy-child, a bastard offspring, who was the delight of his heart. He named this favored child Barack Hussein Obama, in honor of the President of The United States, whom Glenn Beck had secretly voted for in spite of the political leanings of the bastard company he worked for, Fox News. Glenn Beck hated Fox News with every fiber of his being, and he prayed to Allah for the day that Fox News would be crushed under the giant foot of the Democratic party, whose name he blessed upon waking every morning.
Glenn Beck kissed his beloved boy-child, Barack Hussein Obama, on the lips before quickly depositing him in the lap of his beloved concubine, Sally Mae. He knew Sally Mae was a whore, but he loved her just the same. Humming a quick tune, he jauntily ambled up the steps to his cottage. He sniffed the air. Was that....could it be....YES! It was Corned Beef and Cabbage! Second only to Allah and his prophet Muhammed, blessed-be-his-name, Glenn Beck loved Corned Beef and Cabbage. In fact, he loved all things that were from other cultures, such as bellydancing, hummus and fezzes:
Let's see here, from what I gather I need to go to google trends and find out what the hottest topics are right now! Then, I need to write a blog about one of these trends, and just sit back and watch the hits come in, right?
But....wait. What if I used more than ONE search term? What if I used.....NINE!!! Nine of the top search terms in the past 24 hours??? Well, I do love a challenge...
Ok, so here are the nine searches and terms I'm going to be using in my post. Don't think I'm going to just throw nine terms at you and click "publish post", because that would be lazy and lame and it would stink of desperation. No, I'm going to weave the following terms together to form a cohesive post that draws the reader in. Just watch.
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
The Story
A long, long time ago in a Wizarding World far away lived a young, coltish male wizard, by the name of Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows, Part 2. For the sake of brevity, we will just refer to him as Harry or Harry Potter.
Harry was not a boy, but not yet a man. It was the spring of his sixteenth year and he was looking for gonzaga, or, as we say in the Muggle World, trouble. Harry Potter had learned the term gonzaga from his very favorite professor at Hogwart's Academy one dark, stormy evening as they lounged before the large, crackling fireplace drinking brandy that recalled memories of gravel and pink hair-ribbons and girls named Nancy. Who was Harry Potter's favorite professor? In a word, Insidious Vanderbilt.
Insidious Vanderbilt had coined the term gonzaga during the summer he turned 18 and toured Europe with only a thumb, a tight bottom and a pair of shapely legs to get him from hostel A to hostel B, and he insisted that it be pronounced in italics at all times, or else. Harry Potter didn't know it at the time, but Insidious Vanderbilt had two weaknesses. A love of Corned Beef and Cabbage and Talbots, his faithful but n'er-do-well older brother. Talbots also had the family weakness for Corned Beef and Cabbage, and it would prove to be his undoing. His undoing, indeed.
Now, in the deep, dark woods of The Wizarding World Of Harry Potter lived an evil, ugly ogre-troll that the schoolchildren had cruelly nicknamed Glenn Beck. Glenn Beck adored living in his little piece of the woods and he drew a large, proprietary circle around his hut and threw rocks at any woodland creature who dared to come near his cottage. Glenn Beck was very short and warty, with lank, greasy hair and terrible acne. He also had stinky flatulence due to his disgusting habit of eating the leftover Shawarma and Falafel that the schoolchildren tossed by the wayside as they scurried to and fro. Glenn Beck had a secret love of all things Middle Eastern, and he had read the Holy Qur'an from cover to cover, several times. He had converted to Islam in his early 20's, and he never failed to unroll his prayer rug 5 times a day so that he could praise Allah.
However, Glenn Beck was leading a secret life that his 4 wives knew nothing about. He had produced a boy-child, a bastard offspring, who was the delight of his heart. He named this favored child Barack Hussein Obama, in honor of the President of The United States, whom Glenn Beck had secretly voted for in spite of the political leanings of the bastard company he worked for, Fox News. Glenn Beck hated Fox News with every fiber of his being, and he prayed to Allah for the day that Fox News would be crushed under the giant foot of the Democratic party, whose name he blessed upon waking every morning.
Glenn Beck kissed his beloved boy-child, Barack Hussein Obama, on the lips before quickly depositing him in the lap of his beloved concubine, Sally Mae. He knew Sally Mae was a whore, but he loved her just the same. Humming a quick tune, he jauntily ambled up the steps to his cottage. He sniffed the air. Was that....could it be....YES! It was Corned Beef and Cabbage! Second only to Allah and his prophet Muhammed, blessed-be-his-name, Glenn Beck loved Corned Beef and Cabbage. In fact, he loved all things that were from other cultures, such as bellydancing, hummus and fezzes:
 |
| Glenn Beck loves his Fez |
Glenn Beck followed his nose until it led him to something that made his heart fill with joy. It was the sight of 245 naked young men, dancing around a spit on which was roasting that gift of Allah, Corned Beef. The naked young men were decorated in all manner of feathers, beads and body paint, and Glenn Beck felt his loins stir in kind. Suddenly his chest tightened, for he had spotted his arch-enemy, Insidious Vanderbilt, dancing round the fire with a most beauteous young man with round spectacles and a dark thatch of hair. Who could that exquisite creature be? Glenn Beck found himself mesmerised and drawn into the circle of young flesh. He sidled up to Insidious Vanderbilt, but was stopped short by that person's familiar, an overly-large Tibetan Mastiff named Banshee.
Banshee howled at the scent of such evil in the presence of his master, and Insidious Vanderbilt swiftly turned in response. His eyes narrowed as he took in the visage of his adversary, Glenn Beck. He slowly walked over to the spot where Glenn Beck stood, taking note of the puddle of urine staining the ground where Glenn Beck stood trembling in fear.
