Posts Tagged ‘Laugh’

Hey ho.  Seamus here for Miss Cynthia.  She asked me to speak on her behalf, as she is recuperating.  There has been a long list of events that you would hardly believe if I were to share them.  Miss Cynthia made me pinky-swear not to say a thing about them.

But there was that whole tea and tranquility and threats about litigation in blogland thing that threw her for a loop.  She was compelled to change the name of her blog.  She is still seeing spots over that one.  Red spots.  Just came out of no where — the invisible ethernet, she says.

I said, “Magic?”

She said, “Hardly.”

I said, “Black magic?”

She said,  “Something like that.”

I said, “VooDoo?”

She said, “Exactly.”

Well, then I knew what she was talking about and I did feel a mite guilty.  But what is a gnome to do?  We are nothing if not a wee bit mischievous.

I thought back to the Galveston trip and remembered that odd fellow we met in the gift shop…

Miss Cynthia snatched us away in just a few seconds, but not before Finn and this character exchanged a few quick words.  It was all mumbo jumbo to me.  I did, however, catch snippets like, “tea, poison, not tranquil, blog, Miss Cyn___, mean, darkness,…”

Finn is versed in many avenues of magic and I assure you, it has nothing to do with “Bippity Boppity Boo.”

Miss Cynthia whisked us away to a brighter spot and said to be good little gnomes and if we would stay out of trouble, she would buy us our very own sand castle.

Finn said that was ridiculous.  He wanted a real castle.  One like we had seen earlier in our tour of the city.  He said there would be plenty of room there for his friends and a much larger still.

He pitched a king-sized hissy fit and disappeared for several hours.

This is where I found him.

When I explained to Miss Cynthia that he refused to leave his new-found friends, she gasped. “Sharks?  Finn’s new best friends are sharks?”

I tried to explain to her that Finn saw no harm in it.  He was not likely to be devoured by them.  He comes from a long line of shark whisperers.

Miss Cynthia counted to ten and said that Finn must find some new friends immediately, that friends with sharp teeth and beady black eyes were not friends at all.  They would just as likely bite him in the behind as not.

She picked him up by the top of his hat and strode down the aisle mumbling something about how she should have known better.

Finn kicked his little black boots and hollered at the top of his voice, “I’ve known sharks with kinder personalities than you and some of your so-called friends.”

Then Miss Cynthia deposited Finn and me here:

Seriously.  Next to a hermit crab painted with a likeness of Sponge Bob Square-pants.

Not a good move.  I believe you have a saying here that is something along the lines of “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

Well.  They haven’t met Finn.

I’m surprised Miss Cynthia allowed our return to her garden at all.  She said that she could hardly imagine Finn’s shenanigans unleashed upon the unsuspecting population of Galveston.

Finn has pouted ever since.  And practiced his own sort of magic around the clock.

Finn has quite the amazing connections with nature.

Since we have spoken last, Miss Cynthia has experienced a horse-fly bite that made her ill for a week.  Then a flying-ant stung her in the eye and made her ill again.  She has encountered eight tarantulas within a few hours time.  Her gardens are experiencing a grasshopper invasion of Egyptian proportions.  The fire-ants are everywhere that a grasshopper isn’t.  The days are an endless chain of 100 degree temperatures.  She keeps wandering about with her eyes glazed over, but seems to have no clue that Finn might be responsible.  She says that summers on the plains just keep getting more difficult.

And that is saying nothing of the additional guests.

Additional guests, you say?  Yes.  Quite.  Uninvited by Miss Cynthia. She said that she is strongly considering finding a mountain cave and becoming a hermit herself.

Finn just whistles and rolls his eyes when confronted with that situation.

Miss Cynthia said that her blog friend, Scriptor Senex, was right.  He made a comment about worrying that her home might become over-run if she made us too comfy.

She truly had no idea.

Stay tuned for photos and an update on the inundation of Miss Cynthia’s home, courtesy of Finn P.  McOrnery.


