Eye Contact, Psychopaths, and Poles

Eye contact has always been important to me. Early in my life, Dad the banker always stressed, “Look a person in the eye when you shake hands with him.” And, of course, it was always the right eye, because my dad had only one functional eye (see “Here’s Lookin’ at You, Kid,” April 23, 2008).

“And make sure you grasp firmly,” he’d add. Like when I used to milk beef cattle. Right, Dad?

Good eye contact might indicate trustworthiness, unless the person is a psychopathic liar. I’ve known four: three males, one female.

One, a lawyer, held his hand in front of his mouth when he spoke. He may have been covering up bad breath, bad teeth, or bad words. In his case, it was bad faith, deception, his intent to deceive, which was most apparent on stage.

He’d slip into his fat-man lawyer garb, snug up his belt, and prowl into the theater, ah, courtroom. His eyes would shift right and left, never sustaining eye contact for longer than a nanosecond, unless he was lying.

Illogical, fallacious detritus would spew from his diabolical, egotistical mouth, at which his friend, the judge, would applaud and say, “I know this weasel, ah, man to be honest. And therefore, whatever he expels is gospel. You owe him several thousand dollars, even though he conspired against you. Case closed. I’m going fishing.”

If you don’t have to work with poor-eye-contact people, don’t. And don't deal with psychopaths (or lawyers or judges if you don't have to).

One day I was walking downtown with a friend, frequently turning my head to look into her eyes to affirm my attention. Being a gentlewoman, I walked closer to the street, weaving between pedestrians, parking meters, and postal collection boxes.

Mesmerized by her story, I fixed my eyes on her too long and whap! I crashed directly into a street light pole.

I firmly believe in maintaining good eye contact—with a little foresight and a metal detector, of course.

But sometimes I walk into nonmetallic substances.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/06/eye-contact-psychopaths-and-poles.html

It’s Who You Know

(Puzzle piece number 13 of 38.)
When I was in college, I dated a poli sci graduate named Paul, who served with our university’s campus security. Those were the days when Brian “Kato” Kaelin and the Killer Cushman raced across the University of Wisconsin–Eau Claire footbridge. Then in 1994, O.J. Simpson boosted Kato’s visibility.

My friend Paul was a kick. Highly intelligent and articulate, he loved a good party and made life the best adventure. He’d write notes to me that led me to the dictionary. He engaged me with deep questions that only years later could I answer, such as “What are you doing later?”

Paul was a member, maybe even the instigator, of a fraternity called Phelta Thi. I caught on to that name right away, though Paul was always a gentleman. One day he called to say that he and his roommates were going to throw a beach party. “We’ll be playing Beach Boys tunes, wearing Hawaiian shirts, and we’re having a truckload of sand hauled in, so we can play volleyball between the houses.”

True to his word, all components pulled together to create a fabulous event. That night, to the guys’ excitement and the girls’ horror, a bat flew into the house, which the guys brought down with a tennis racket and threw into Paul’s snake’s aquarium. The sight of the snake eating that bat still gives me the willies.

Years passed, I moved to Colorado, and new lives ensued. Then one summer, maybe 17 years later, I flew back to Eau Claire for a visit. My former client–friend with whom I was staying loaned me a car and away I drove, exploring my old city.

I must have looked like a codfish, mouth agape at all the development. In my amazement, I stepped on the accelerator and quickly soaked in the surreal changes as they flew past my window.

Pulling me abruptly back to reality, a siren sounded behind me. Discovering the brake, I went from 50 to zero in record time. The young officer, about my age, announced my speed and how different it was from the posted limit. He asked me to present my driver’s license and registration, which further shocked me into reality. Do I even have them?

“Well,” I tensely began. “I don’t live here. This isn’t my car, and I don’t know where the registration would be. But here’s my name, which is different from what it used to be when I lived here.”

The officer raised his eyebrows and walked back to his cruiser without a smile. I started seeing bars—and I don’t mean the ones on Water Street.

About four minutes later, he returned to my side with a smile, which prompted me to scoot right a bit. “You’re clear,” he said. “I’m going to let you go without a ticket. And Paul says hi. He’s investigating a robbery, or he’d come to see you.”

