...Here she comes, full blast and top down/ Hot shoe, burnin' down the avenue/ Model citizen, zero discipline....
It is Naked Season, and I find myself torn: Dress for the weather, or the inevitible air conditioning? Plus, if I'm topless, I'd rather be strapless, so the boobtube (not the teevee) has begun to grey with overwashing. (Why can't I find them in stores? They're apparantly sold only once every three or four seasons. Next time they come round, I'll be sure to stock up. Last time they came round, I didn't own a convertible yet.) However, shopping for groceries in a boobtube and miniskirt ensemble is unthinkable.
My compromise is the overly adult, anti- Primarily Decorative, sensible policy of 'bring a sweater.'
Of course, as it's Primarily Decorative's sweater, it is designed to make other people sweat.
"If Buddah were like Jesus, he would be God," declares Fluffy.
Son, you'll have to clean up the mess if you make my head explode.
A birthday package has arrived from Minnesota. Well, actually, from Zappos, bringer of all good things. It's for Fuzzy. I confirm its arrival to my dad and step-mom.
The children are consumed with curiosity. It's fun to watch the little ones prance and wheedle!
"You are the only person I know that could get away with "prance and wheedle" and not sound ridiculous, " replies my father.
What are you looking for?
"Something to wrap the gun in. Oh, what's this?"
That's a shirt. That probably won't work.
"No, I wanted something like a handkerchief. Maybe I can swipe a napkin off one of the tables."
I've got an extra pair of panties.
"That could work."
I dig through my handbag. I can't remember why I'm carrying an extra pair of panties. I mean, really, some days, I don't have ANY. Ah, here. I hand them over.
He gives me a look that is equal parts admiration and disgust. I can almost hear the unspoken, "you call this a pair of panties?" that is all across his face. He tucks the scrap into his breast pocket, and the revolver into the back of his waistband. Intermission is over, and we're on. After firing the gun in the final moments of the show, he pulls my lace thong out of his pocket to wipe his prints off. And then, in character, hands it to me. The audience roars.
Underwear. Always good comedy.
She has been sleeping for over an hour, sprawled sweetly on the sofa, face relaxed and peaceful. Now that she's turned eight, I wonder how often I'll have the opportunity to watch my daughter sleep. The house, cool and quiet, invites a siesta. I nod off over my book once or twice, until thirst drives me to the kitchen. When I return to the living room, she is stretching herself awake. She returns my hug before opening her eyes, gives another great yawn, and announces, "I'm bored."
She cannot understand why I fall off the sofa laughing.
(Panama; Van Halen)