Seamus  and Snickers


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Please understand that I’m not “picking on” other people and their weaknesses when I’m pointing out foibles here.  I’ve had too much experience with “what goes around comes around” to do that.  I really don’t want pay-backs. . . wandering through my public life wondering nervously if I will always have spinach in my teeth or a hole in the armpit of my favorite shirt.   Oh, no.  I am simply pointing out what is obvious to me.  Human beings are just that.  Very human.  Even when we believe that we have transcended this dusty soil and will float forever about on white puffs of wispy clouds, several thousand feet above the rest, well. . . there is always something that will bring us back down to earth in a hurry.  I don’t want mine to be a bolt of lightning, so I will tread lightly.  I am laughing with you, not at you.  There is a difference.  ;^)

However, today’s fashion tee-hee-hee moment is just too good not to share.  ;^)

Just a brief digression:  while referring to the above-mentioned spinach, I would like to share with you that it does not take much to amuse me.  My daughters know this.  My youngest, especially, pulls the same trick out of her hat and never fails to elicit a giggle.  I should always remember that if, say, there are spinach enchiladas on the table or chocolate cake, a surprise will await me.  She’ll bat her eye-lashes and smile demurely, then ask, “Do I have anything on my teeth?”  I turn my gaze to be helpful, as mothers are always supposed to be oh-so-helpful, if not gullible, and she will display a wide-open grin with the appropriate spinach/chocolate covering her front teeth.  This daughter is not twelve, I might add.  She’s twenty-six.  ;^)

Why is this funny, especially, repeatedly funny?  I don’t know.  Perhaps just the ability to  catch me off guard and never failing to pull off the element of surprise in a much over-used family trick.

Well, on to the subject at hand.  I have noticed that several of my slip-showing stories are taking place on Sundays.  I think maybe that the power in the object of hilarity resides in the fact that many think of Sunday as a holy day.  Really, if we’re breathing, every day should be holy.  But, we try so hard on Sunday to exude that little extra squeeze of piety.  We dress up in what we perceive as finery, we carry a holy book inside a protective, zippered brocade cover with a Bic in a pocket (to take sermon notes with) and chin-up, we’re off to the temple.

May I digress again?  I’d like to underscore my point by talking about attempts at very human names upon the holy aspect of a church.  How do you name a church?

I always love the First Baptist Church.  Who wants to be a member of the Second Baptist Church?  Or the Last Baptist Church?

What about Our Lady of Sorrows?  She’s in heaven.  Shouldn’t she be dancing down the streets of gold as Our Lady Who Has No Sorrows?

How about the First Christian Church?  (Don’t stone me, I beg of you…) We wouldn’t darken the doors of the First Sinner Church.  Or the First Heathen Church.

There are boundless church names with the names of Jesus or God or Christ in them.  That is, of course, what it’s all about.  I just really would like to see one called, The Church of Sweet Little Six Pound Eight Ounce Baby Jesus (Because He’s My Favorite Jesus.)  (Yes, I did swipe the basic idea from Talladega Nights.) But it is a fun idea.  Don’t you just love your baby Jesus in the manger part of your crèche at Christmas?  I’ve always been fascinated by them.

Well, the story is progressing into a novel and I haven’t told my story, yet.  ;^)

The particular Sunday of our attention was many moons ago, when, as I’ve shared before, I was partaking in the holy sanctity of marriage and I sold the pink cosmetics.  (I look back now and I wonder, who was that person?  Was she really me?)  Yes, she was.  She was The Many Moons Ago version of Miss Cynthia.  She puzzles me.  But she was real.  Kind of in a Pinocchio was a real boy sort of way.  Like a wooden puppet sitting on a shelf staring out through button eyes. Well, for goodness sake, I digress again. . . .

I sashayed up to the platform (we couldn’t possibly call it a stage. . . it’s in a church for heaven’s sake. . . .) It was time for music practice before the main service.  The song leader, an esteemed member of the church and the community, approached me.

She said, “I need to talk to you for a minute after church.  It’s time to re-order my lip-liner pencil.”

Yes it is, I thought.  The one you’re using is, um. . . scary, I thought further.  It looked black.

A quick glance at her watch and she was off.  Practice would begin, and my hesitation would cost us both.  Oh well.  They were her black lips, not mine.  (Please don’t hang me on a cross and burn me.)

After a full service of singing in front of 300+ people, we met in front of the ladies room.  I pulled out my trusty order form and she pulled out her cash.  I know.  Money was exchanging hands in the temple.  But it was of dire importance.  A lady can not look like a ghostly specter while in front of 300+ people in a place of worship.  We need our lipstick.  Please don’t take it from us.