A whoosh of relief coursed through my body, and I quickly sped away.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/06/its-who-you-know.html

Hear My Plea

I know you’re going to think I’m a children’s health fanatic.

Well, I am. I believe that’s where it all begins. You teach your kids to say no to sugar. You guide them through foods, teaching them the vitamins and minerals contained in each, and in the long run, you both reap the benefits.

I live in Colorado Springs, and on page 1 of The Gazette (June 24, 2008) are two little kids covering their ears, indicating their pain from hearing stock cars racing. First, I find this a ridiculous sport. Second, it’s a waste of energy. Third, racing pollutes an otherwise quiet environment. Fourth, even adults should use ear protection in the presence of excessively loud continuous noise. Fifth, and most important, children should not be allowed to attend these events!

Stock car racing, or motorcycle contests, or any gathering of way-too-loud PA systems should be a clear sign to parents: Don’t include your children on such deafening circumstances. Dear God, why would a parent want to ruin their child’s health? I shot trap for years and have regretted the decision to not wear muffs or earplugs.

I was at a beer fest downtown many years ago where a music group had the volume on their speakers unnecessarily boosted. I stress unnecessarily, because people from several blocks away could have heard the sound. Up close and personal, it was unreasonably distorted.

A young attendee with his toddler son were standing in front of the band, the young boy covering his ears. I looked at my friend and said, “That’s it!” I walked up to the dad and furiously shared a child-care tip with him, to which he replied, “Man, it’s okay. I take him to a lot of groups, and they’re a lot louder than these guys.”

I told him I was contacting the police. He left.

When I first moved here and saw blue smoke emitting from vehicles, my first thought was, That person obviously has no kids, or he’d fix his car. How would that guy like inhaling his exhaust for a few hours?

Irritated is a mild word to use on the way it affects me.

If a parent must take his child to an overbearingly loud event, give the kid shooting muffs. Please?

And please turn off your car when you’re not moving it.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/06/hear-my-plea.html

Pet Peeve Turned Passion

I have a pet peeve.

It really makes my blood boil when I see a parent wearing sunglasses and their child wears none. It makes me want to turn these people into Social Services, but most Social Services employees are inept.

A lot of these parents sport very expensive-looking sunglasses, so my conjecture is that they either (1) cannot afford sunglasses for their child because they’ve spent so much on their own cool shades, or (2) they are so wealthy that they can afford eye-disease treatment or cataract surgery for their child, once afflicted.

So rather than losing my composure and explaining how selfish and neglectful these parents are, I turned my pet peeve into a passion. I started buying inexpensive child sunglasses, five in a pack, and handing them out or placing them on children—with their parent’s permission, of course. Every time, parents have gladly accepted.

When my hiking buddy, who jumped on the bandwagon with me, found two for $2 shades at Target, he bought a bunch of them, gave them to me, and I have given them away. Recently my daughter and I discovered Dollar Tree, which sells myriad styles—all for a buck, so we stocked up! I remove the tags, stick ’em in a Ziploc, pop ’em in a tote with the rest of my stuff, and off I go—saving children’s eyes!

In mid-June, my gal pal and I dashed off to a community event that turned out to be rather unfortunate in its ambience. Equally unfortunate was the number of moms and dads protecting their own eyes while their little ones suffered and squinted. Heartbreaking. Had I stopped for every visually unprotected child, I would have been at least 35 short. The event mimicked a low-class carnival, jam-packed, so I didn’t make any offers…until we were leaving.

Ahead of us were two young guys and a young gal pushing a stroller, her toddler son unhappily squinting in the glaring sun. “Hi,” I greeted, “I have a pair of sunglasses for your son if you need them!”

“Sure,” she said, and I pulled out the Ziploc. The three young adults eyed the assortment and chose the pair I had the feeling they’d select. I handed them to the mom, who placed them on her son. Like turning on a light switch, this little boy’s face changed from a pained frown to a glowing smile! It was brilliant and truly the highlight of my day—and possibly the little boy’s.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/06/pet-peeve-turned-passion.html

Lesbians, Communication, and the Cute Girl on the Golf Course

(Puzzle piece number 12 of 38.)
I am not a lesbian. Yet.