He loudly cried, halt!
All eyes were upon Insidious Vanderbilt as he grasped Glenn Beck in his tight, manly embrace.
My brother! Assalamu Alaikum!, he joyfully cried.
Walaikum as salaam!, shouted Glenn Beck, unmindful of the hostile stares he was gathering from the Young Republican sect of the gathering.
Insidious Vanderbilt pulled young Harry Potter forward, and introduced him to Glenn Beck. Harry Potter's eyes lowered as Glenn Beck's eyes roamed over his physique.
Insh'Allah! Glenn Beck murmured.
The End.
Things I Learned While Out And About This Week. Oh, And I Drunk Commented The Bloggess.
Here is a list of stuff I learned this week:
1. When you aren't sure who the father of your baby is, but you give your baby the last name of your current babydaddy, then your child is called a "Maybe Baby".
2. That guy ahead of me today, driving the white Ford F150? You know, the one who had a static sticker on his back window that read, "THIS IS AMERICA! SO SPEAK ENGLISH!" Him? Yeah. What a douche. Somebody should tell him that the people who *can't* speak English probably CAN'T READ IT EITHER SO YOUR STUPID STICKER WAS A WASTE OF MONEY UNLESS ALL YOU WANTED TO DO WAS IMPRESS ALL THE OTHER REDNECKS ON THE ROAD WITH YOUR MIND-NUMBINGLY IGNORANT VIEW OF HOW LIFE *SHOULD* WORK. asshole. He doesn't deserve a capital A.
3. The story of the male angler fish is both fascinating and terrifying. Mostly terrifying.
4. The pro-NRA crazyeyes I'm-going-to-be-a-marine-or-a-green-beret grocery store bagboy who wears camoflauge and safety glasses ALL THE TIME obviously sees dangers associated with retail foods that the rest of us are just oblivious to. Or he's going to kill us all one day. Best not to piss him off.
5. I'm pretty sure that Susan only wanted me for my money. Like,99.95% 97.78% 84.30% damn! I was going to link to another post but apparently every single percentage in the world is already taken by some stupid website. Yes, even 87.877837339lsiek. Damn openDNS guide. I'm ninetyninepointninetyfivepercent sure. HA!
6. You really can't say you've lived until your car is towed by "Pappy's Towing" where the slogan (once again static stickered to their back window) reads, "If Your Car's Running Crappy, It's Time To Call Pappy." When you're riding in the passenger seat of the tow-truck, don't be all stuck-up, just smile and wave. Not everybody gets to have this experience, you know.
7. Match.com apparently thinks my alter-ego "Toni1967" would be interested in someone named "Cowtung". No? Then how about "Brutus"? And they usually look like this:
So now I'm going to visit a sick friend, then I'm getting my drink on with Ames
Oh, I almost forgot. I got a little drunkish and somehow landed on The Bloggess' page, the one where she's all "Sue me!" It was so funny that I commented on it. Now I almost never comment on really popular blogs because what are the odds that somebody like that would even see my comment, in among the thousands?? Basically I told her how awesome she is (because I didn't think she was aware) and I complained that since my mom and my daughter read my blog I can't drop the eff bomb like she does. I have to drop the *ff bomb instead. Oh, and I told her about that time that Sheila* was at my house and I went to the bathroom and I was all like, "OMG! I just sneezed and a poop came out!" and Sheila was all like, "....OH! Out of your butt!" And it was really funny because she initially thought it came out of my nose, which is gross. Plus it was when my husband-at-the-time had taken the kids to Chicago so we were totally drunk.
So, recap. Told her how awesome she is. And whined. And overshared. Well.....guess what! Nope! that's not it, try again.
Come on, you're not even trying to guess! Ok, I'll tell you.
I CHECKED MY TWITTER ACCOUNT AND OMG THE BLOGGESS IS TOTALLY FOLLOWING MY FEED!!!!! CAN YOU F*CKING BELIEVE THAT SH*T?????
So how was your week?
*not her real name but she would totally kill me if I used her real name in a story.
1. When you aren't sure who the father of your baby is, but you give your baby the last name of your current babydaddy, then your child is called a "Maybe Baby".
2. That guy ahead of me today, driving the white Ford F150? You know, the one who had a static sticker on his back window that read, "THIS IS AMERICA! SO SPEAK ENGLISH!" Him? Yeah. What a douche. Somebody should tell him that the people who *can't* speak English probably CAN'T READ IT EITHER SO YOUR STUPID STICKER WAS A WASTE OF MONEY UNLESS ALL YOU WANTED TO DO WAS IMPRESS ALL THE OTHER REDNECKS ON THE ROAD WITH YOUR MIND-NUMBINGLY IGNORANT VIEW OF HOW LIFE *SHOULD* WORK. asshole. He doesn't deserve a capital A.
3. The story of the male angler fish is both fascinating and terrifying. Mostly terrifying.
4. The pro-NRA crazyeyes I'm-going-to-be-a-marine-or-a-green-beret grocery store bagboy who wears camoflauge and safety glasses ALL THE TIME obviously sees dangers associated with retail foods that the rest of us are just oblivious to. Or he's going to kill us all one day. Best not to piss him off.
5. I'm pretty sure that Susan only wanted me for my money. Like,
6. You really can't say you've lived until your car is towed by "Pappy's Towing" where the slogan (once again static stickered to their back window) reads, "If Your Car's Running Crappy, It's Time To Call Pappy." When you're riding in the passenger seat of the tow-truck, don't be all stuck-up, just smile and wave. Not everybody gets to have this experience, you know.