“Which color do you use?” I asked.  Carefully.

Miss Melodious pulled a teeny nub of a former lip-liner from her purse.  “It’s this one, I think.”

I said, “Um, I thought you have always worn ‘Raisin’ Lip-Liner, you know, the dark, cherry red slash dark chocolate brown one?”

“No,” she said. “It’s this one, I grabbed it from my lipstick case this morning.”

I inspected it closely.

“Um, it says, right here, on the barely readable, scratched-off side, “Black eye-liner,” I said.

NO!” she said.

I dared to lift my eyes from the pencil to her lips.

Yes, they were lined in black.  And this wasn’t even a Gothic church.  It was a  fairly up-scale, respectable, progressive band-and-all church.

We rushed through the ladies room door.  We both faced the mirror at the same time.  We both faced each other.  Well, she faced me.   I faced the floor.

She was a good sport.  She burst out laughing.  What could I do?  I did, too.

Note to self:  Always.  Always.  Always double-check your lip-liner label.   And use your handy-dandy rear-view mirror in the car, for Pete’s sake!  What are they for, after all?  Never.  Never.  Never be in too much of a Sunday-morning-rush-routine to not do so.


The End.

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Long before it was a fashion statement, oh, along about the time it was truly a blunder, I made a statement all right … by wearing a pair of mismatched shoes to church.

It’s been so long ago, as a matter of fact, that I still had children at home.  And a husband.  ;^-  (Thus, the reason I probably didn’t have a clue as to the nature of my own appearance.) (I spent a great deal of time in La-La-Land in those days ~~ it was a self preservation technique that I honed to a fine art.)

It was also at a time when I actually cared what I wore to church.  (I’m somewhat ashamed to admit it now, but it does make for a better story.) (Don’t get me wrong, I don’t wear cut-offs and a tank top to church, but this place was, well … I’ll just say, “over the top.”  It was quite the church to make a fashion statement.  It was more of a diversion than Paris in the Spring.  Showing up to see what the fashionistas were wearing was right up there with praising the Almighty.  You know.  Priorities.  One simply must keep them straight.

Now, I must insert here that my mother made sure that we wore our Sunday best to church when I was growing up.  It was important that we offered our best.  I understand that theory.  It makes sense.  What I’m speaking of in the previous paragraph is another man-made (or woman-made) warped sense of importance.  Oh, how we human beings can skew a perfectly good sanctity.

Nevertheless, I digress.

On said Sunday, I rushed about in the usual tizzy, trying to get myself ready, the children ready, as well as  answering the perfunctory Sunday morning question from the former Mister  (Does this tie match this shirt?) (No.) (Did it ever?)  (You’re color-blind, for St. Peter’s sake.)     ;^-

Sundays were not my favorite day of the week.

On this particular Sunday, I donned a long, navy-blue, broom skirt, (comfy…no hose required) and a flow-y black and blue top (to match my attitude) (AND covers a multitude of sins)  ;^)  … and a pair of navy-blue pumps.  Or so I thought.

After an entire first-half-of-the- service, singing and playing the piano (a longggggg self-imposed penance that I supposed would secure my spot behind the Pearly Gates) (Boy, was I wrong….)  I took my seat on the front row.  I let out a long sigh.  I let my mind wander.  (I forgot to put the roast in the oven.  I wonder if I can convince the Mister to buy lunch at the Mexican restaurant today?)  Sigh.  I crossed my legs to swing my foot in nervous anticipation for the end of the sermon.

Several foot swings later … Did my eyes deceive me?  No.  They did not.  There was a navy pump.  Good.  On the other foot ~~ a black pump.  Noooooo!  I blinked my eyes.  It had to be a mirage.  Blink.  Blink.

(Noooooooo.  I am DEFinitely NOT winking at you, Mister.)  (Are you kidding me?)  (Your tie doesn’t match your suit.)

And my shoes didn’t match each other.

Oh, horror of horrors.  THE fashion faux pas of the fashion faux pas’Z.

I cannot tell a lie.  I was in church, for goodness’ sake.

I wanted to laugh.  Why cry?  There were too many other perfectly good reasons to cry that I had skipped right on over.  Laughter would be better.  Yes, much better.

