Two drabbles and GIP
Nev: So 'Tiny Bubbles' is penicillin.
Me: Well no
Me: TB is more like an infectious disease.
"Uh," said Cassie, in vain hope. Sometimes her boyfriend was altogether too creative.
"That's hypothetically speaking. And if you're going to ask my hand in marriage, darling, for god's sake don't embarass yourself. We women appreciate flowers, tasteful rings, simplicity."
"My love is worth more than a ring! Besides, didn't your psuedo-uncle Ian propose with --"
"Uh, 'Za is hardly a woman --"
"But with a ukelele! On bended knee!"
She sighed. "Not as romantic as you were led to believe. The man -- god bless him but even the cats know he's tone deaf -- refused to take lessons. I'll sing from the heart, he said, but in reality I suspect voice lessons offended his sense of Artisitry, and 'How to Strut Your Stuff' mystified him."
To Abbot it was clear the owners of Tiny Bubbles Diner had either a broken washing machine or very little sense, because they left their laundry to dry outside. Right smack in the open on fifth street, which was enough temptation for any homeless person and their grandmother, stretched their clothesline (full of colorful laundry left unattended) from the diner's chain link fence to a potted oak tree five feet away. The laundry that fluttered on the line were mostly of scarves -- bright, colorful scarves with floral patterns that made Abbot stop and stare and, well, think of his sister.
Stella's birthday was coming up, Stella liked scarves ...
The problem was, Abbot did a spectacular job of entertaining himself when Stella wasn't around. Like exorcising Mrs stoop201's ginger tabby had been -- spectacular -- and oh that time when it was just him and a water pistol full of tap water versus the haunted garden gnomes on Ms Adam's front porch had been -- double spectacular. So why was it that all his adventures and neighborly good deeds ended spectacularly bad?
The problem was, Abbot couldn't talk his way out a laundry basket.
Also, his sister was too stupid to buy new clothes.
"You see," Abbot said to the woman (At least he thought this person was a woman) to whom he owed an explanation -- any explanation. She was waiting, standing next to her closeline, arms crossed, purple fingernails gleaming in the sun like claws, waiting. 'She' was kind of muscled for a girl and her voice wasn't screechy, but she did have masses and masses of frizzy blond hair.
"Um. Did you know," Abbot tried. "That most spirits I mean people I mean animals are attracted to the color red? So you know I'm doing you a favor by getting rid of this scarf for you." He flapped the rose-print scarf in his hand.
"I see you, Duckling. With my mint linen-weave scarf."
There was pregnant silence.
Afterwards Abbot would reflect that running away just then had been a the most spectacular mistake of all. Ian's fingernails were sharper than they looked.
Me: Well no
Me: TB is more like an infectious disease.
"Uh," said Cassie, in vain hope. Sometimes her boyfriend was altogether too creative.
"That's hypothetically speaking. And if you're going to ask my hand in marriage, darling, for god's sake don't embarass yourself. We women appreciate flowers, tasteful rings, simplicity."
"My love is worth more than a ring! Besides, didn't your psuedo-uncle Ian propose with --"
"Uh, 'Za is hardly a woman --"
"But with a ukelele! On bended knee!"
She sighed. "Not as romantic as you were led to believe. The man -- god bless him but even the cats know he's tone deaf -- refused to take lessons. I'll sing from the heart, he said, but in reality I suspect voice lessons offended his sense of Artisitry, and 'How to Strut Your Stuff' mystified him."
To Abbot it was clear the owners of Tiny Bubbles Diner had either a broken washing machine or very little sense, because they left their laundry to dry outside. Right smack in the open on fifth street, which was enough temptation for any homeless person and their grandmother, stretched their clothesline (full of colorful laundry left unattended) from the diner's chain link fence to a potted oak tree five feet away. The laundry that fluttered on the line were mostly of scarves -- bright, colorful scarves with floral patterns that made Abbot stop and stare and, well, think of his sister.
Stella's birthday was coming up, Stella liked scarves ...
The problem was, Abbot did a spectacular job of entertaining himself when Stella wasn't around. Like exorcising Mrs stoop201's ginger tabby had been -- spectacular -- and oh that time when it was just him and a water pistol full of tap water versus the haunted garden gnomes on Ms Adam's front porch had been -- double spectacular. So why was it that all his adventures and neighborly good deeds ended spectacularly bad?
The problem was, Abbot couldn't talk his way out a laundry basket.
Also, his sister was too stupid to buy new clothes.
"You see," Abbot said to the woman (At least he thought this person was a woman) to whom he owed an explanation -- any explanation. She was waiting, standing next to her closeline, arms crossed, purple fingernails gleaming in the sun like claws, waiting. 'She' was kind of muscled for a girl and her voice wasn't screechy, but she did have masses and masses of frizzy blond hair.
"Um. Did you know," Abbot tried. "That most spirits I mean people I mean animals are attracted to the color red? So you know I'm doing you a favor by getting rid of this scarf for you." He flapped the rose-print scarf in his hand.
"I see you, Duckling. With my mint linen-weave scarf."
There was pregnant silence.
Afterwards Abbot would reflect that running away just then had been a the most spectacular mistake of all. Ian's fingernails were sharper than they looked.