7. Match.com apparently thinks my alter-ego "Toni1967" would be interested in someone named "Cowtung". No? Then how about "Brutus"? And they usually look like this:
So now I'm going to visit a sick friend, then I'm getting my drink on with Ames
Oh, I almost forgot. I got a little drunkish and somehow landed on The Bloggess' page, the one where she's all "Sue me!" It was so funny that I commented on it. Now I almost never comment on really popular blogs because what are the odds that somebody like that would even see my comment, in among the thousands?? Basically I told her how awesome she is (because I didn't think she was aware) and I complained that since my mom and my daughter read my blog I can't drop the eff bomb like she does. I have to drop the *ff bomb instead. Oh, and I told her about that time that Sheila* was at my house and I went to the bathroom and I was all like, "OMG! I just sneezed and a poop came out!" and Sheila was all like, "....OH! Out of your butt!" And it was really funny because she initially thought it came out of my nose, which is gross. Plus it was when my husband-at-the-time had taken the kids to Chicago so we were totally drunk.
So, recap. Told her how awesome she is. And whined. And overshared. Well.....guess what! Nope! that's not it, try again.
Come on, you're not even trying to guess! Ok, I'll tell you.
I CHECKED MY TWITTER ACCOUNT AND OMG THE BLOGGESS IS TOTALLY FOLLOWING MY FEED!!!!! CAN YOU F*CKING BELIEVE THAT SH*T?????
So how was your week?
*not her real name but she would totally kill me if I used her real name in a story.
Ways My Son Tricks Me Into Doing Sh*t For Him. He's So Sneaky.
Zach: "Mama, will you read this book about cats to me?"
Me: "No. We have to get you to Boy Scouts."
Zach: "Pleeeeezee???"
Meanwhile, I'm busily unloading the dishwasher, sweeping the floor and setting the timer on the coffee machine....
Me: "NO! We have to go. NOW!"
Zach: "PLEEEEEEEEEZZZZZZE???????!!!!! READ ME THIS COOL BOOK ABOUT CATS!!!!?????"
Me: "STOP IT! We have to drive you to Boy Scouts! I don't have time to read a book about about cats!!"
Satisfied that Zach finally understands, I bag up the garbage, wipe off the stove and set out the breakfast dishes for tomorrow.....
Silence......
Zach: "Ok. Mama?"
Me: "What?"
Zach: "What does n-o-c-t-u-r-n-a-l spell?"
Me: "Nocturnal."
Zach: "Thanks. What does p-l-a-y-i-n-g spell?"
Me: "Playing."
Zach: "Thanks."
More silence......
Zach: "What does f-e-l-i-n-e spell?"
Me: "Feli.....WAIT A MINUTE!!! Are you having me read that freaking cat book to you???"
Zach: "......."
Me: "You are!! You TOTALLY ARE!!!"
And that's how Zach got me to read a book to him without reading a book to him.
Me: "No. We have to get you to Boy Scouts."
Zach: "Pleeeeezee???"
Meanwhile, I'm busily unloading the dishwasher, sweeping the floor and setting the timer on the coffee machine....
Me: "NO! We have to go. NOW!"
Zach: "PLEEEEEEEEEZZZZZZE???????!!!!! READ ME THIS COOL BOOK ABOUT CATS!!!!?????"
Me: "STOP IT! We have to drive you to Boy Scouts! I don't have time to read a book about about cats!!"
Satisfied that Zach finally understands, I bag up the garbage, wipe off the stove and set out the breakfast dishes for tomorrow.....
Silence......
Zach: "Ok. Mama?"
Me: "What?"
Zach: "What does n-o-c-t-u-r-n-a-l spell?"
Me: "Nocturnal."
Zach: "Thanks. What does p-l-a-y-i-n-g spell?"
Me: "Playing."
Zach: "Thanks."
More silence......
Zach: "What does f-e-l-i-n-e spell?"
Me: "Feli.....WAIT A MINUTE!!! Are you having me read that freaking cat book to you???"
Zach: "......."
Me: "You are!! You TOTALLY ARE!!!"
And that's how Zach got me to read a book to him without reading a book to him.
Cheating Isn't Nice, Artie-Fartie. Or, I Was SUCH A B*tch In Kindergarten.
Place: Neil A. Armstrong-Oakview Grade School
Time: November, Circa 1972
Grade: Kindergarten
Attitude: Snarky
Coloring, the alphabet and connect-the-dots. Three of my favorite childhood pastimes. Know what my favorite childhood pastime was NOT?
Sharing my hard work with a tall, skinny, western-belt-buckle-wearing, ignorant redhead named Artie-Fartie.
In all fairness, his parents didn't name him Artie-Fartie. We did. The Kindergarteners.
Mrs. Welch (Who was a total B*TCH) had given us a morning assignment. Connect the dots using our ABC's, then turn it in. Easy enough, I rocked at Language Arts.
Ooooh! It's an ELEPHANT! Cool.
I turned it in and got my gold star. When I returned to my seat at the table (next to Artie-Fartie), I couldn't help but notice that he was stuck on letter.....B. That's right. He didn't know what came next.
As I was coloring a worksheet, I heard Artie-Fartie make a noise at me.
Psssttt!
I ignored him. Choosing a pink crayon, I continued working on my circus zebra.
Psssssssttttt!
I set my crayon down and looked at him.
"What?"
"What comes after B?"
This gave me pause for thought. I had done my work. I had turned it in as instructed and I had gotten my gold star. Now Artie-Fartie wanted to ride my coattails to Gold Star Glory, without doing the work!
F*ck that.
Looking around surreptitiously and seeing that nobody was watching, I leaned in and whispered.....
"L"
Artie-Fartie eagerly connected B to L and then looked at me expectantly.
Oh, this was too easy.
"F"
And on it went. According to Artie-Fartie's connect the dot puzzle, O followed S. Which followed P. Which followed Z.
