Thursday, April 2, 2009

Somnambulism

Shiloh the ferocious dog barked throughout last night. Ever since his major mishap (see auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/07/tragedy.html), he barks continually. Maybe anesthesia heightens hearing.

So today I’m somnambulant. While preparing for this morning’s feeding frenzy, I tried to fit the milk jug in the microwave and cracked an egg in the fishbowl. The fish is still wondering how she could have spawned something so grand, especially since she’s single.

I’ve been somnambulistic since I was three, but I had a catalyst: Joan the Clean Freak. Mom didn’t want any bedwetting in her house, no siree, so she’d awaken my comatose three-year-old body at midnight to empty my little bladder. Mind you, I said awaken my body, not my mind. Makes you think of all the somnambulant drivers out there.

My feet would hit the blue shag carpet, and I would wander off while Joan the Chambermaid would straighten out my bed after she scattered the simians. Seems that a barrel of monkeys was released each night in my bedroom, and they loved to frolic in my bed. It occurs to me now how otherworldly my dreams were.

I must have been a funambulist, in the second sense of the word, because with my mental agility I knew why I’d been so rudely awakened. I sleepy-strolled toward the bathroom and apparently thought the walk too long. So I shortened my trip, opened the clothes chute door, and, when Mom found me in the darkness, I was trying to hoist my little fanny up the wall toward the opening.

My direction quickly changed.

Another midnight rendezvous with Joan the Insomniac brings values into the picture. While Mom frantically chased out the chimps and baboons, this time I chose the road on the right.

Now I must preface this episode with my mother’s likeness to Imelda Marcos, the former globally powerful Filipino who turns 80 in July and owns more than 1000 pairs of shoes. She’s Mom’s rival. Mom still has shoes and clothes in every closet. The more closet space, the more stuff she buys. It’s incredible.

The road on the right leads to my closet, which means Joan of Arch’s closet. It was filled with three shoe racks that each held nine pairs of shoes—those spiky, high-heeled, pointy pumps. Still sleeping, I gently opened the closet door, pulled down my jammy bottoms, and squatted over Mom’s pointy-toed shoes, just to show her how I felt about all that waste. She gasped, ran to me, and redirected my path.

The moral of the story is: Let cavorting monkeys frolic, and don’t tidy up at midnight with a somnambulist on the loose.

(Puzzle piece number 35 of 38.)

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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