I covered my mouth with my hand.  My eyes began to sparkle.  I stifled a giggle. It certainly was the most interesting thing I had seen that day.  And I thought it up all by myself.  Oh.  That’s right.  No thought was involved.  None whatsoever.

Oh, who cares?  So, I wore mismatched shoes.  No one noticed until I pointed it out afterward, laughing at my own joke.  Why was I the only one laughing?  They were too busy sashaying down the runway.  I mean, aisle, viewing each others’ regalia.

I was FAR ahead of my time with the one-black-shoe-one-navy-shoe-thing.  I just didn’t realize it then.  I think that I may try it again sometime.  Just to see if anybody notices.

Oh, fiddlesticks. Who am I kidding?    ;^)  I much prefer the church where cut-offs, tank tops and bare feet are accepted.  I think they call it, “the beach.”  ;^)   The Almighty speaks there, too.  And he definitely doesn’t care what you wear.  ;^)


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I don’t think that a slip hanging out at the hem of a dress is a big deal these days, except maybe to little senior citizen ladies at church.  Or a tearoom.  It doesn’t hold the same allure in 2011 as it did 20 years ago, because I’ve seen women wear a slip as a dress.  For purposes here, however, we’ll chat about the days when it would have been embarrassing, OK?  Let’s pretend.

It’s been a while back…alright, it’s been quite a while back when I was a consultant in a cosmetics business.  You know the one…it originated in Texas with a flamboyant entrepreneur with blonde, bubble hair…and everything…everything…including the cars…was pink….

Anyhoo, great cosmetics, still use them, just had enough of the rah-rah-ree-sisterhood-of-the-pink-and-fluffy-cosmetics lifestyle.  However, some great stories come from those days.

Several thousand of us, (I want to say 100,000, maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t…) converged on the city of Dallas for “Seminar.”  That’s a lot of pink.  They were always very gracious to us and accommodated the hoopla with the aplomb that only a city like the Big D can.

Fleets of buses couriered les pink femmes from hotel to convention center in droves.  Much-o pink-o.  Wow.  These pink gals were decked out.  You have never seen the likes of so many matching business suits, hats, feathers, gloves, high-heels, jewelry (glittering, sparkling, bling-y, bling-y, oh-my….)  And slips.  Yes, slips.

One of my friends was immaculately coiffed, perfumed, and as expected, generally dolled up.  She was a big gal.  It was Dallas.  It was July.  The result was, well, may I be so genteel as to say, um, well…drippy.  Yes, that’s it.  Drippy.  Well, you know…ladies don’t sweat, they glowwwww.  So, Miss Priss was glowing in full force.

Underneath all of that pink was a soaking-wet slip.  And since she had spent her money on the stuff that showed, well, she probably had her mind on some new bling…or chocolate.  Nevertheless, she did not buy a new slip.  This one was a little worse for the wear.  The elastic waistband had seen better days.

Miss Prissy Pink-y in the Big D was carrying her handbag, her tote-bag (full of pink fluff) and probably had her mind on dinner.  (Supper, as they say down South.)  Ya’ll.  (OR, the aforementioned chocolat’.)

Miss P carried herself and all of her goodies down the steps of the bus, struggling in front of all those other pink suits to maintain her dignity in the heat and bustle.  She felt her slip slide.  Her hands were not free…nary a one to discreetly hike up a wayward elastic waistband.  The slip continued to do what slips do.  Slip.

Pinky stepped off the bus and as her feet hit the ground, so did the errant slip.  She kept her head erect, chin up, eyes forward, lifted her high-heeled, business-pump-shod tootsies over the filmy tricot and kept walking.  Never looked back.  Not even a slight swivel.  Slip?  What slip.

Back in the swanky hotel rooms we hardy-har-harred over that one ‘til the wee hours.

I often wondered what happened to that slip.

I like to think that somewhere in the drainage tunnels of the streets of Pink Cowgirl Town lies a rumpled bundle of brown lace.  Maybe a furry little creature with a penchant for bling potential slinked it home and scrubbed it up.  She’s now sashayin’ through the ducts sportin’ a slip for a dress.  Well.  I nevah!

Have you got one that’ll top that?  Please.  Do tell.


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