Saturdays with Sir Poops-A-Lot: Save the Socks and Butt Huffing

Friday morning, yesterday, began on a good note. Mummsy announced that the hair ball and I would be going for a car ride. Oh, the joy. So much glee and happiness. We danced around the kitchen at first. After, we sat by the tuggers she connects to our necklaces and waited for her to come down the stairs.

When she did, she looked like she had on her work apparel. This made me sad because I knew she’d be taking us some where and not with her for the day. Not long after she put us in the car, the hair ball cried, “She’s taking us to the room filled with many prisons and watery torture devices.” He wailed the whole way there, repeating himself over and over. He wouldn’t shut up.

I, on the other hand, opted to think positive about the trip. I watched the trees go by and the cars, too. Delightful, I tell you, delightful. Swarms of birds flew across the blue sky. Different smells had my sniffer going. It was great until mummsy made a certain turn. The hair ball was right.

Our beautiful mummsy left us with these two wicked looking blondes. They did their best to entice us with treats, peanut butter ones, my favorite. But, I refused, turning my nose up at them. My nails clung to the tile but they dragged me to the torture room anyway. “There’s no way I’ll give in. No. Not me. I refuse to cooperate with waterboarding. Refuse, I tell you.”

They ignored me.

Hair ball accepted the treats. He even climbed into one of the blonde’s arms. “Okay,” he said. Little traitor. He’ll do anything for a cookie.

Anyway, when we arrived home, I immediately ran upstairs to No-No’s room. I needed to roll in my sock pile but they were gone. Oh, no! They were no where to be found. The piles of clothing gone. The all-you-can-eat buffet gone. All of it gone.

Daddy-o stood in the hallway with a black garbage bag and announced, “No-No, there’s no reason why you can’t keep your room clean. Don’t know what’s so hard about it. For a twenty-one year old adult, you act like a two year old.”

I walked over to him and stood at his feet. “I’ll take the bag. I’ll keep it clean.”

He ignored me accept to pet my head.

No-No stared at her computer and muttered something under breath. Probably the F-bomb. That’s what mummsy calls them.

It was truly a sad day.  A sad, sad day indeed,which leaves to my next issue. What is work? Mummsy says she goes so we can have food, toys, and keep our house. I don’t understand. Are there mean people out there that want to take these precious things from us? Is work more like fighting with others? That sounds more like war to me. She should consider butt huffing. That might solve her problems. It works for me, distinguishing foe from friend.

Well, for now I need to go. Mummsy will be up soon.

Very truly yours,

Sir Poops-A-Lot

P.S. I’m starting a campaign to Save the Socks!!!

P.S.S. I’m also considering opening up a training seminar on the techniques for butt huffing.

 

 

Challenge Day 15: Life’s Lessons

Wow! It’s day fifteen of my challenge to write a blog everyday in fifteen minutes. It wasn’t as hard as I thought. The hard part was paring it down to fifty words. I’m a wordy person even in conversation.

But, that’s not the point of this blog. Hopefully, this one won’t be lengthy I’ve got other writing to attend to and a phone conference with my editor some time today. It’s one of those be ready when she calls deals, drop-what-you’re-doing-at-that moment-kind-of-thing.

Okay. Enough of that.

This morning I woke up at eight A.M. Its not like me to sleep this late, I’m usually up by five A.M. But it’s freezing in the Sunshine State today. Tomorrow could be a different story. Even Sir-Poops-A-Lot stayed in bed all night. No warm welcomes from him, thank the potty-gods.

About the time I meandered down the stairs to the kitchen, my phone rang. Right away I’m thinking its work calling me to come in on my day off (happens a lot since I’m a shift manager). But no, its Tinkerbelle slash Esmeralda, daughter number four. She’s got two personalities. I swear. Good and Evil.

“Mom,”  she said, after mumbles something. She’s known for this. Ghetto language. I know, I raised her to speak proper.

“Yeah, what’s up?” I ask.

