Sshhhhh…

“If you notice it’s quiet, and you pick up your phone to write about how quiet it is and how much you’re enjoying…are you really soaking in the quiet or are you…”

“HUSH, Duck! You’re disturbing my peace!”

I think I’ll put my phone down for a bit. It may, or may not, have to do with a duck named Roger.

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Plagiarism?

I was looking over my blogs last night…dusting off the cobwebs and wondering if there was any life left in these corners of mine.

As I read over these Roger posts, I realized that I miss him…that silly duck.

“I wonder if he’s even still around somewhere?” I thought.

And then I felt a nudge at the back of my neck.

“Of course I’m alive. I’ve been here all along. It’s just that you don’t listen to me anymore. Or worse….you take the credit for my words yourself. PLAGIARIST!”

So if I start sharing on here again, it may or may not have everything to do with listening for a Duck Named Roger.

Cosmetics….or the art of distraction

Cosmetics…or the art of distraction.

You may think that this will be a post about make-up and the evils thereof. Or the benefits it offers.

It’s not.

I came to write a blog post. I am changing my gravatar photo and my “blog theme” instead. It doesn’t “feel” right. Nothing “feels” right. How can one be wise and witty and creative and crafty when it doesn’t “feel” right.

Maybe a different layout would work better.

Roger is shaking his head.

“Skin deep”, he says. “It’s just easier to play around with appearances than to focus on…well…anything.”

I wish that duck would offer some constructive criticism occasionally.

Cause it may or may not be all about him.

Procrastination

“Send that email to your grandfather, Sage.”

“I will, Sage. But I want to send those pictures from our visit with him and they are on my camera. I need to load them onto my computer first.”

“So….do that.”

“But I need to clean off my desk first, so that I can reach my computer so that I can download the pictures so that I can email them along with the note.”

Roger is laughing at me. I can hear him. In a pathetic, shaking your head in wonder and disbelief and over-all patheticness kind of way.

And now he’s really laughing…because I’m writing this post instead of cleaning off my desk and downloading pictures and emailing my grandfather.

Which all may or may not have anything to do with a duck named Roger.

I’ve missed him.

Making Contact

“I am the master. I am in control. I must show them this.”

I didn’t realize I had even said that out loud till Roger started laughing.

“What are you laughing about, you useless duck!”

 

“Well.” said he. “Firstly, why are you talking to the shelving paper. And why, if you MUST speak to the shelving paper, are you using an English accent?”

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P.S. It was a hard-fought battle. But I won. Mostly.

A Mess

Coffee Stains and Pickles

I have coffee stains on my favorite sweatshirt because it dribbled out of my cup this morning. There are a couple of drops of that addictive brown stuff on Grandma’s pink yarn she’s using to knit a sweater for her up and coming great-granddaughter as well. Shh…don’t tell.

My hands smell like pickles because I spilled the juice from the jar when I was carrying it out to the table for Jack’s lunch.

My thumb is hastily wrapped in a paper towel because I sliced it and the cheese for said lunch. Shh…don’t tell that either.

Perhaps…I could spend the afternoon in bed? Or maybe a padded room where no one will get hurt?

I am trying to think of a way that I could blame all of this on a duck named Roger…who may or may not have anything to do with it at all.

Double Take

The road to town is swervy, curvy and limited to 55 miles per hour even though there are those yellow signs suggesting you go slower quite often along the way. Grandma and I were headed to town in her middle-aged Toyota Camry, minding our own business, driving the limit and being very safe. Suddenly I felt that unmistakable someone’s-on-my-tail feeling.

Roger hates that feeling.

I looked in my rear-view mirror and, just as I thought, there was a little red truck riding really close.

“Argh.” said I.

But then I stopped and did a double take.

There behind me, in the little red pick-up, was a little gray-haired granny. She was clutching the steering wheel with both hands fisted tightly at the top, and leaning forward with her intent eyes barely peering over the wheel. And there was a big license plate on the front bumper that was blazoned with a single word.

ELVIS

Laughter beats irritation like scissors beat paper and paper beats a rock.

Which may or may not have anything at all to do with a duck named Roger.