Ramblings from the Desert

The man who trades freedom for security does not deserve nor will he ever receive either. ~Benjamin Franklin

My Photo
Location: New Mexico

Author of the urban fantasy novel, The Music of Chaos, and the paranormal romance, The Canvas Thief.

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

Pants Optional

"...and you will see increased length and girth."

Keanu Reeves "Whoa?" I stop channel surfing. The person who uttered those words is a ferret of a man. His cheeks are pockmarked, a micro-thin mustache clings to his upper lip like a dark bead of sweat. An oil slick plasters his light brown hair to his pointy head. He looks like Vinnie from the Stephanie Plum series. His name is Klee. Klee. (No matter how many times you say it, it's still not a name.)

My mother, meanwhile dashes by, the proverbial hyperactive chicken sans head. Except headless fowl don't cluck this much. She can't find her keys; she can't find her cell phone. She's supposed to be downtown for her conference at 8 AM. Earlier, my husband and I warned her that rush hour traffic would turn a fifteen-minute trip into an hour-long trek.

"We don't have rush hour traffic in El Paso," she sniffed.

"That's because nobody works in El Paso," I replied, ducking the shoe she chucked at me.

I ignore all the maternal commotion and pay attention to Klee, thinking that I'm seeing a penile enhancement infomercial. Well..same basic geographic areas, but different function. Klee is selling a product that sluices out one's bowels and increases the length and girth of bowel movements. In America, even our turds must be super-sized.

I ponder the implications of enormous shit and low flow toilets and then change the channel.

Mom is turned out nicely with pressed slacks, a well-ironed blouse and jacket. I cut a look from her and back to me. This apple fell off the tree and rolled several miles. I'm not wearing pants. Instead, I've got on sweat pants, which are several steps evolutionarily down the ladder from pants. (Remember that "Seinfeld" episode where George says sweats are a sign you've given up?) Today I'm feeling stylish and have rolled down the waistband--low rise--in the manner affected by the tackiest teenagers at the mall. My hair's got the bed hair thing goin' on. Mornings are the only time my hair has any body, so I'm loathed to do anything about my "do."

An outburst of poultry outrage comes from outside and I wobble out to see what's wrong.

"We don't have frost in El Paso," Mom says, ineffectually poking at the icy crust on her rental car's window.

"Show it no mercy, Mom," I snark. She gives me "the look" and I hobble over the gravel--no shoes--and chisel the glaciers off the car windows. I give her a pat on the head and send her off to her conference. (Where she will be learning how to fold and twist taxpayer's monies into balloon animals.)

I flop down on the couch and, strangely mesmerized by the shine of his oily hair, I return to Klee, the bowel oil salesman. Where's my credit card? Where's the toilet plunger?
Time to walk my geriatric dogs before they stage a coup and gum me to death.

Happy Tuesday.


Graphics and Content Copyright © Patricia Kirby 2005