Life Lesson – Friday Fictioneers

Wow!  It’s been a while.  Running a business, running a household and offsprings and just plain running takes up a lot of time.  If I were better at budgeting my time I probably wouldn’t have to run so much but then I wouldn’t be me if everything was orderly and under control.

So, without further ado – because I’m still not caught up – here’s my poor offering to the group.

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“Pick one, Son.”

“I like the blue one, Papa.”

Chuckling.  “I like the way you think, but it’s too big for you.  Last thing you want is to be is intimidated.”

Disappointed.  “The green one?”

“There you go!  That’s the perfect size.  So, you walk up beside it and stop when you are almost past it.  Then lift your leg and let her rip.  Like this.”

Water splashing against the orange column.

“Now you try.  Oh, too far.  Back up.  That’s perfect!  Fire away!”

Tinkling.

“The green one is the perfect size, right?”

Proudly.  “Yes, Papa.  My first man-dog pee!”

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As always, the wonderful Rochelle Wisoff-Fields hosts Friday Fictioneers.  The photo prompt for this week has been provided by Sarah Ann Hall.

Many thanks ladies.

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I’m Not Needy, I’m Demanding!

Teddy:  So.  You’re grounded, huh?

Izzie:  It won’t last long.  They can’t maintain their angst when I pour on the charm.

Teddy:  The Viking seems pretty determined.

Izzie:  Yes, but Mom runs out of patience after a while.

Teddy:  I guess, but why don’t you just come home at bed time like I do?

Izzie:  Because I like the night.  There’s less traffic and fewer people to yell at me to stop pooping in their flower beds.  And, it’s kind of peaceful.

Teddy:  Peaceful?  You are the least peaceful cat I’ve ever met and I lived on the street for nearly a year.

Izzie:  I’m peaceful when I want to be.

Teddy:  Nope.  The only time you are peaceful is when you are drugged.

Izzie:  Whatever.  I like myself unconditionally.  Dr. Phil says that’s what well-adjusted persons aspire too.

Teddy:  Pfft!  You don’t even watch Dr. Phil.  You’re too busy being cranky and needy.

Izzie:  I’m not needy!  I’m demanding!

Teddy:  Well, you’re that too, but still needy.  And what was up with you slapping Mom last night?

Izzie:  She had that coming!  She wouldn’t let me out!  And I didn’t use my claws this time, for your information.

Teddy:  And you thought slapping her would get her to open the door?

Izzie:  I thought that once she understood the true depth of my desire to get outside, she would let me out.

Teddy:  Yeah.  How did that work for you?

Izzie:  You didn’t have to take her side, Momma’s Boy!  You are a cat, and cats are supposed to support cats.

Teddy:  All I did was reiterate…….again……that I don’t want you slapping Mom.  Or The Viking, for that matter.  How many times do I have to tell you this?

Izzie:  You’re still a loser for siding with Mom.  I won’t be leaving you my leftovers anymore.

Teddy:  You haven’t left me food for months.

Izzie:  By the way, why did you show Charlie how to get down from the garage roof?  I was enjoying his pitiful whining.

Teddy:  What is it with you?  You’re always slapping people and hissing at other cats and knocking hats off the customers.  Would it kill you to be nice?

Izzie:  As a matter of fact, yes.  It might kill me.  Germs spread with contact.  And, I like everyone as long as they don’t touch me, don’t talk to me, don’t look at me and don’t bring other cats around.

Teddy:  Charlie isn’t that bad.  He is a bit overly friendly but I think it’s because he’s trying really hard to fit in.

Izzie:  Charlie is an idiot.

Teddy:  Wouldn’t it be nice to have a friend?

Izzie:  I have a friend.

Teddy:  And who would that be?

Izzie:  You, Stupid!

Teddy:  Really?  You’re my friend?  That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me!

Izzie:  And then you had to ruin it!  And no, I’m not your friend.  You are my friend.  I’m not a friend kind of cat – too many responsibilities.

Teddy:  I don’t even know what you’re talking about now.

Izzie:  When you’re a friend, you have to be supportive and kind and give them things and when they do something nice for you, you have to do something nice for them.  And I don’t do nice things for anyone, therefore, I’m not your friend.  You, though, are my friend and it’s your responsibility to be supportive of my causes and be kind to me and do nice things for me.  Like getting someone to open the damned door!

Teddy:  I should have seen that coming but for some reason I just didn’t.  I’m going to play with my squeaky mouse.

