So, I got tapped to write an article for the CPRW newsletter, and ooohhh, the pressure. I could write about almost anything I want. Anything at all from the realm of writing. And what do I come up with? Sea monkeys. Yes, sea monkeys. I have an entire article revolving around sea monkeys.
Just to cover my bases, I started writing a second one, in case the sea monkey one doesn't land, but really. C'mon. Who wouldn't love an article about sea monkeys? But hey, like I said, I'm covering my bases. So what do I come up with for the second article? Relating an embarrassing childhood story about myself and my brother and the battle royales we would have over junk mail. Yep. Those are your choices. Sea monkeys or junk mail. They really know who to come to for class, huh?
So those of you who read this who aren't members, (yes all you millions of silent lurkers who adore my blog, but just never say anything) you'll just have to leave it up to your imagination. As for Natalie and Vicki, you guys will see in January.
Hopefully the suspense doesn't kill you both. Then who'd read my blog? *sigh* If I kill off my only two readers, that would be bad. Plus, now I'm alienating my millions of silent lurkers who are too shy to comment. Ok. Sneak peak. Remember, they're still in rough draft form. Be easy on me.
When we were young, my older brother and I loved to get mail. I can remember races to the death involving so much illegal tackling and shirt holding that we would have been banned from the NFL for life. Just to see if we got any mail. You can imagine the mountain of mail a six and nine year old child would get on a normal business day. So after the winner of the battle royale, bloodied and bruised and walking with a severe limp, would bring the mail to dear old Mom, the disappointment would be almost comical. But still we loved to get mail. So much so, that we would fight over any junk mail that would be shuffled in with the bills, correspondence and catalogs. As Mom would sort through, two youngsters, at every piece of mail would ask, “Can I have that?” Until a chorus of Canihavethat?Canihavethat?Canihavethats echoed after her every move. So, necessity being the mother of invention, and my mom the most inventive of them all, in her infinite wisdom decreed that fovever forward I would be known as Occupant and my brother, Resident.
Sea monkeys are living in my bathtub. Or, at least, that’s what I’m telling my husband. They come in the night and commandeer the shower, creating an environment conducive to sea monkey survival. That’s why I haven’t cleaned it lately. Because sea monkeys are on the endangered species list. Bet you didn’t know that. If I cleaned the tub more often, I’d be committing mass genocide. How could I live with myself?
The dust rhinos, on the other hand, are beginning to bully my dogs. I may need to do some eradicating in that arena. What am I talking about? Reality. Yes, reality.
On those two notes, I wrap this up. If I do a bad enough job, I may not be asked to do it again. That would be . . . ummmm terrible. Yeah. Just terrible. Have a good one, all two of you! And may the sea monkeys stay out of your tubs!