But don’t you wonder how men and women withstand long-term relationships? The genders operate as differently as automatic and manual transmissions, just grinding away. Communication errors and differing ranges of bandwidth may be partially to blame.

One’s ear may contain a banana and not hear what someone’s voice is saying. The message becomes convoluted, a fruit salad.

Or the speaker may lack clear delivery skills, spewing a mouthful of BFM, bovine fecal matter, the message lost in stench.

Or the listener’s mind could be filled with so much psychobabble that nothing can be accurately heard, like an iPod-wearing, singing-and-dancing teenager just told to vacuum the carpet. (Hmm, that gives me an idea.)

Or maybe a person just doesn’t want to hear. Let’s read this couple’s conversation.

She: “Loverly like a bunch of coconuts it is today, my dear. Let’s get out and play some tennis.”

He: “Yeah! But it’s a better day for golf!”

She: “Uh-huh. Well, afterward maybe we could grab some Thai food to spice things up a bit.”

He: “You bet! But I’d like to bite into a big burger. I’m getting hungry already.”

She: “How about if we call Brent and Kathy and see if they’d like to get together for happy hour.”

He: “Maybe. Though watching the game then jumping in bed sounds better. I’ll go get my clubs!”

According to the Oxford Dictionary on my iBook, the second definition of communication reads “the successful conveying or sharing of ideas and feelings.” Note the word successful.

Verbal communication (vs. listening) has been estimated to be about 7 percent words spoken and 38 percent delivery and tone of voice. The remaining 55 percent is expressed via body language—facial expression, foot tapping, club in hand.

In the fact sheet “Stress and Communication,” the authors state that “the core of effective communication is listening.”* Listening.

Please permit me a small generalization. If a study were conducted on men listening to their wives, and if the wives were to talk about their relationship rather than sports, food, or sex, actual listening may be from 2 to 5 percent. Ninety-five to 98 percent of the husbands’ thoughts may be about what time a ball game will be on TV, planning his next meal, or thinking about that cute girl on the golf course.

Do women hear any better if a guy is talking about the ’48 Chevy he’s restoring, the score of the last ball game, or the cute girl on the golf course? I suspect her ears would prick up a bit on the latter.

Especially if the listener is a lesbian. But she’d wonder about the girl’s swing.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

* Suzanna Smith and Joe Pergola, “Stress and Communication,” University of Florida Cooperative Extension Service (November 1991), quoted in National Ag Safety Database (April 2002), www.cdc.gov/nasd/docs/d000001-d000100/d000012/d000012.html.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/06/lesbians-communication-and-cute-girl-on.html

Revenge

Revenge may be the dish best served cold, but I served mine while it was still warm.

From 2:30 till about 6:30 almost every day for weeks, someone’s dog barked like my mind thinks—incessantly. But the dog bothered me more.

I resorted to wearing my shooting muffs while I worked in an attempt to concentrate. Considering one’s home should be their sanctuary, my coping device seemed contradictory—though I had contemplated shooting something.

By week five, I wore permanent circles around my ears from the muffs, and my tolerance had worn as thin as the seat on my favorite jeans. So I ventured down the street and began spying behind people’s houses.

There it was, the culprit: a Lab mix wagging its black, long-haired tail as it pranced back and forth in its backyard that abuts my kinder neighbors’ backyard. The dog probably hoped its owner would hear what the rest of the neighborhood had gone insane from and let the neglected beast inside.

But derelict petkeepers aren’t concerned about what their dogs need, nor what their neighbors have to suffer. The unconscious flybrain probably wouldn’t even notice if every house on the block displayed a For Sale sign, with arrows pointing toward the perpetrator’s house.

I know everyone on my street, but not everyone on the adjacent street where Inconsiderado lived. Had I known this person, and being the diplomatic, sensitive person I am, I would have promptly suggested his or her moving to North Korea.

In my investigative, CIA style, I learned that the inattentive, irresponsible black hole was a female! I jotted down her name and phone number and decided to ring her in a courageous moment and have a little chat.