 

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A Conspiracy of Dicks

There’s a conspiracy against me.  I don’t know who it is or why they are doing it, but someone is definitely being a dick.

I could understand it if I lived in a small town or in the country, but I don’t.  I live in a big-ass city so the chances should be good that I would be privileged.  I give money to charities and help those who need a hand sometimes.  I’ve been building up good karma for decades!

Sure, every once in a while I flip a bad driver the bird – who doesn’t?  And I regularly hang up on those people, calling from a third world country, who tell me there is a problem with my Microsoft programs.  Religious groups ringing my front door bell are usually given less than polite conversation but I don’t call them names or anything like that.  I just tell them I’m not interested, wish them a good day then close the door.  That’s not horrible.

True, I did call a couple of guys ‘Fucking Idiots’ but they had that coming!  The Viking left the front door open for the air conditioner overnight and these two assholes start ringing the doorbell at 6:00 in the AM!  Why?  They wanted to share their fucking Jagermeister with me AT SIX O’CLOCK IN THE DAMNED MORNING!  On a Saturday!  This shouldn’t cost me negative Karma at all because even the Lord Almighty would have called them ‘Fucking Idiots’ after spending 10 minutes trying to get his door out of their drunken grip (why are drunks so freakishly strong?  It doesn’t make sense!).

My Member of Parliament sends out these sheets of propaganda and I admit that I decorate them with colored markers, citing every grievance I have against their Neo-Liberal bullshit, and then mail it back ‘postage paid’.  I’m fairly confident that it gets delivered because I make block letter complaints about their efforts to privatize Canada Post so it’s in their best interest to deliver it, right?  So, I suppose, if my MP gets hurt feelings, there might be a ding of bad karma, but not so much it should make a difference.

So, I’m mystified at the seemingly deliberate plan not to do Flash Mobs anywhere around me.  I’m sure the jerks know that I would LOVE Flash Mobs to happen at the grocery store or in my front yard and yet there hasn’t been a single incident of Flash Mobbing in the entire community!  What’s up with that?!

Like this:

How do teenagers deserve a Flash Mob and I don’t?  Teenagers can be total dicks like no one else can be total dicks and they haven’t had nearly as many years accruing karma, yet here they are enjoying a Flash Mob.

That one showed up on my Face Book feed and it led me down a YouTube rabbit hole of Flash Mobs that have never happened near me.  Some of them were wonderful and some were lame but I’d even take a lame Flash Mob.  After an hour lost in the depths, I found one that was my favorite.

Oh…those Russians, right?

I’m guessing that some of you, too, have never been privileged enough to deserve your own Flash Mob but maybe you have seen videos of enough to have a favorite.  Put a link in the comments so I can live vicariously through you.

And, for the Powers That Be who are not letting Flash Mobs happen on my front lawn during the hours of 9:00am to 6pm……you’re dicks.

 

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I Don’t Want to Alarm You But…

I was once accused, by a boss, of being aggressive.  Once I got over the shock I asked around and found out that I’m not really aggressive*, I’m assertive; which was a description I could live with.  That was years ago though.  Nowadays, I’m not so much assertive as prone to bouts of slight aggressiveness.  If I were Freud, I would say I become aggressive on occasion because I’m not being assertive enough to avoid the necessity of aggressiveness.

I bring this up because I am being stalked by my Gel Nail Technician – Nancy.  She’s really, really terrible at doing Gel Nails but I’ve been going to her because I haven’t had any alternative within a reasonable distance from my house.  But my former Gel Nail Technician is back and she’s amazing, she’s closer and I want good quality work again instead of horrible, terrible work.  But now, Nancy is calling my cell phone and leaving messages.  And since I’ve been dodging her calls from the shop she’s become shifty and crafty and called from her personal cell phone and I answered it because I thought it was someone else.

“Hello Lori!  It’s Nancy!  When do you want appointment?”

Well SHIT!  It should be easy to not go to one place anymore because you would rather go to some other place instead.  But Nancy isn’t playing by the rules and because I’m not assertive enough to explain that I found someone better, it will probably need an aggressive response to get her to stop calling me.  Sigh.

And I bring this up because I went to the salon where my former Technician is to get my nails done.