And so on.
Nothing can compare to the sneaky, snarky, gleefully AWESOME feeling I had. Except for Artie-Fartie's f*cked up picture.
It looked like this:
He looked at his effed-up elephant doubtfully.
"Are you sure?"
Fighting to keep from laughing, I nodded vigorously.
"Yours looked like this?"
"Yep. And I got a gold star."
That sealed the deal. I mean, who doesn't want a gold star?
Except.....when Artie-Fartie turned his work in, Mrs. Welch looked at him incredulously, wrote a huge letter F (which comes after E) on his paper and sent him to the corner.
He turned to look at me accusingly. I shrugged my shoulders, and then turned away.
Picking up my pink crayon, I continued to work on my circus zebra.
______________________________________________________
This week's assignment was, when meeting someone for the first time, describing a scene from your life that would help show the person your true self.
Time: November, Circa 1972
Grade: Kindergarten
Attitude: Snarky
Coloring, the alphabet and connect-the-dots. Three of my favorite childhood pastimes. Know what my favorite childhood pastime was NOT?
Sharing my hard work with a tall, skinny, western-belt-buckle-wearing, ignorant redhead named Artie-Fartie.
In all fairness, his parents didn't name him Artie-Fartie. We did. The Kindergarteners.
Mrs. Welch (Who was a total B*TCH) had given us a morning assignment. Connect the dots using our ABC's, then turn it in. Easy enough, I rocked at Language Arts.
Ooooh! It's an ELEPHANT! Cool.
I turned it in and got my gold star. When I returned to my seat at the table (next to Artie-Fartie), I couldn't help but notice that he was stuck on letter.....B. That's right. He didn't know what came next.
As I was coloring a worksheet, I heard Artie-Fartie make a noise at me.
Psssttt!
I ignored him. Choosing a pink crayon, I continued working on my circus zebra.
Psssssssttttt!
I set my crayon down and looked at him.
"What?"
"What comes after B?"
This gave me pause for thought. I had done my work. I had turned it in as instructed and I had gotten my gold star. Now Artie-Fartie wanted to ride my coattails to Gold Star Glory, without doing the work!
F*ck that.
Looking around surreptitiously and seeing that nobody was watching, I leaned in and whispered.....
"L"
Artie-Fartie eagerly connected B to L and then looked at me expectantly.
Oh, this was too easy.
"F"
And on it went. According to Artie-Fartie's connect the dot puzzle, O followed S. Which followed P. Which followed Z.
And so on.
Nothing can compare to the sneaky, snarky, gleefully AWESOME feeling I had. Except for Artie-Fartie's f*cked up picture.
It looked like this:
 |
| Artie-Fartie's Effed Up Elephant |
He looked at his effed-up elephant doubtfully.
"Are you sure?"
Fighting to keep from laughing, I nodded vigorously.
"Yours looked like this?"
"Yep. And I got a gold star."
That sealed the deal. I mean, who doesn't want a gold star?
Except.....when Artie-Fartie turned his work in, Mrs. Welch looked at him incredulously, wrote a huge letter F (which comes after E) on his paper and sent him to the corner.
He turned to look at me accusingly. I shrugged my shoulders, and then turned away.
Picking up my pink crayon, I continued to work on my circus zebra.
______________________________________________________
This week's assignment was, when meeting someone for the first time, describing a scene from your life that would help show the person your true self.
Plenty
Jennifer laid down her book and glanced at the clock. Time to get ready for her date. She stood up, stretched, and began rifling through her closet. Not a thing to wear. She wished she got a bigger allowance. So what if she was only thirteen, she did plenty. But try telling that to them. She picked out a blue dress and sat down to put on some makeup.
A copy of Seventeen magazine lay propped against the mirror. She wished she had high cheekbones and long hair like the models in all of the magazines did. Jennifer sucked in her cheeks and stuck out her chest. No use, she was hopeless. She hated her short, ugly brown hair. The only thing she liked was her eyes. She did have pretty eyes. They were green, with long, dark lashes. She batted them, trying to look sophisticated.
She finished her makeup and put on her dress. Staring at herself in the mirror, she stood up and, in her bare feet, slowly did a demi plié in fourth, concentrating on holding her center and keeping her knees over her toes. Two quick battement jetés and one pas de cheval finished off her routine. Jennifer sighed. She wished she was allowed to go back to ballet class. Nevamind. Fuhgetabaoudit. Wasamatawityu? Watdehellisyutinkin? Sighing, she picked up her purse and put on her shoes.
"Jennifer! Your date is here!", she heard.
With one last glance in the mirror, she left her room and went downstairs to meet the man who would pay $300 an hour to take her out.
So what if she was only thirteen. She did plenty.
A copy of Seventeen magazine lay propped against the mirror. She wished she had high cheekbones and long hair like the models in all of the magazines did. Jennifer sucked in her cheeks and stuck out her chest. No use, she was hopeless. She hated her short, ugly brown hair. The only thing she liked was her eyes. She did have pretty eyes. They were green, with long, dark lashes. She batted them, trying to look sophisticated.
She finished her makeup and put on her dress. Staring at herself in the mirror, she stood up and, in her bare feet, slowly did a demi plié in fourth, concentrating on holding her center and keeping her knees over her toes. Two quick battement jetés and one pas de cheval finished off her routine. Jennifer sighed. She wished she was allowed to go back to ballet class. Nevamind. Fuhgetabaoudit. Wasamatawityu? Watdehellisyutinkin? Sighing, she picked up her purse and put on her shoes.
"Jennifer! Your date is here!", she heard.
With one last glance in the mirror, she left her room and went downstairs to meet the man who would pay $300 an hour to take her out.