But I don’t have many courageous moments anymore and never got the nerve. Instead, I donned the shooting muffs again and tried to work. After wearing the muffs so long I could hear my thoughts twice, I decided to walk around the block with our fairly well-behaved, nonbarking Lab, Shiloh.

I first tossed the ball a few times to encourage him to deposit treasures on my own lawn, rather than another’s. Once accomplished, I leashed him and embarked on our journey. We rounded the corner at block’s end, walked the short end of the block, then turned right again, proceeding up Numbskull-Neighbor Street.

Only two houses into this block and good ol’ Shiloh yanked me to the side to produce yet more jewels for my collection. I stared up at the sky, hummed a little all-I-ever-do-is-pick-up-doo, I-need-to-feed-him-less ditty, and awaited my opportunity to bag the morsels.

Great, I thought, that’ll cut my walk short, because I will not hike with this odiferous, porous bag at my side. And then I started to smile. Today was garbage day for some. I continued forward about eight houses, and Bingo! Such excitement! Her garbage container awaited my warm, thoughtful gift. I surveyed my surroundings, saw no one watching, and with the widest, most devilish of grins, I slipped my Warm Dish of Revenge into No One Is Really Home’s empty bin.

Revenge may be the dish best served cold, but fresher and warmer with a little side odor is more gratifying. What a stinker!

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/06/revenge.html

Dear Pimples…Love, Rich

Remember back in grade school when your teacher taught you how to make a capital D by extending Mr. Curve on the right all the way down to the bottom of Mr. Stem? Me either. But it’s a good policy.

My face started breaking out when I was in college. It probably didn’t happen in high school, because I didn’t care about much except my boyfriend and dog back then.

But I had to pay for college, so I wanted to participate, be involved in student organizations, get good grades. So I worried, even graduating with an advanced degree in worry, and my face indicated it. I was uncomfortable about my condition, embarrassed. I became ultrasensitive about how others viewed me and from which angle.

My friend Rich, who had already graduated, would go to my house while I was in class and leave fun, sentimental, thoughtfully written cards. His words had depth toward which I still aspire, though we journalists can be perpetually matter-of-fact. He had heart, you could tell, and didn’t seem to be bothered by my facial “worry expressions.”

One day after school in the quiet of my home, I tenderly and eagerly opened an envelope from Rich and read: “Dear Pimples…”

Ahhhhh! That undiplomatic coot, I thought, laughing as if I’d seriously maim him next time I saw him. I was appalled!

Then, in my aftershock, I reread his caustic greeting and realized, in his special method of scribing, he had actually written “Dear Dimples,” his nickname for me.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/04/dear-pimples-love-rich.html

Here’s Lookin’ at You, Kid

My dad has one eye—well, actually two, but one is plastic.

At age seven, he was playing Cowboys and Indians with his brother and the neighbor boys. My dad liked to horse around, so he was a cowboy. Unfortunately, an “Indian” shot an arrow into his eye.

Since then, he has worn a prosthetic eye. Every couple of years he has a new one made, and his old eyes are placed in his jewelry box. If a thief were to search Dad’s room for valuables and discover Dad’s eyes, the burglar may leave a deposit.

Dad has a good sense of humor about the situation. Being in the lending business, he’d say to an unsuspecting client, “If you can tell me which eye is artificial, I’ll give you the loan.” Credibility.

As a child, I grew up seeing Dad’s eye sitting in a glass of water by the bathroom sink at night. For me, it was normal. When I’d have a friend sleep over though, reactions would range from a screech to, “I won’t brush my teeth with that thing watching me.”

To my friends, seeing an eye in a glass was like keeping fat from your liposuction in a Ziploc bag as a conversation piece or saving your appendix in a jar to remind you how useless some things can be. You kind of wonder.

When I was about four, Mom, Nana, and I went on an Amtrak journey from Wisconsin to Indianapolis to visit Nana’s oldest daughter and her four kids. The trip involved sleeping overnight on the train, and I had been raised to understand that some people took out their eye before going to sleep.

At bedtime as we were walking past a group of passengers to go to our sleeping compartment, I innocently asked Nana, “Are you going to take out your eye?” The passengers abruptly ended their conversations and tried not to gawk.