There was a man at the front desk and three other women puttering around the shop.  When Anne looked at my nails, she muttered something in an Asian dialect and those 3 women rushed over to look at my nails too.  There was a flurry of words and tut-tuts and lots of shaking heads.  One said “Who did that to your hands?!”  I waved in the vague direction of the street.  “Some other place out there.” I mumbled.

Long story short – I have beautiful nails on my Man Hands!**  Woop!  Woop!  I’m pretty sure Nancy isn’t done yet though.

AND….the reason I’m telling you this is because later that day, The Viking said:

“You have Sex Hair!  Why do you have Sex Hair when we haven’t had sex?!”

Of course I went directly to the closest mirror and he was right.  I definitely had Sex Hair!  I’m as mystified as he is.  Before I left the house to get my nails done, I made sure my hair was presentable and the only guy I saw the whole time was the guy at the front desk in the salon.

Me:  “Okay.  I don’t want to alarm you but I may have experienced a Missing Time event.”

The Viking:  What the fuck is that?

Me:  “Well, it’s when you can’t remember what happened in a certain stretch of time.  Like people who are abducted by UFOs.

The Viking:  “You were abducted by aliens?  Is that what you’re saying?

Me:  “No.  Well maybe.  I don’t know!  How do aliens have sex?”

The Viking:  “I don’t know!”

Me:  “Maybe that’s why aliens don’t have hair.  Maybe their sex is so wild it was easier to just evolve into hairlessness.”

The Viking:  “So you think you had wild sex with a hairless alien?”

Me:  “It would explain my Sex Hair.”

The Viking:  “Or maybe you were just playing around in the bedroom today when I was working.”

Me (shocked and insulted):  “I wouldn’t do that!  And if I did I think I would remember it.  Unless I was experiencing a Missing Time event.  Geez!  I wonder if I do that every afternoon?”

The Viking:  “I think I’d better check on you more often in the afternoons.”

Me:  “I have noticed that my right hand aches quite a bit lately.  I thought I was just getting The Arthritis!

The Viking:  “I want to go with you when you try to explain that to your doctor?”

Me:  You know what?  I may not remember doing it but I’m still a little proud of myself.

It occurs to me that I am right in the glory years of menopause, when my body is producing less Estrogen and more Testosterone and we all know that Testosterone can make people a little aggressive, more hairy and a lot horny.  With the plethora of other wonderful things Menopause has introduced to me I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that Missing Time events and sore hands might be in the mix.

But now that I’m thinking about it, it occurs to me that of all the other crap that comes with Menopause, missing time and the possibility that I might be hanging out in the bedroom in the afternoons isn’t so bad.  So, there is that.

*I’m not really aggressive….except when I flush the toilet.  Apparently I am an extremely aggressive Flusher because I broke the handle right off the toilet which set off an entire bathroom renovation because The Viking doesn’t trust me with conventional flushing handles anymore.  Instead, he bought a Push Button Toilet with a flushing apparatus developed at NASA.  If it’s good enough for Aliens it’s good enough for us.  I guess.

**Despite our best efforts and an iPhone 4S (yes, I know it’s an antique but it works for me), we couldn’t get a decent picture of my beautiful nails.

 

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A Cow Pissed On Us!

We’re home.  We’re also still in shock that we didn’t suffer any catastrophic event while we were in Arizona.  Usually there is some sort of shittery that sends us both into a tornado of spiraling stress, curses and name-calling.  But this time The Viking wasn’t almost arrested and I didn’t get into any fist-fights (the chances of this happening are slim, admittedly, but still….).

Of course, there was the pre-departure clusterfuckage, as usual.  It wouldn’t be a vacation if we didn’t hate each other for the first six hours on the road.  We’ve become infamous in the neighbourhood for our attempts to go on holiday.  We quit telling them the exact day we were leaving because they were bringing out the lawn chairs and popcorn.  There was plenty of this though…..

and a little of this….

…..behind each other’s back and continual profanity as we packed the truck but we did managed to keep the volume down.  There wasn’t a single lawn chair in sight by the time we started the truck and idled out of the alley.

Once we were speaking again, the trip became enjoyable – we both love road trips – and everything was fine until we hit Idaho.  Sigh.  Idaho.  Never go to Idaho without a super-sized jug of Wind Shield Washer Fluid because the entire state is infested with bugs whose guts are so sticky it takes a sandblaster to get them off the front of the truck.  Also, cows piss on you there.