So what if she was only thirteen. She did plenty.
My Heart Was In A House
This post is a writing prompt from Studio 30+, to write about a childhood dream I had.
_______________________________________________________
I lived in a trailer court from birth until I moved away to go to graduate school at the age of 23. Our trailer, built in the 1950's, was white and blue on the outside, and there was a white aluminum sunshade running along the length of the concrete front porch. Stray cats would seek shelter under our trailer, often giving birth there. During those times the sound of meowing litters of kittens drifted up through the pressed wood floors. No matter how many times my parents closed the gap in the aluminum skirt that encircled our trailer and hid the tires, stray animals would still find a way in.
Inside the trailer, the carpeting was Avacado Green shag, and the drapes were Harvest Gold with rubber backing. Wood paneling lined every wall except the kitchen, which was decorated with the orange and gold wallpaper my mom put up when I was 9. The kitchen table, which sat the three of us, took up most of the space, leaving just enough for me to play jacks against the fridge while my mom cooked our dinner.
We had a deep freezer in the living room, and on top of it was a lazy susan filled with loose change, bolts, safety pins and election pins. My toy box stood in the far corner of the living room, and my bookcase was next to the t.v. The distance between the t.v. and the couch was such that I was able to plug in the earphones my parents made me use to watch Saturday morning cartoons, and wear them while laying on the couch.
We had two bedrooms, mine was the first room on the right as you went down the hall. Next was the bathroom, and my parent's bedroom was at the end of the hallway. Our bathroom was robin's egg blue. The bathtub, toilet and sink. The shower had never worked, and so the first shower I ever took was at Viki Salvetti's house when I was a junior in high school.
When I was in grade school, I was aware that my friends who lived in houses had things I could only dream about. I fantasized about having stairs to run up and down on, a basement to hide in during "hide and seek", a front porch to play on during the summer, a creepy attic to explore on rainy Sunday afternoons and front steps that were a part of the house, unlike our shaky black metal ones that could be pulled away from the trailer if need be. My friends had showers that worked, big bedrooms with room for a friend to sleep over, dining rooms, back yards, driveways, garages, back doors, washers and dryers, and windows that could be pushed up on warm Spring days (instead of being cranked open). I dreamed, fantasized and prayed that we would someday move to a house. A house with a laundry room so we didn't have to go to the laundromat every week, where the neighbors didn't beat their children, fight with their best friends and screw each other's wives.
When I got into high school, I fully realized that people who lived in trailer courts were considered "poor", "white trash" and "tacky". I had always known that my circumstances weren't as nice as most of my friends, but I began to feel ashamed of where I lived. When I started dating at 14, I told Mike that my mom and I would pick him up. I didn't want him to see where I lived. I couldn't understand why we didn't live in a house. Both of my parents worked, and they had nice cars. There was always plenty of food and I never went without anything I needed. I never felt like I fit in at the trailer court, and I was seen as a snob by a lot of the other kids. I honestly thought they were trashy and I only hung around with them for something to do.
I used to watch for signs that we might move out someday. My ears would perk up when I heard my dad mention a house he'd seen for sale, or my mom would mention that the furnace wasn't going to last for much longer. On Sunday mornings, before my parents woke up, I would lay in bed with my eyes closed and imagine that I had a canopy bed, my own phone, a t.v. and a dresser.
But the little things that I observed told me we weren't moving any time soon. My mom planted an oak tree in the front yard. She ordered a roll of 500 return address labels that read 202 Avenue D, East Peoria Il. Lastly, when I was 9, a man came to our door and offered to buy the tires off of our trailer for $50, and my mom said yes. That's when I realized that we were never going to leave, that I was going to live in that trailer court until I moved out.
But my heart was in a house. A two-story house with a dining room, three bedrooms and one and a half baths. My heart was in a bedroom that had girly furniture that was painted white, a bed with a soaring canopy and a matching dressing table and mirror. Maybe it would have a finished basement and I could invite friends over to listen to music, or watch MTV. I could have sleepovers for my birthday and when giving directions I could say, "It's the third house on the left, instead of saying, "It's the second trailer on the left, white with blue stripes."
_______________________________________________________
I lived in a trailer court from birth until I moved away to go to graduate school at the age of 23. Our trailer, built in the 1950's, was white and blue on the outside, and there was a white aluminum sunshade running along the length of the concrete front porch. Stray cats would seek shelter under our trailer, often giving birth there. During those times the sound of meowing litters of kittens drifted up through the pressed wood floors. No matter how many times my parents closed the gap in the aluminum skirt that encircled our trailer and hid the tires, stray animals would still find a way in.
Inside the trailer, the carpeting was Avacado Green shag, and the drapes were Harvest Gold with rubber backing. Wood paneling lined every wall except the kitchen, which was decorated with the orange and gold wallpaper my mom put up when I was 9. The kitchen table, which sat the three of us, took up most of the space, leaving just enough for me to play jacks against the fridge while my mom cooked our dinner.
We had a deep freezer in the living room, and on top of it was a lazy susan filled with loose change, bolts, safety pins and election pins. My toy box stood in the far corner of the living room, and my bookcase was next to the t.v. The distance between the t.v. and the couch was such that I was able to plug in the earphones my parents made me use to watch Saturday morning cartoons, and wear them while laying on the couch.
We had two bedrooms, mine was the first room on the right as you went down the hall. Next was the bathroom, and my parent's bedroom was at the end of the hallway. Our bathroom was robin's egg blue. The bathtub, toilet and sink. The shower had never worked, and so the first shower I ever took was at Viki Salvetti's house when I was a junior in high school.
