Dear Diary

Day 1: Hello, I Must be Going… ♬

I cannot stay, I came to say, I must be going... ♬

So, stow’d-away and on the move, I’m going. So far, no one knows I’m here – so far. It’s plenty dark but there’s plenty of room. And I’ll be needing it. Soon.

From a second floor one bath walk-up with “…no closets” to a very Brady 60’s sitcom suburban split-level with tire swing and “…nosy neighbors”. He wants to pee on a tree without prying eyes sneaking peeks. She’s happy to have nosy neighbors.

Twenty-three… my new lucky Lotto pick, got me to be me. No, not Groucho. But for now, just call me X.

…or rather Double-X.

Day 18: Here in My Heart

There is goes again… a little bit louder now. It’s got a nice beat, but it won’t dance. Was gonna complain (but didn’t know who to) till it dawned on me… Oh, that’s me, silly.

Yeah… that’s me alright, and it’s not. Alright. Someone I don’t wanna be is someone who’s always right or always got to be. And too – too quick to complain, too abrupt to judge, and too flying off the handle. The broom handle.

Broom Hilda’s broom handle.

Why is it when everyone… . No, scratch that. Why is it why I jump to a conclusion, it’s usually the wrong one? Need another healthy helping of the Fruits... love, joy, Peaches and Herb, Raisinets, plus one more…

Graciousness: Yeah, that really is the heart of the matter.

Week 3: The Scheme of Things

Daddy wants to get ready, momma’s fussin’ over the hue… pink or blue. Some guy dad calls the four-eyed bald guy wants to know if’n they want to know.

Dad said yes, momma said no.

Day 30: …and I’ll Name the Dogs

Lately I’ve been getting a earful of everything. I mean, everything!

Curious George at the Firehouse
The Stinky Cheeseman, and of course…
How to Balance and Blueprint a Chevy Small-Block 350

(…sometimes dad reads aloud.)

Today Momma was reading from First Samuel. That’s when he told she that she was not. Not Hannah. But I think she thinks she is or wants to be. So, what does that make me? …an answer to prayer.

“𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐒𝐚𝐦. 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐈 𝐚𝐦.” ^{King James meets Green Eggs and Ham}

Good thing she wasn’t reading Hamster Huey and the Gooey Kablooie.

Day 42: Pooh for Thoughts

“Sometimes I sits and thinks and sometimes I just sits.” ^{Winnie the–}

Week 8: Got Pizza?

And hopefully within buggy strolling distance. ‘Cuz… we won’t be able to just call and have one delivered.

Those nationally franchised drive-thru’s spinning neon tiles and toga-draped Romans slice up some saucy substance to be consumed with two liter’d high-fructose corn syrup and plasticware (delivered in thirty minutes or less by guys who lick pork rind bags).

Not pizza.

And those cardboard discs stacked at minimum wage in Stop & Shop’s frost bite aisle? whatever they were, at zero degrees they ceased to be. Yeah… gluttony may be a sin but frozen pizza is sacrilege.

That’s right, I said it.

Sure… the Interstate gets you from point A to where you want to be in socially-distanced climate-controlled ease, but you’ll never see the covered bridges, old stone churches, and antique shops that color the local scenery of the two lane blacktop.

Fast food is just a destination. Pizza is a journey, not dough coated with tomato sauce, cheese, and choice of toppings.

…could be, but not.

Not unless baked in wood-fired brick-oven downtown with indecipherable accents, no parking, and fewer tables. An aromatic symphony must be experienced, not summoned by emoji and tracked on an app. Order in person. Pay in cash.

Don’t call ahead
Don’t request delivery
Don’t ask how much

…you can, but don’t. Not if you want a pizza.

Week 8½: Think Pink

Zzzzzzzzzzzz… snorx.

Momma’s asleep, dozing off somewhere between “The Return of…” and “…Strikes Again”.

No, not Star Wars.

Daddy’s still up. So, it’s up to us to finish the mini-midnight Blake Edwards film fest. Daddy is… quietly that is… detailing the scene-by-scene comedy scheme.

Clouseau: “Duz your dawg bite?”
Hotel Clerk: “No.”
Grrrr-arr-arrRR-aRRR!
Clouseau: “I thought you said your dawg did not bite.”
Hotel Clerk: “That is not my dog.”

(…way too funny.)

Now, if the bumbling Inspector were on the “The Trail of…” my Pink tail, there’d be lots fewer sequels. I’d be quite easy to follow anywhere because I’d leave pawfuls of telltale clues everywhere – stinky, smelly, covered in snot…

Fingerprints.

They may identify me or betray me but do not belong to me. Unique and never duplicated, they are the mark of the 𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭.

Mom and Dad have syndication rights.

Week 9: What’s on First?

A thumb! Finally something I can use.

And just in time: Dad bought and oiled a mitt for me. If’n it’ll keep him from redoing that whole Bud & Lou routine, I’m up for some spittin’ and scratchin’.

Hopefully it won’t come to that.

No, dad, What’s on second.
“I’m not asking you Who’s on second.”
Who’s on first.
“I don’t know… third base!”

Father’s Day: To be or not

To honor all fathers, Pastor O’ asked all the fathers to stand. But daddy glued to his pew said he wouldn’t – said he wasn’t. Yet. Momma’s red n’white stiletto left his shin with a black n’blue tattoo.