We were following a cattle liner who wasn’t going nearly fast enough for our happiness (we are driving 2400km/1500miles and want to get the fuck going already) and while The Viking was making little darts into the other lane looking for a likely time to pass, a cow pressed its ass against the side of the trailer and let loose a frightening large amount of piss.  It seemed to never end!  It was like driving into a waterfall!  The truck driver was going fast enough to turn the piss stream into a nauseatingly thick mist which required liberal and fast windshield wiper action and desperate stabs at the fresh air intake button.

After we stopped screaming and could use our words again we were more than just a little indignant.  What kind of world do we live in when cows can just piss on you any time they want?  We’re at the top of the food chain, are we not?  That sort of thing should be illegal!  What if our windows had been down?!  Or if we were on a motorcycle?!  Or in a convertible?!!

And then I started wondering why I’ve never been cow pissed on before?  I live in cow country for Pete’s sake.  Given the number of cows/pigs/sheep that are trucked all over the continent you’d think that Cow/Pig/Sheep Pissings would be common and therefore cause enough indignation in the general population to have laws against it.

So I Googled it (Are there laws against cows pissing on vehicles?) and there isn’t.  It’s illegal to be drunk while caring for a cow in Scotland and in Australia it’s illegal to milk another guy’s cow and you can’t drive your cows through St. John’s after 8:00 (I’m assuming in the morning because driving your cows through St. John’s at night would cause fewer traffic problems, but what do I know?  I’ve been pissed on!) but no law about cows pissing on people in vehicles.

So, are Canadian cows just more polite than Idahoan cows?  Is that why I’ve never been Cow Pissed on before?  Are Idahoan cows just plain assholes?  I wouldn’t put it past them judging by Idahoan bugs!  On the other hand, maybe this particular cow was just really bitter but not indicative of all Idahoan cows as a collective group.  Or maybe the Vacation Gawd didn’t have time to prepare something truly epic, as in past years, and this was the best he could do under the circumstances.  If that’s the case ….. then touché Vacation Gawd, well played.

Having now experienced being pissed on by a cow, I can say that it’s not something I will soon forget.  I think I might even have a touch of PTSD.  And, it will change the way we rate our future vacations as well as anyone else’s future vacations.

“Geez, that was one of our worst vacations, but at least we didn’t get pissed on by a cow, right?” 

“Too bad you had such a lousy time on your holiday, but at least you weren’t pissed on by a cow, right?”

Just a quick note about the actual chemical composition of the cow piss itself:  It does take off Idahoan bug guts, so there is that.

PS:  Yes.  Being pissed on is infinitely better than being poo-ed on.

PPS:  Yes.  Cows have every right to be bitter but pissing on us doesn’t change their fate.  It just makes me want a bigger steak.  Or maybe to tip them over, if I knew how to go about it because, presumably, the cow would see me coming and would brace itself.  Unless I dressed up like a cow but then I would need someone in the back of the costume and The Viking probably wouldn’t think it was a worthwhile endeavor.

 

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Where in the Hell is My Machete?!

The mad scramble for Holidays has begun.  I’m sweating buckets as I run around gathering all the things on my list.  Half way through one task though, I think of another thing that didn’t make the list so I change directions and then forget what the hell I was looking for.

I’m doing a lot of starting and stopping and swearing, if I’m honest.  Sure, I could have done most of the packing ahead of time but that just means I’m lugging suitcases from one flat surface to another because I need that surface in the meantime.  Houses really should be built with a “Packing Room” that has long flat surfaces for the luggage and shelves for organizing.  That would be helpful.

Also, cats; they get into everything and that blouse you just packed will be covered in fur when you need it.  It’s safer in the closet on hangers until the last minute.

And I can’t find my Night Vision Goggles.  Or my machete.  I probably won’t have to slash my way through a steamy jungle on our way to Arizona but you just can’t be too careful.  The Night Vision Goggles are handy to have though.  I probably put both of them in the same spot so I wouldn’t lose them but I can’t remember where that spot could be.  I hate it when that happens.

So, I don’t have much time to write a post but I wanted everyone to know that I’m not dead.  I’m on holidays.  I might not have time to write much for the next 2 weeks and it seemed like the polite thing to do to explain why.

Unless I actually die while on vacation.  That would seriously suck and no one would be worrying because I just told you I’m on vacation.

Maybe I should stop and buy a couple epi-pens in case of Killer Bees and I really need to find that fucking machete and the Night Vision Goggles.

Where the Hell is My Machete?!