When I was in grade school, I was aware that my friends who lived in houses had things I could only dream about. I fantasized about having stairs to run up and down on, a basement to hide in during "hide and seek", a front porch to play on during the summer, a creepy attic to explore on rainy Sunday afternoons and front steps that were a part of the house, unlike our shaky black metal ones that could be pulled away from the trailer if need be. My friends had showers that worked, big bedrooms with room for a friend to sleep over, dining rooms, back yards, driveways, garages, back doors, washers and dryers, and windows that could be pushed up on warm Spring days (instead of being cranked open). I dreamed, fantasized and prayed that we would someday move to a house. A house with a laundry room so we didn't have to go to the laundromat every week, where the neighbors didn't beat their children, fight with their best friends and screw each other's wives.
When I got into high school, I fully realized that people who lived in trailer courts were considered "poor", "white trash" and "tacky". I had always known that my circumstances weren't as nice as most of my friends, but I began to feel ashamed of where I lived. When I started dating at 14, I told Mike that my mom and I would pick him up. I didn't want him to see where I lived. I couldn't understand why we didn't live in a house. Both of my parents worked, and they had nice cars. There was always plenty of food and I never went without anything I needed. I never felt like I fit in at the trailer court, and I was seen as a snob by a lot of the other kids. I honestly thought they were trashy and I only hung around with them for something to do.
I used to watch for signs that we might move out someday. My ears would perk up when I heard my dad mention a house he'd seen for sale, or my mom would mention that the furnace wasn't going to last for much longer. On Sunday mornings, before my parents woke up, I would lay in bed with my eyes closed and imagine that I had a canopy bed, my own phone, a t.v. and a dresser.
But the little things that I observed told me we weren't moving any time soon. My mom planted an oak tree in the front yard. She ordered a roll of 500 return address labels that read 202 Avenue D, East Peoria Il. Lastly, when I was 9, a man came to our door and offered to buy the tires off of our trailer for $50, and my mom said yes. That's when I realized that we were never going to leave, that I was going to live in that trailer court until I moved out.
But my heart was in a house. A two-story house with a dining room, three bedrooms and one and a half baths. My heart was in a bedroom that had girly furniture that was painted white, a bed with a soaring canopy and a matching dressing table and mirror. Maybe it would have a finished basement and I could invite friends over to listen to music, or watch MTV. I could have sleepovers for my birthday and when giving directions I could say, "It's the third house on the left, instead of saying, "It's the second trailer on the left, white with blue stripes."
The Time Stupid Cousin Stanley Almost Got Me Gored By A Crazed Bull While Visiting Abraham Lincoln's Cabin In New Salem
Yeah, so when I was about 7 or 9, my cousin Stanley came to visit us from California. He was about 30 and wore coke-bottle glasses and a backpack most of the time. Even inside the house. I'm pretty sure he was some kind of hippie. He didn't have long hair or anything, but there was just something about Cousin Stanley that screamed "I color outside the lines", if you know what I mean. He wore shorts with striped tube socks pulled up to his knees and he was fairly socially innept. And that's coming from someone who is remembering this from a 6 year old's perspective. Or 8. Whatever.
Oh, and he also wore his Minolta camera around his neck a lot, and the camera strap was embroidered with flowers and stuff. Here's my best recollection of Cousin Stanley:
So anyway, Cousin Stanley was my grandma Josephine's nephew and he stayed at their house during his visit that summer. My grandparents, wanting to show Stanley some of what Illinois had to offer, drove him down to New Salem, which is where Abraham Lincoln lived for about 6 years, if you didn't already know. I must have been visiting my grandparents that week, because I was there too, along with both of my Aunts.
When we got there, we all split up for some reason, and I was assigned to Cousin Stanley's care. As he and I walked through the villiage, he began snapping photos of everything. The log cabin, the schoolhouse, the blacksmith shop and both general stores. I could tell he didn't get out much.
Then he saw the covered wagon.
It was behind a split-rail fence and there was no gate or entrance into this area. There might even have been a sign that said something like, "Stay Out! Danger! We Mean It!", but that didn't deter Cousin Stanley. This was an opportunity for a PHOTO OP! So Cousin Stanley glanced around quickly and, seeing nobody looking, he quickly scooped me up and deposited me on the other side of the fence. I recall telling Cousin Stanley that I didn't want to be inside the fence, but he shushed me. "Go stand by that covered wagon!" he said excitedly, readying his Minolta. I looked around uncertainly but did as I was told because I was a child and that's what young children do. They do as they're told. I wandered cautiously toward the covered wagon and I remember thinking that it was very strange that nobody else had thought to climb the fence so they could get a better view of the covered wagon.
That's because there was a bull in the fenced-in area:
That's right. A large, black, horned, pissed-off and apparently very territorial BULL. In a closed space. With me. A child. Who ran very slowly. And tended to freeze when panicked. And who was wearing her favorite red cape. Ok, I made up that last part about the cape. But still.
The bull was about 20 feet from me and as we made eye contact he started pawing the ground and snorting. Can I just say that I have never been so EFFING SCARED SH*TLESS IN MY ENTIRE LIFE????? I very softly said, "Cousin Staaaaanleeeeyyy.....??" Cousin Stanly, in the meantime, was furiously snapping pictures of the standoff between the bull and me. Then I heard my grandmother shouting at me, "YVONNE!!! RUN!! RUN NOW!!!!"
That did it. I unfroze and sprinted toward my grandma, gasping and crying at the same time, with the bull in hot pursuit. I made it to the fence and someone picked me up, I'm not sure who. What I do know is that my grandma was more pissed than I'd ever seen her, even more pissed than when I killed the Easter Bunny AND her baby chicks combined, and she gave Cousin Stanley a verbal beating. Then he lost his childcare privileges and I stayed with my grandparents for the rest of the time. I refused to speak to him or look at him for the rest of his visit.
