Is Ham a Magic Word
No road trip. Of course. KL was sick, as was LC, so after I spent a weird night at KL's parent's house, I woke up to her standing on the stairs in the front hallway, leaning on the railing and telling me she wasn't up to it. I was mostly still asleep but I patted the sides of her blond head and said, "Poor poor thing." She really wanted to go.
I went back to the guestroom, which is strangely peopled with wizards and butlers and other lightweight statuettes designed by the hostess. All are 2 to 3 feet tall with wrinkly old paper faces and they stand near walls, randomly distributed in the house. They peep out from behind plants, umbrella stands, etc, not on shelves, like the tiny artworks they are, but in places a person might stand or sit. All waiting for the magic word to be pronounced, so they may !spring! to life. I try to keep my vocabulary small near them. They look jolly enough, but they put me in mind of Pyoter's lecture about the trolls and their legendary greed and stupidity. Perhaps the hostess uses them to keep her husband in line - do as I ask, dear, or I'll say That Word.
I got dressed and went home early, bearing ham and sweet potatoes for my husband. Too bad he couldn't make it, said the hostess, making it clear that since he begged off, he was under stern obligation to help her get rid of the giant expensive spiral cut ham. I dutifully chauffeured some Glad-wared ham home and, after festively decorating it with dill pickle, mustard, and bread, gave it to the husband for the drive to the site.
Cured ham is toxic, I am assured, but ham at least has no malevolent designs, no intent to cause harm. Sure, its sticky sweet fingers might wanna smudge your face, but basically it just wants to feed you. Maybe raise your blood pressure. McDonald's, his usual fare on the road to the site, was born bad, and a Quarter Pounder with Fries would gladly launch itself from the shiny white bag and rip his arteries out. And I was worried about some paper mache statuettes, when Mickey D's is out to kill my love.
What a fool I am to search for paper enemies, when the real ones have humongous well-lit plastic signs on the Turnpike to snare the unwary.
"Ham!" I said aloud, flourishing my hands, and waited for my army of pale paper mache statutes to appear through the trees. Nope. That must not be The Word.
I went back to the guestroom, which is strangely peopled with wizards and butlers and other lightweight statuettes designed by the hostess. All are 2 to 3 feet tall with wrinkly old paper faces and they stand near walls, randomly distributed in the house. They peep out from behind plants, umbrella stands, etc, not on shelves, like the tiny artworks they are, but in places a person might stand or sit. All waiting for the magic word to be pronounced, so they may !spring! to life. I try to keep my vocabulary small near them. They look jolly enough, but they put me in mind of Pyoter's lecture about the trolls and their legendary greed and stupidity. Perhaps the hostess uses them to keep her husband in line - do as I ask, dear, or I'll say That Word.
I got dressed and went home early, bearing ham and sweet potatoes for my husband. Too bad he couldn't make it, said the hostess, making it clear that since he begged off, he was under stern obligation to help her get rid of the giant expensive spiral cut ham. I dutifully chauffeured some Glad-wared ham home and, after festively decorating it with dill pickle, mustard, and bread, gave it to the husband for the drive to the site.
Cured ham is toxic, I am assured, but ham at least has no malevolent designs, no intent to cause harm. Sure, its sticky sweet fingers might wanna smudge your face, but basically it just wants to feed you. Maybe raise your blood pressure. McDonald's, his usual fare on the road to the site, was born bad, and a Quarter Pounder with Fries would gladly launch itself from the shiny white bag and rip his arteries out. And I was worried about some paper mache statuettes, when Mickey D's is out to kill my love.
What a fool I am to search for paper enemies, when the real ones have humongous well-lit plastic signs on the Turnpike to snare the unwary.
"Ham!" I said aloud, flourishing my hands, and waited for my army of pale paper mache statutes to appear through the trees. Nope. That must not be The Word.