The mad scramble for Holidays has begun.  I’m sweating buckets as I run around gathering all the things on my list.  Half way through one task though, I think of another thing that didn’t make the list so I change directions and then forget what the hell I was looking for.

I’m doing a lot of starting and stopping and swearing, if I’m honest.  Sure, I could have done most of the packing ahead of time but that just means I’m lugging suitcases from one flat surface to another because I need that surface in the meantime.  Houses really should be built with a “Packing Room” that has long flat surfaces for the luggage and shelves for organizing.  That would be helpful.

Also, cats; they get into everything and that blouse you just packed will be covered in fur when you need it.  It’s safer in the closet on hangers until the last minute.

And I can’t find my Night Vision Goggles.  Or my machete.  I probably won’t have to slash my way through a steamy jungle on our way to Arizona but you just can’t be too careful.  The Night Vision Goggles are handy to have though.  I probably put both of them in the same spot so I wouldn’t lose them but I can’t remember where that spot could be.  I hate it when that happens.

So, I don’t have much time to write a post but I wanted everyone to know that I’m not dead.  I’m on holidays.  I might not have time to write much for the next 2 weeks and it seemed like the polite thing to do to explain why.

Unless I actually die while on vacation.  That would seriously suck and no one would be worrying because I just told you I’m on vacation.

Maybe I should stop and buy a couple epi-pens in case of Killer Bees and I really need to find that fucking machete and the Night Vision Goggles.

 

 

Pains In My Ass

Izzie woke me up this morning – she started the exercise by dancing a German Polka on my stomach and ended with a sharp, single claw stab through the soft tissue in my armpit.  “OW!!  FUCK!”  In between those two events were whispered threats of the dire consequences should I not get out of bed and a fairly lengthy litany of curses.

I muttered a few curses of my own as I stumbled to the bathroom for my morning pee.  Izzie took a position on top of the vanity where she began poking my left cheek with increasing insistence while Teddy swarmed around my panties, purring and feathering my inner thighs with his tail.

“Teddy, I have paperwork to do – get out of my panties.  Gawd!  Quit poking me Izzie!  Geezus!  Teddy!  You’re not helping!  For fucksakes!  STOP POKING ME!!”

They want out, of course.  I slept in a bit and she’s late for her Queendom Inspection where she’ll be handing out Stink Eyes and slaps to anyone or thing that happens to get in her way.  She’ll belittle the two Labradors on the other side of the alley, the orange cat down the block will be mocked and she’ll stop to extensively cuss out Charlie next door just to set a precedent since he’s new to the neighbourhood.  And Teddy, bless his kind-of-dumb but sweet soul, will most likely follow behind at a safe distance apologizing.

When she returns from her reconnaissance she bellows for admittance into the house and then demands prolonged loves.  It was at that point this morning that I started to wonder why the fuck I even have pets?  Honestly, they annoy the hell out of me.

Over the years I’ve had quite a few pets and they have all been a nuisance in one way or another.  Dogs are needy and smelly and dirty and you have to pick up all the poo that is never in one convenient location but spread around the yard like Turdstools.

Birds…..well who really wants squawking, shitting, molting pets that fly around the house if they happen to get out of their cage.  I have enough problems without trying to catch a damned bird with a fish net.

Fish.  I had one of those Siamese fighting fish once which actually was fine.  I would say “Good morning” and wiggle my head back and forth and Norman would swim over and wiggle his head back and forth.  I really liked him; he lived in a small and pretty tank that was easy to clean and the fish food was cheap.  Unfortunately, Norman only lived for about a year and Norman 2.0 only made it 6 months.  I asked for a young fish next time but Norman 3.0 only lived for a couple of months so I gave it all up.  Fuck fish!

Hamsters.  Well I didn’t mind the one hamster I had.  Tubbs was a goofy and chubby little thing and was only awake during the night.  I accidentally killed him because I wanted to find a little house for him and when I couldn’t find what I wanted in the pet stores I decided to make one with a relish jar, fake jewels and spray paint.  RIP Tubbs (I think either the fumes killed him or he chipped the paint off the jar).  Tubbs 2.0 wasn’t nearly as sweet as Tubbs 1.0 and he bit me, the little fuck.  I gave him away to a friend – good riddance.

Cats!  I’ve had a few over the years and the only one I ever liked was the one I got strictly for the kids.  Guess who she ended up loving the most though?  Maggie was a great cat; she was sweet and clean and we didn’t bother each other except for the odd conversation.  She developed Kidney Disease though and I had to put her down.

