by Mary Tompsett — Yup. It’s summer, but I’ve already done my 2018 holiday newsletter. Keep in mind, we single folks who never laid eggs in the sand can’t pad the news with other people’s achievements, such as “Tiffany left for Stanford to study artificial intelligence—on an artificial scholarship,” or “Tom built an 80-foot sailboat out of repurposed entertainment centers.”
But with lots of stunning news of my own so far, I won’t need to share the cute antics of the millipedes camping in the bathtub, or brag that my parrot overcame his stutter and is now a professional life coach. So here goes:
I signed up for a university course in string theory. Just a refresher, I know this stuff. Well, imagine my disappointment being the only student who showed up with an armful of dusty macramé supplies. Plan B: I registered at the “Y” for an exercise class for seniors—nude fencing. But they canceled the class when OSHA had a fit. Not enough protective gloves. On to Plan C: Youtube. Did you know that a wart needs air to breathe? And it will suffocate if you cover it with duct tape. Say bye-bye to the good old days when we blew cigarette smoke at the rascal and hoped it got lung cancer.
Finally I kicked a long and stubborn habit – prayer. Medicare won’t pay for an exorcism so I borrowed a Netty pot—from an agnostic. No more urges to pray, no begging, no feeling ignored. Hallelujah! Just an expression, not prayer. I’m still clean.
I’m multitasking at a whole new level…not by raising the bar, but by lowering it. Example: Those strawberries I brought to the picnic? While cutting the mold off of them, I thought about Steve, an old high school flame—who I’d been stalking online—and I said to my beagle, “Lordy, he was hot!” Nope. Not prayer. Just cut me some slack, will ya?
Now I handle multiple processes like cell division, neural synaptic conductivity and occasional whistling through my nose, while barefoot and wearing a five-foot-diameter hoop skirt as I shove branches into a wood chipper—with no safety guard—and text a creepy note to the old flame Steve. And his wife.
Since my caper with the Netty pot I’ve been visited by the spirit of a German mystic from the 14th century. Her name is Ruby Dawn. I think. With her strong accent and my hearing aids, it could be Rabid Dawn.
She’s not your average mystic. In fact, Rabid Dawn is a one-legged hooker with stigmata—a real gusher—even in her phantom limb. I know… hard to believe. But trust me, when she leans in for a hug, y’all don’t wanna be wearin’ white.
Rabid Dawn doesn’t preach. Instead she’s teaching me everyday German for things like, “Oooh, how handsome you are in the tight lederhosen! I can warm up your wienerschnitzel, ya??”
That’s it. And the year ain’t over, buckaroos, so be good. Santa just might bring you that cammo straitjacket… with matching shoes.
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