As a rebellious teenager, I always had the urge to freeze one of Dad’s eyes in an ice cube and drop it into a friend’s drink. I figured it would open some eyes. “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/04/heres-lookin-at-you-kid.html

Pancakes

My friend, who for years was a professional Santa Claus, was walking down a store aisle one day when a little boy walked over to him and patted his tummy. “Baby?” the little one asked.

“No, son,” my friend replied, smiling, “pancakes.”

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/04/pancakes.html

Wigs Whippin’ in the Wind

Mom had cancer, age 30. As a result of her treatment, she suffered hair loss. While some may sadly and sympathetically offer a syrupy, “What a shame,” Mom saw it as an opportunity to become addicted. She slipped into a parade procession with two friends, Vickie and Rebecca, and became obsessed with expressing herself. It was hairy.

Vickie was a beautician, as they were called, and Rebecca had lovely, bleached, perfectly coiffed locks. The setting was a small Midwestern town in the late sixties: psychedelic mod flowers, miniskirts, wide belts, Simon and Garfunkel, Vietnam, Apollo 13, Mrs. Robinson, valium, and beehives.

Mom’s friends loved to flirt with new hairstyles, and wigs provided them with hours of entertainment. They could be styled and restyled, put on and flung across the room, all without pain.

With her thinning hair, Mom had reason to comb the beach in search of a cover-up, so she purchased a cute human-hair wig. Each time Vickie or Rebecca would buy a new wig, so would Mom. Before long she had amassed a closet full of hairdos—human strands and synthetic. On the top shelf, all neatly posed as if on a catwalk ready for show were Styrofoam heads topped with every style of the sixties. Coupled with my dad’s pistol, it was quite the scare.

Each wig had a personality and, therefore, a name: Martha Washington, Dutch Boy, Dutch Girl, Twiggy, Morticia, Blondie, Elvis. When Mom would rise in the morning to prepare for work, she’d decide who she wanted to be and plop on the appropriate character.

One Saturday on a grocery shopping escapade at the Red Owl, the bag boy and I walked outside while Mom paid the bill. I opened the back door of our station wagon, and he started placing our groceries in the backseat.

Just as Mom stepped out of the store, a big gust of wind blew under Mom’s wig and lifted it off her head, exposing her bobby-pinned thin hair. It flew across the parking lot, under cars, faster and farther away from her. Every time she’d catch up to her wig, the wind would revive and she’d have to start running after it again.

The boy tried his hardest to muffle his laughter, while I watched in amazement as my mom chased her ’do. Exasperated, she finally reached her wig.

Embarrassed and frustrated, instead of laying claim to the dirty hairball and picking it up, she kicked it another ten feet, stomped over to it in a huff, picked up the hair, and walked to the car.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/04/wigs-whippin-in-wind.html

Swallow This

Note: You may want to read “Tattoo and Piercing” (Dec. 8, 2007) before reading this.

I don’t believe a woman’s intuition is any better than a man’s, but women may listen to and follow through on intuition more than men. In fact, I have male friends whose intuition is better than most, so when they offer insight, I listen. On this day, I wish one of my friends had stopped by and shared some insight, ’cause I certainly didn’t listen to my own.

I’d been doing my annual hand-sewing to repair a sweater and laid the thread-laced needle on the living room window ledge. Walking past the window, admiring the greening spring grass, I glanced down and thought, I should put that needle away in case the kitties find it intriguing.

Of course, a needle doesn’t offer the same fascination as twitching yarn, a bouncing ball, or Shiloh the dog’s tail, so why worry? I proceeded to the dining room table and began to write.

Half an hour later, I looked up from my computer and saw the last of my thread being swallowed by the younger, extremely skittish of our two felines—the one I called Piercing because I needed him as much. Oh my gosh, I thought. How dumb can an animal be? Me being the animal.

I pushed myself away from the table, stomach in my neck, and ran toward the freakish cat to pull the needle from his tongue.

Catching this cat is like catching a hummingbird on caffeine. Since Shiloh, our Lab, first found him in our neighbor’s woodpile, he has never been tame, except to Shiloh and Tattoo. You can’t reach down and pet him, much less hold him and duct tape him to the wall. He has the personality of traumatized Siberian tiger and the weight to sound like one when he walks.