Three years later I kind of wanted another cat.  Idiot.  Izzie was adorable but her personality turned out to be somewhere between Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Freddy Krueger.  It was a blood bath for nearly a year.  I have scars.  The Viking has scars.  Seriously.  Scars.

We finally convinced her to stop trying to kill us but she’s still loud and belligerent and she shouts curses at us and stares at us like we’ve tragically disappointed her..  Thank Gawd for Teddy who, despite his sweetness, manages to put up with her shit and curtails the worst of her homicidal tendencies.

And she’s a sneaky little shit, too!  She looks all sweet and love-y and approaches like she would welcome a chin scratch and just when you fall for it and put your hand out……SA-LAP!!……and she walks away laughing while you are cradling your severed hand to your chest.

All of this brings me back to my initial question of ‘Why the fuck I even have pets?’  I suppose it’s a moot point because there is no going back; we can’t get rid of them now.  Despite all the apologies we have to make we love Izzie.  And Teddy…..well, who wouldn’t like Teddy?  We’ve had to frisk people to be certain they don’t take him home with them.  It’s a package deal, people!  You take Teddy, you have to take Izzie too!

So, my giant pains in the ass won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.  Sigh.

Izzie – It’s Mine Now!

The Viking is always getting visitors.  They drop shit off and pick shit up and they all make me happy when they leave.  I don’t like people invading my yard any more than I like other cats invading my yard but if they really feel the need to stop by the least they can do is leave their truck door open, or a window at a bare minimum.  I’m short, you know, and getting into your vehicle isn’t always easy.

I bring this up now because I found the perfect Izzie-mobile.  Lucky for me, the guy I am stealing it from spent a good amount of time talking with The Viking so I could do a long and thorough inspection.  That’s the most important thing about getting a new vehicle – check it over carefully.

I like the color.  It’s not pink but it’s attractive nonetheless.

That seat belt is a little high.

It has a rack to carry my litter box and cat tree – unlike that monstrosity The Viking drives.

Lots of leg room for my people.

Plenty of cargo space for my toys and food.

The side mirrors are in good order – I just need to reset them for my height.

Methinks I’m going to need a Booster Seat.

Hey!  You!  Hand over the keys so I can take it out for a test drive.

And then, in what I can only call a complete breakdown in communication, the guy takes the truck away!!  What the hell were you thinking, Viking?!  I wanted it and you just let him drive it away?

I was just getting over your betrayal with the neighbor’s cat and then you pull this shit?!  How hard could it be to just put the guy on a bus?

What?!  I’m not allowed to have a truck now?  Is that what you’re saying to me?

Where’s Mom?!  She’ll let me have a truck.  Just you wait and see!

I put up with a lot of crap around here.  Mim brings her damn cats here all the time and you won’t leave the water running so I can drink when I want and Teddy eats my food.  You even tried to make me wear a sweater!  I don’t do sweaters!

Look at me when I’m giving you the Stink Eye!  If I had poo right now I would fling it at you.

Someone had better get that Treat Jug out.

I don’t know why I even put up with you.  There seems to be no end to the atrocities.  I’m calling PETA!  Black Lives Matter, you know!

You think I’m going to ‘sit pretty’ anymore?  I don’t bloody think so!  I’m going for a nap and there had better be zero noise!  You hear me?  ZERO!

 

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Friday Fictioneers – Weren’t You Listening?

It’s time for Friday Fictioneers again, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  I can’t always add to the group but I do when I have the time.  The same goes for reading all the other great offerings – it takes a long time to get through them all.  If I miss you one week I try to catch you the next.  My apologies if I miss you more often.  I’m reading as fast as I can and my other jobs won’t always wait.

This week’s photo prompt has been supplied by Sarah Potter.

 

“I’m home, Babe!  Mom says hello!”

“I’m in the spare room!” He called back

The stairs creaked as she went up.  The hallway was dark but the spare room spilled more light than usual.

What the hell?!

He was caked in white powder; hair, face, clothes, shoes.  Drywall dust, obviously, because the next surprise was a transformed spare room.

The ugly green wallpaper had been replaced with delicate pink walls and white trim; crib, rocking chair, change table.

She caressed her belly and smiled gently.  “But it’s going to be a boy.  Weren’t you listening?”

“Wait! What?!  Ah, shit!!

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