Good for momma.

Week 11: Just Practicing to be a Comic Strip Kid

Month 4: Texas Two-Step sorta

Momma mistook my toe-tapping and twirls for something slightly more three-quarter-ish waltzy or pirouette-ic.

Uh-oh. Stay tuned.

Month 4½: I’m that Kinda Girl ♬

So, momma paused and re-shuffled her Inane Eighties playlist to include some culture and refinement and other sucky stuff: Shostakovich, Stravinsky, and Leopold Stokowski.

…and their bands.

(…as if Doc Suess weren’t enough) which begs a coupla questions:

First: What is 𝐆𝐫𝐨ß𝐞 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐟ü𝐫 𝐝𝐚𝐬 𝐇𝐚𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐤𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐫?
…and Second: Who cares?

Dad’s flavor of “classics” tastes more like Texas BBQ and red Solo cups. And out on the road… redneck rules – my ride, my radio: Lynyrd Skynyrd, Charlie Daniels, the Brothers Bellamy and Marshall Tucker.

…and their bands.

Momma threatens to walk.

Well… hopefully our 60’s sitcom split-level is within cork-huskin’ distance of some Amplitude Modulated Hee-Haw fiddlin’ and banjo pickin’, ‘cuz the only longhair ceoncerto-ing I wanna hear is Patty Loveless, Patsy Cline, and Bugs Bunny.

…and their bands.

Momma may never forgive daddy.

Month 6: Willlll-maaaaaaaa!

Saturday morning’s cutie pie was clearly a paint chip off the ol’ Flintstone. Conveniently so – Fred woulda blown his Bedrock top if Pebbles’ ponytail was crayon’d anything but Hanna-Barbera orange.

But momma’s blown-dry chestnut mane is anything but like mine, so my debut may take some getting used to.

Month 7: “＠⋕$％⌃＆⁎ǃ–𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐬!”

I’m still a little foggy on the why to, but I’m fairly clear on the how to… double-clutchin’ the unsynch’d gearbox on that ol’ fifty-seven stepside. Yeah, daddy may not always think I’m mindin’ but I am listening. Like when he sez…

The meek may inherit but the world is full of idiots
Prayer time is not me-time
Count your change, Respect your enemy, and of course…
Zip your fly before leaving the john

And if I ever find myself on Jeopardy!…

“I’ll take Da History of Da Bears for two-hundred, please.”

But every so often, he’ll spout something to which momma shrieks back something fierce – something about me running off with bikers. He may be right but why take that chance, she whispers when he’s out of earshot.

She’s a lady. He’s no gentleman. But she’s okay with that.

Me, too.

Thanksgiving Leftovers: Let’s Eat Grandma

The phone rang: Momma’s worried.

She’s pacing. Now she’s stopped. No, she’s pacing again, pacing and reading, reading Psalm 46:10. But she’s reading it wrong. It’s not:

𝐁𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐆𝐨𝐝.

There’s a comma there, momma. I know you can’t see it in the original punctuation-free Hebrew – it’s silent. You hafta read it like the grainy subtitles of those old black n’whites. So read it, momma – read it right:

𝐁𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 [𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚] 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐆𝐨𝐝.

Be still, comma.
Be still, momma.
Be still.

…𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐆𝐨𝐝.

Mid-December: We Wish You the Merriest… ♬

The tree is beautiful. Must be. Momma’s sashaying back n’forth and all about with trimmings of popcorn strings, blinking LEDs, and chimney stockings, as carols (corny and classic) waft in and out: Bing and Perry, Mannheim Steamroller, The Muppets… so, I know she’s happy.

Daddy’s happy, too – he’s watching football (and helping out by keeping out of the way).

Now he’s barking along with the Jingle Bell dogs, as fourth n’goal gets pre-empted by a Please Stay Tuned… TV time-out for sidekick Linus and Charlie Brown’s classic holiday cartoon:

“𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐲… 𝐚 𝐒𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐫, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐢𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐝.” ^{𝐋𝐮𝐤𝐞 𝟐:𝟏𝟏}

That’s my favorite part.

Momma pauses with this Coke-and-a-smile sigh, then fondly trips through memories and reminiscings of my first Christmas, next Christmas.

Not me. I’m enjoying this one.

Day 273: Aquarius with Stuffed Crust Rising

♪ “Let the sunshine! Let the sunshine in your heart shine in…! ♬ Everybody – all together now! Sing with me! ♪ Let the sunshine…! ♬ Hey! Wait a minute! Watch what you’re grabbing there – unhand me!”

If they didn’t like my noise, they shoulda just said so! And oh, the indignity of it all. I’m trying to keep a sense of humor but… buck naked and ankle hoisted high above the padded-cell applause of a herd of antiseptic in-laws, then heinie slapped by that upside-down four-eyed bald guy!

＠⋕$％⌃＆⁎ǃ–𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐬

Dad was surprised. Mom said she knew. My curls are cherry, but my room’s painted this boyish hue. So, while me and mommy do some mommy and me, dad’s off to the Big Orange Depot for a bucket of Panther Pink.

…and a pizza.

Hmmmm… January 22^nd. You just gotta love pepperoni with a slice of irony.