“Do you think you can slip me a twenty every week?” she asks loud and clear. No mumbling here. “You know, dad won’t.” Yup. That’s true dad won’t because she’s used us like a yo-yo ever since she turned thirteen, shuffling from my house to his, looking to do things her way. He’s fet-up and makes no bones about it.

I hold my breath for a few seconds, rolled my eyes, and said, “You need to get a job.”  You see, she left her dad’s house about three weeks ago and left mine this past summer. She’s not one to follow the rules, only hers, no other. In February, she’ll be eighteen. Thank God and the Universe. Party, party everywhere. There’s no way this mom will be suffering from empty-nest syndrome.

“How am I going to do that and finish high school and beauty school? I’m in school from 8 am to 6 pm.” Yup. This is true. She made the decision to do things the adult way without having her ducks in a row. No driver’s license. No car. No job. Living like a gypsy from friend’s house to friend’s house. What a life. Huh?

“Find a place that will hire you for the weekends,” I said.

The phone goes silent at her end for about thirty seconds. She catches her breath, and mutters something. Who knows what she’s saying. Sometimes I think I need a dictionary to figure out the incoherent babbles of this child. Seriously, the child didn’t pick up good diction or articulation from me. Annoying.

“Mom,” she said, articulating the name I will sometimes answer to. “Do you think you can throw me a twenty. The people I’m staying with are having money problems.” The people she stays with can afford the luxury of smoking and drinking. Hmmm. Wonder what else they put their monies toward. Maybe they should stop smoking and drinking.

“Seriously, get a job,” I said.

“Mom!” Wow. She said that word with no problem. She articulates ‘MOM’ well.

“What?” I ask, hoping she’ll terminate the call.

“Will you?”

“Look. Let’s say this. I won’t let you starve to death. Okay.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her tone heated up.

“Just that. I’ll send you a gift card to Publix.”

“Mom.” She rambles a string of something my ears can’t pick up and then….

CLICK!

Another lesson to be learned in the life of a young adult. Life’s a BE-OTCH. Get used to it. And God, help them learn what they need to learn.

Yup. Another drama filled-day in the life of Shelly Arkon, a novice writer. Like my hubby says, “It’s all fodder for your upcoming novels.”

Happy reading, writing, and blogging!!

Shelly

Is My Butt Too Big?

Other than exercising my fingers across a keyboard, I do exercise my butt off. You see, I suffer from thoughts that my butt is too big. From experience behind the salon chair, it is a topic that comes up many times, and it’s not JUST my problem.

“Do you think my butt is too big?” This question plagues the American woman. Sometimes I think it’s a syndrome. Never know, it could be. Maybe that’s why the Muslim women where tents. You can’t see any fat hanging from their bodies when covered head to toe.

And why do women of color look good with voluptuous bottoms? And those Latin girls, too? What’s the deal? How come they can get away with eating fried chicken, waffles, and tacos? Not fair for us white girls. Not to mention, they have no problem squeezing themselves into skin tight clothing. Not me. The looser the better for fear I’d become a feast for the homeless if they caught sight of any cottage cheese hanging on my backend.

Maybe cellulite is the answer to world hunger. Maybe its not a bad idea to eat McDonald’s fattening fare. Eat. Be happy. Get lipo, and send your fat to Africa. That would be the American way, right? It beats working out five days a week.

And speaking of working out, I’ve learned the true purpose for certain moves. They are the following:

Butt Kickers: Remind you to be thankful that you don’t have to reach too far behind to reach your big booty like the skinny girls do.

High Knees: Its good practice for when you’re not in that special mood like your husband usually is-keep your knees high and your feet close to your Hoo-hoo area. When he goes to hop on it, knee him a good one. Especially since the sick headache excuse doesn’t really work.

Jump Rope: This could be a hazard to your health. If you have a well endowed chest you could end up with two black eyes. If you are well endowed from behind, you may discover that gravity plus your weight will keep your feet close to the ground causing you to trip and fall over that rope.

Jumping Jacks: Don’t do this in front of a mirror. Your upper arms may recognize you and wave back.

Happy writing all!!
Shelly