And that's how I remember stupid Cousin Stanley.
Oh, and he also wore his Minolta camera around his neck a lot, and the camera strap was embroidered with flowers and stuff. Here's my best recollection of Cousin Stanley:
So anyway, Cousin Stanley was my grandma Josephine's nephew and he stayed at their house during his visit that summer. My grandparents, wanting to show Stanley some of what Illinois had to offer, drove him down to New Salem, which is where Abraham Lincoln lived for about 6 years, if you didn't already know. I must have been visiting my grandparents that week, because I was there too, along with both of my Aunts.
When we got there, we all split up for some reason, and I was assigned to Cousin Stanley's care. As he and I walked through the villiage, he began snapping photos of everything. The log cabin, the schoolhouse, the blacksmith shop and both general stores. I could tell he didn't get out much.
Then he saw the covered wagon.
It was behind a split-rail fence and there was no gate or entrance into this area. There might even have been a sign that said something like, "Stay Out! Danger! We Mean It!", but that didn't deter Cousin Stanley. This was an opportunity for a PHOTO OP! So Cousin Stanley glanced around quickly and, seeing nobody looking, he quickly scooped me up and deposited me on the other side of the fence. I recall telling Cousin Stanley that I didn't want to be inside the fence, but he shushed me. "Go stand by that covered wagon!" he said excitedly, readying his Minolta. I looked around uncertainly but did as I was told because I was a child and that's what young children do. They do as they're told. I wandered cautiously toward the covered wagon and I remember thinking that it was very strange that nobody else had thought to climb the fence so they could get a better view of the covered wagon.
That's because there was a bull in the fenced-in area:
That's right. A large, black, horned, pissed-off and apparently very territorial BULL. In a closed space. With me. A child. Who ran very slowly. And tended to freeze when panicked. And who was wearing her favorite red cape. Ok, I made up that last part about the cape. But still.
The bull was about 20 feet from me and as we made eye contact he started pawing the ground and snorting. Can I just say that I have never been so EFFING SCARED SH*TLESS IN MY ENTIRE LIFE????? I very softly said, "Cousin Staaaaanleeeeyyy.....??" Cousin Stanly, in the meantime, was furiously snapping pictures of the standoff between the bull and me. Then I heard my grandmother shouting at me, "YVONNE!!! RUN!! RUN NOW!!!!"
That did it. I unfroze and sprinted toward my grandma, gasping and crying at the same time, with the bull in hot pursuit. I made it to the fence and someone picked me up, I'm not sure who. What I do know is that my grandma was more pissed than I'd ever seen her, even more pissed than when I killed the Easter Bunny AND her baby chicks combined, and she gave Cousin Stanley a verbal beating. Then he lost his childcare privileges and I stayed with my grandparents for the rest of the time. I refused to speak to him or look at him for the rest of his visit.
And that's how I remember stupid Cousin Stanley.
The Room At The End Of The Hall
Take a mental picture of that room.
What happened there? What is it like? What is the atmosphere there? What are the smells, the sounds, the sights? How does it feel?
---------------------------------
I stood at the end of the hallway, on the other side of the cheap, hollow wooden door, my heart pounding in my throat. My mouth was dry, my palms were damp and my ears were ringing from running up 3 flights of stairs. I automatically smoothed the khaki skirt from Eddie Bauer that I'd gotten at 90% off, because my size was always the last to sell. Just leave. Turn around and get out now my brain instructed me, but instead I took a deep breath and knocked. The door opened and there she stood, smiling at me with that phony smile people have when they're just going through the motions. I wasn't fooled. I looked at her and I could tell she thought I was wrong. I also knew she wanted to take it away from me. My obsession, my strength, the thing that set me apart from anyone who couldn't say no, thank you. The thing that made me special and powerful and in control, no matter what else was happening in my life.
Refusing to make eye contact, I crossed my arms in front of me and walked across the room to sit where she motioned. Looking her over critically, I saw long, messy blond hair and a fussy, navy blue suit with gold sailor buttons and epaulets on the shoulders, close-toed navy pumps to match. She had to be joking. As she sat in her chair I couldn't help noticing her wide hips, thick calves and the way her suit jacket strained at the buttons. I noted the beginnings of a double chin and I knew just from looking at her that she had no self control whatsoever. I, on the other hand, was spare, self-controlled, self-contained, minimal.
On the windowsill next to her desk was a calculator, a set of calipers and an apple. On the wall opposite her desk was a poster of the food pyramid. The walls were painted institutional avocado green and the furniture was brown, ugly and cheap. Magnets in the shape of fruits and vegetables were stuck to the side of her metal desk. In the corner of the room I saw a white metal physician beam scale and my eyes automatically did a search and find. I found what I'd been looking for and I suddenly felt such a jolt of searing jealousy and intense hatred that I couldn't breath.
"The person in here before me weighed 84 lbs?" Bitch, bitch, bitch I thought. Three times, because odd numbers made good things happen to me.
Lisa glanced over at the scale and frowned. She zeroed the scale out and returned to her chair. "You don't miss much, do you?" she said, and then she started talking to me. I began to make a mental list of all of the foods I would not allow myself to have. This served two purposes. It blocked out the sound of her voice, but it also organized my thoughts, it reminded me that I was stronger than she was. She wasn't going to break me.
"So, you will find that we take a multi-discipline approach to treatment, and we believe in.....butter, cheese, cream, chocolate, mayonnaise, cake, pie, cookies, pasta, salad dressing....my supervisor Kim and our nutritionist Ruth will assist with....pizza, beer, fried chicken, stuffing, ice cream, peanut butter, chocolate milk, bratwurst...weekly group every Wednesday night, where you will learn about...eggs, bacon, cheeseburgers, steak, casseroles, potato soup...a disease, not about willpower when it comes to...donuts, french fries, cheesecake, beans, potato chips...do you have any questions?"
