Sunday, November 27, 2011

Wanted. Dead or Alive.

Reward?  We can negotiate after the live-wire chomping beast has been removed once and for all. Normally I can be fairly good-natured about living by candlelight on Spooky Hill. And contrary to what you might have seen on Star Trek, a wormhole can be created by a pencil and paper, so the lack of a laptop isn’t completely insurmountable. It’s just that when they leave me wet and cold, with conditioner still in my hair and legs slathered in shaving cream a line has been crossed.
Company left today, and it was a near perfect visit. Admittedly as very blessed as I am, I’ve sorely missed my alternate universe even while frolicking in this one. My nieces and nephews enjoyed the sparkly chaos that is the bedlam that fuels and inspires me, and I adored spending time with them; my Cool-Auntie points accumulated this holiday visit. Yet I hadn’t been to the other side in an entire week and my superpowers were starting to wane.
Even Gummy’s orange cookies couldn’t stave it off for much longer, it was time to recharge and visit my happy place. Ushering everyone through the door this morning, I rushed almost blindly over the holiday fallout. Sequins, feather boas, dirty dishes, dying glow-sticks (Thanksgiving fodder) it could all wait. The other universe was beckoning, and words were already falling into The Glitter Globe as I hurried to fire-up the computers.
Oh wait, just one thing and I’ll be through the portal. Hang on, five more minutes. Personal hygiene is necessary in most universes, and I had no intention of coming back of my own volition, so it seemed imperative. It was then that the squirrels attacked. Again. Standing in the dark with conditioner burning my eyeballs, and handfuls of shaving cream I bellowed. “NOT FUNNY. TURN ON THE LIGHT!  HEY!  DON’T MESS WITH ME.”  There was no corresponding laughter, only the imagined chattering of sparkly rodents, as the water first iced over and then stopped altogether. Hours later, bundled up like a homeless person, with one hairy leg having a worrisome reaction to unrinsed shaving cream and my hair still sopping wet, I was shivering as I put pen to paper, muttering to myself. Christmas dinner may very well be squirrel, it can’t taste any worse than soy burgers.

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