2 weeks old today. Frida is healing and itching pretty good.
The mood in Punxsutawney was jubilant during the freezing cold moments before the sun was set to rise on the special day.
Revelers, wrapped in layers, their morning brews’ steam rising like white ribbons into the cold black sky, huddled together in frenziful anticipation.
“I think it’s going to be an early spring!” Walt Goodman of Steubenville said boisterously as he stood next to his wife Myrtle and their 2 children.
“Oh Walter,” his wife said, lightly punching him. “You always have such a head for knowing.”
Their kids took seconds away from their phone screens to roll their eyes.
The rest of the crowd chattered similarly as the line up of entertainment performed on a stage next to the ornately decorated sacred hole in the ground. A colonial drum line, a band of mimes, the Punxsutawney Elementary School’s 5th grade choir and the headliner–a Lee Greenwood impersonator from nearby Anita Pennsylvania.
As the last seconds of night ticked away, the sky over the party filled with fireworks. While the humans oohed and ahhed, every woodland creature within a 10 mile radius stirred in his or her sleep and then hunkered deeper down inside their burrows.
Except for one.
Phil finished brushing his giant buck teeth and then smiled in the mirror to see how he looked.
Awesome as usual.
He turned and pulled on his new military style jacket, applied a coating of Chapstick to his lips, slid on his John Lennon spectacles, and then headed to the door of his subterranean home.
This was it. His annual big moment. This year he was adding a little surprise for all the ding-dong humans who liked to pretend that he had any supernatural meteorological powers to predict the seasonal future.
Phil sighed, took one last gulp of his coffee, picked up the rolled-up poster board resting up against his dirt wall, and headed up the stairs.
He waited as he listened to the congregation of local officials making their speeches. Would it be 6 more weeks of winter? An early spring?
After Brother Carl of the Punxsutawney Baptist Tabernacle finished his prayer for warmer weather, the sun peeked over the horizon and Phil took his cue.
The crowd stood silent as he popped his groundhog head out. Usually the men grabbed him up and showed him off. But not this time.
Phil climbed out of the hole, stood up on his little groundhog legs, unraveled the poster board and held it up for all the crowd to see.
Punxsutawney Phil hoisted a homemade sign that read:
Love Trumps Hate
Flashbulbs went off by the millions as the celebrity critter flashed a toothy grin and the peace sign. News crews from all around the globe went crazy.
The gathered crowd cheered. A few of them booed.
And as Punxsutawney Phil rolled up his poster and headed back down into his home, hundreds of miles away in the nation’s capital, the president of the United States turned his attention away from his television screen and pressed his tiny finger once again against his well-worn Twitter app.
Melania blasted open the massive double doors with both hands, her long silken hair caught up like a TRESemmé cyclone in the wild breeze she kicked up. Then she took off walking, her 4-inch Louboutins clacking against the glittering-gold marble as she purposefully stomped down the corridor like a Victoria’s Secret angel working the wings and underpants catwalk.
When she got to the end of the hallway, she stopped and struck three poses in front of a mousy little receptionist watching her from behind a desk.
“Good morning, Mrs. Trump,” the girl said awkwardly as the statuesque woman shot her a bit of “Blue Steel”.
“Where is he?” Melania snapped.
“He’s in the cafeteria,” the mouse replied.
Melania took off again, using her signature walk, looking from side to side at the audience who wasn’t really there.
In the cafeteria, she found Donald sitting in a booster seat wearing a bib. He looked very disgruntled, with liquid all over his chin and his lower lip sticking out in a pout that could be seen from outer space. A sippy cup with a big blue bird on it sat tumbled over on its side nearby.
“Donald is having a bad day,” the headmistress said with a worn out I’ve-totally-had-it-up-to-here-with-this-shit look on her face.
“He pushed over a bunch of his playmates on the playground, he wouldn’t share during share time, he kept yelling WRONG at his teacher during circle time, and now he won’t drink his special drink,” she explained.
Melania looked at her husband disapprovingly and then sat next to him as the frazzled lady walked away for a moment’s peace.
“Donald,” she said as he looked at her. “Why are you being so especially bad today. And why do you not dreenk your Tweetter elixir?”
“It’s yucky,” he said, making a yucky face.
Melania sighed. This again.
“Of course it’s yucky, darling,” she explained. “It’s yucky because it helps you say all da yucky things you say on da Tweeter all da time dat your fans love so much.”
Donald hunkered down in his chair and moved his head back and forth over and over again, not wanting to hear her.
Melania knew exactly how to handle this.
“Leesten to me, little man,” she said, taking hold of his moist chin with her hand and making him look at her.
“You dreenk dis Tweeter juice and I will let you have sleepover with Vladimir.”
Donald rolled the idea around in his head.
“No,” he said defiantly.
Melania squinted her squinty eyes.
“How about sleepover with Vladimir and Uncle Ted?”
Donald sniffled thinking about it.
“No,” he said again.
“You drive hard bargain,” she told him tapping her talons on the tabletop. “You dreenk your Tweeter juice and I will let you have Vladimir, Uncle Ted and da Chachi boy over for a whole weekend.”
Donald’s face grew solemn while he thought about that.
“Okay,” he finally said, snapping up the toppled cup, placing it in his mouth and sucking eagerly.
Pleased with herself, she stood up, kissed him on the flossy head and headed out of the cafeteria. When she passed the headmistress, she gave thumbs up as they both heard Donald emit a belch so loud it shook the walls of the building.