When we decided to keep him, he was a fur-covered twig, emaciated and starving. Feeling sympathetic and feeding him was my first mistake. Accepting him after another neighbor discovered him in her garage was my second. Paying to get him neutered and vaccinated was my third. The fourth is right around the bend.

Down the stairs he ran, faster than my ex when I said a bill was due, and into his unreachable cubby. He’s going in there to die, I surmised. I felt awful. Honest.

An hour later he emerged from his cubby and tried to eat. Sadly, he tried to eject the needle with a gag. Thanks to our hardwood floor and his inability to dig in and launch, I caught him. Six calls to veterinarians and one return call later, my daughter and I drove to a vet, who, since it was day’s end, sent us to emergency, which he said would be cheaper. Ha! My friend who just sold her animal hospital informed me otherwise.

Three and a half hours and $220 later (mistake number four), the kitten was still alive and had a hole in his tongue where the vet had to pull the needle and thread out—after cutting the knot off—and not through the same passage in which it went. Piercing now wears a tongue ring.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/04/swallow-this.html

Glissando

(Puzzle piece number 11 of 38.)
What good are stairs if you can’t slide down ’em in some way? Of course, it’s better to plan the journey first.

I wish I were a kid for a day, so I could slide down my friend Patti’s carpeted stairs. Patti had a great laugh—sort of a fast rat-a-tat-tat-tat in the back of her throat that would fill a staircase with joy, and her little nose would crinkle like a tightened shar-pei’s neck.

Patti was the youngest in her family and lived in a warm, family-oriented home. Spoiled rotten, Patti’s parents let her get away with almost anything—and when I went to her house, so did I!

From the upper bedroom level, their house had eight steps down to the main level, then another eight steps down to the family room. Patti and I would bump and giggle, jolt and jiggle down those stairs for hours. Ready, set, bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-splat! Then we’d wiggle and waggle on our rears round the bend for the next set. “Wheeee!” Bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-splat! What a riot!

My stomach would ache from the jarring and laughter, and I wore out the seats of many pairs of pants. We probably wore down their carpet too.

That childhood experience must have lit a fire in my belly, because growing older didn’t hamper my enthusiasm for staircases in the least. When I got to high school and saw six long lengths of stairs with smooth wooden handrails and waist-high walls from which they hung, my first thought was, Wow! I could slide down those babies!

When high school protocol became familiar, some free-spirited guys and I would carefully scope for power figures, and if the coast was clear, we’d glide! Books in one arm, half-length wall on the other. We’d sail from a main floor down to the landing, round the corner and soar down to the next floor. We always felt giddy and lucky every time we escaped capture.

But one day the Luck Fairy was visiting a different school, and four boys and I were caught. I was petrified, thinking the worst: He’ll call my parents. He’ll expel me. He’ll publicly humiliate me, make me repent, dance, and sing in front of the entire student body. Contradicting prior events in my life, the principal made the boys walk up and down a length of stairs ten times: only the boys.

I never slid down the rail again, which took self-control because it was so risky, exciting, fun. It would be so cool to be in high school again…for just a day.

Back to the Patti era and right across the street. The stairs in our ranch-style house could have been seen as entertainment had they been padded and carpeted. But leading to our cold, dark, dank, concrete-floor basement were 13 consecutive steps—hard, rigid, wood steps.

Dad would walk down those steps each evening after work and on the weekends to put on his jeans and dirty-work shirt. He and I would then drive to our ranch to feed the livestock, while Mom stayed home to prepare dinner and think of dirty tricks to play on Dad.

One weekend evening Dad and I were driving home from the ranch after an exhausting day’s work. We were starving and looking forward to our showers. We parked in the driveway, tiredly extracted ourselves from the car, and headed toward the house.

I walked toward the upstairs bathroom as my dad headed downstairs. Without warning, I heard a bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-splat as my dad bellowed, “Joan-ieeeeeeee!” Mom had waxed the basement stairs.

What good are stairs if you can’t slide down ’em in some way? Of course, it’s better to plan the journey first. I wonder if his journey was planned. Cleanliness may be next to godliness, but is cleverness next to vengeance?

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/03/glissando.html