"How long does it last? When do I get out?"
Lisa opened her mouth to speak, but just then a knock came at the door. She glanced at her watch and called out, "Come in!"
The door opened and an orderly walked in, carrying two trays. The combined odors of meatloaf, mashed potatoes and green beans assaulted my senses, I could feel the blood leaving my face. I saw a huge piece of chocolate cake covered in thick frosting and I automatically made a circle around my left wrist with my right thumb and index finger. In the extra space I could fit 2 pencils. I was still me.
"I'm not eating that", I spoke automatically.
"You will when you're ready", she replied calmly, unfolding her napkin and placing it in her lap. Then she smiled, "Welcome to treatment."
Not speaking, I stared past her, watching the cherry blossoms drift to the pavement below.
What I Did To Get My Son Out Of Bed This Morning
In addition to his ADHD and obsessive personality, my 7-year-old son also hates getting up in the morning. Absolutely despises it. I have tried everything to transition him from peaceful slumber to the harsh realities of it's-6am-get-up-get-dressed-and-eat-your-breakfast-and-please-stop-shooting-your-nerf-gun-at-your-sister-and-DONTYOUDARE-throw-that-tennis-ball-at-me!!!
I have tried bribing him with various breakfast treats. Eh. Threats make him hide under the covers and even his sister's offers of getting to pet her pet guinea pig have been met with refusals. I have greeted him in the morning with a cup of milk and his medication, I've sang to him, tickled him and yelled at him. Nothing worked. Until this morning, that is.
He was hiding under his covers as usual, and whining about how much he hates school (I totally agree) when I decided to stop fighting and I just climbed into his bed next to him. Now my son is a confirmed snuggler. Nothing makes him happier than cuddling. Unless he's playing the Wii while cuddling. He stopped fighting and snuggled. It was so sweet, and I thought it might make the transition to getting out of bed easier. Then, he did something.
He stuck his face in my armpit and took a big whiff. *aaahhhhhh* His eyes lit up and he said, "Mama!! Your armpits smell awesome!! *takes another big whiff*
He apparently likes the smell of Secret Flawless Renewal:
Ok, so I was a little freaked at first, because 1) my son was huffing my armpits and 2) he loved it. Have you ever seen Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet?
Yeah. But I got over it pretty fast, because I suddenly realized Zach had handed me a bargaining chip. So I hopped out of his bunk bed and made my way towards his closet. He immediately covered his head with the blankets again, it was like watching a sea anemone retreat into itself in self-defense.
I got his school clothes together and took a deep breath. Time to see if "Operation Sniff-Your-Pitts" would work.
"Come on Zach, time to get dressed."
"NO!"
*sigh*
"If you get up and get dressed, I'll....let you sniff my armpits!"
His head slowly came out of the blankets, and his eyes widened in what can only be described as disbelief and joy.
"REALLY???"
What? Did I hear correctly? Was this going to work?
I shrugged nonchalantly, "Sure, but you have to get dressed first. Including your socks."
He got dressed pretty quickly, and sure, he tried to sneak a few sniffs but I kept my arms tight to my sides.
Finally, he was dressed. Time to pay up. Sighing to myself and taking mental notes for the blog I would surely have to write about this, I rolled my eyes and lifted my right arm. He ran over, stuck his nose in my armpit again and took a deep breath.
AAAHHHHHHHH........
I have tried bribing him with various breakfast treats. Eh. Threats make him hide under the covers and even his sister's offers of getting to pet her pet guinea pig have been met with refusals. I have greeted him in the morning with a cup of milk and his medication, I've sang to him, tickled him and yelled at him. Nothing worked. Until this morning, that is.
He was hiding under his covers as usual, and whining about how much he hates school (I totally agree) when I decided to stop fighting and I just climbed into his bed next to him. Now my son is a confirmed snuggler. Nothing makes him happier than cuddling. Unless he's playing the Wii while cuddling. He stopped fighting and snuggled. It was so sweet, and I thought it might make the transition to getting out of bed easier. Then, he did something.
He stuck his face in my armpit and took a big whiff. *aaahhhhhh* His eyes lit up and he said, "Mama!! Your armpits smell awesome!! *takes another big whiff*
He apparently likes the smell of Secret Flawless Renewal:
Ok, so I was a little freaked at first, because 1) my son was huffing my armpits and 2) he loved it. Have you ever seen Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet?
 |
| Your armpits! They smell.....WONDERFUL! |
Yeah. But I got over it pretty fast, because I suddenly realized Zach had handed me a bargaining chip. So I hopped out of his bunk bed and made my way towards his closet. He immediately covered his head with the blankets again, it was like watching a sea anemone retreat into itself in self-defense.
I got his school clothes together and took a deep breath. Time to see if "Operation Sniff-Your-Pitts" would work.
"Come on Zach, time to get dressed."
"NO!"
*sigh*
"If you get up and get dressed, I'll....let you sniff my armpits!"
His head slowly came out of the blankets, and his eyes widened in what can only be described as disbelief and joy.
"REALLY???"
What? Did I hear correctly? Was this going to work?
I shrugged nonchalantly, "Sure, but you have to get dressed first. Including your socks."
He got dressed pretty quickly, and sure, he tried to sneak a few sniffs but I kept my arms tight to my sides.
Finally, he was dressed. Time to pay up. Sighing to myself and taking mental notes for the blog I would surely have to write about this, I rolled my eyes and lifted my right arm. He ran over, stuck his nose in my armpit again and took a deep breath.
AAAHHHHHHHH........
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