Melania sashayed away, slid on her sunglasses, pushed open the massive double doors once again and stepped out into the bright orange sunlight.
“Same sheeet, deeferent day,” she sighed.
Sometimes I write tiny stories.
Here’s my latest:
“Darling, roll over,” Melania said softly to the giant orb of flesh topped with a pop of silky wheat floss on his head lightly emerging from his slumber next to her in their fur-covered, diamond-encrusted, Tsar-sized, Tempur-pedic bed.
“But I don’ wanna…,” the grown man slobbered, rolling anyway, as if to get away from a mother trying to wake a child to get ready for school.
Melania sighed as she pulled the heavy blankets away to look at the exposed ass cheeks of her beloved.
“Look at dees badonka-donk,” she muttered to herself.
“At least dees makes my job easy,” she added turning away to pull the syringe from the bottle labelled “Big Mean Baby Man Potion”.
Turning back to his buttocks, she sank the needle deep into his flesh and pressed the plunger all the way down.
The mountain barely flinched before emitting a thunderous gastronomical explosion.
Melania put the syringe back on the nightstand, sat up and looked at the sun trying to peek past the blinds.
“Same sheeet, deeferent day,” she sighed.
Hi there. And welcome.
You’ve gone and stumbled upon what I like to call “my new blog”.
I used to have a blog I loved writing not too long ago. I had to give it up, though, because we got a new puppy last February, and let me tell you–my life turned upside down when we brought her home. After having our old dog (she passed away) for so long, who was a complete gem and totally easy to care for, having a puppy in the house again was rather overwhelming. I was frustrated a lot by all of my free time things I liked to do–blogging being one of them–having to go by the wayside in exchange for puppyhood antics and basic training.
But give my hobbies up I did. I’m happy to report that puppy has turned 1 and life in our home has settled considerably and things have kinda gone back to normal.
So now I’m back and ready to write stuff I have no idea anybody besides me will care too much about.
But let’s give it another whirl, shall we?
Here’s a fun twist. Along with my new calmer life and fresh start to my blogging career, I am adding the fun-filled event of turning 50 years old to my line up of things to do this year.
You heard me right–50.
I am a Summer of Love baby (hence the blog name). I dig that about myself. But now here I am, getting ready to click over to an age that kinda freaks me out. I’ve never been freaked out by aging before now. In fact, I love my birthday. I love all birthdays. After we meet, I will remember your birthday way before I remember your name. I like to make big whoop-dee-doos over birthdays.
This one I find myself dreaded months way ahead.
Friends and family I’ve discussed this with blow off my apprehension and tell me–Oh, you’re young!! Well, okay…I know I’m not like 90 or anything, but I still feel like 50 is a number to be reckoned with. You can’t really claim being “young” anymore after you’ve hit the big 5-0. And, truth be told, my body is starting to pull shit on me. Painful heel, knee twinges, backaches. That kind of stuff.
Let me tell you a story real quick:
This past Saturday I went shopping and as I made my way into Macy’s, my shoelaces weren’t tied very tight and my (painful) heels were slipping around in my shoes. I found myself thinking–I hope when I get in this place there’s somewhere I can sit so I can retie my shoes.
I’ve never had to consider pre-planned sitting before. I mean, not for myself at least. And don’t you know, there was nowhere to sit inside the store doors. So I thought-screw it…I’m going to bend down and tie these shoes. I can do it!
There was an older lady standing there putting on her coat and gloves and scarf. I thought, okay–if I get stuck on the floor she can help me. So I crouched and started untying and retying. It took some effort on my part, but I did it. Then I was off and shopping and it all worked out okay.
But what the hell was that?!
I’ll tell you what that was.
That was me…hot on the heels of 50.
So yeh. These are the kinds of stories I plan on telling here.
Admit it.. you’re hooked, aren’t you.
If you’re not totally convinced yet, here’s a little more insight about me and the kind of stuff you might find me discussing here…
I made my career out of being a stay-at-home mom with our 2 kids. We homeschooled with the exception of the one year our son attended kindergarten. After that, we took off on our own. Those were some great-ass years. I was a really good mom. I still am, I guess, but the kids are grown now. They only need me here and there, and that’s good–the way it should be, you know? Hubby of 100 years and I are now empty-nesters. We own a small business we started on a shoestring. My husband runs that operation with some help from me. It’s just the two of us and has been for the past 14 years. We’ve lived in our house, which is tiny and adorable and really fun to redecorate and keep uncommonly immaculate now that there are no children around, for the past 24 years. We have pets I will more than likely mention way more than most people might enjoy. But what can I say, we think those furballs are the shit. My husband is a guitar player. I like to think someday I’ll write something good enough to make it on to a bookstore shelf. I’m covered in tattoos, love clothes and music and books and am hellbent on feeling as young as I can for as long as I can.
Which brings us back to that whole turning 50 thing. Remember?
I definitely remember.
All right. If you’ve read this whole thing I’d like to say thank you. Come back again if you want. Say hi.
I’m going to go fill up my coffee cup again and take a cruise around to see if I can find some interesting other blogs to read.
It feels good to be back. 🙂
Til next time, please enjoy this rockin’ tune–the Doors’ mega-hit that was #1 song on the charts the day I was born.
Pretty appropriate for a Summer of Love baby, don’t you think?