“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.
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.
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.
“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.
“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?”
P.S. It was a hard-fought battle. But I won. Mostly.
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.
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.
Do you ever have those moments when you become aware of yourself and realize that even though you may physically be standing in the kitchen eating your breakfast and minding your own business, in all but reality you are far, far, far away…
With a simple drip of butter that fell from my perfectly toasted English muffin to my blue and white Swedish plate, I was transported to six and a half years ago on a chilly night in a hostel in Wales.
“But please,” we asked…my sister and I…to two fun and informative men sitting at the table with us. “What’s a crumpet?”
“A crumpet?” said in an, oh, so delightful English accent. “Oh, a crumpet…you don’t know? Never had one? You must fix that. You really must find a crumpet.”
“But what is it?”
“How can we describe a crumpet?” they asked each other.
“It’s a bit of a mix between a piece of bread and a pancake.” said one.
“With lots of little holes in it.” interjected the other.
“Yes! Be sure to toast it. And then put butter on it. Lots of butter.”
“You have to fill all the little holes with butter, till it drips out and runs down your hands.”
“Indeed. And be sure to have a cup of tea so that you can wash down all that grease.”
“Yes, yes. Of course. You must have tea with your crumpets. It’s brilliant.”
I “came to” standing in the kitchen this morning, squeezing drips of butter out of all the little holes in my English muffin. Even the sip of tea that I took didn’t wipe the silly grin off of my face that these memories brought.
We never did enjoy a true-to-life crumpet while we were in England, though we did discover that Scottish crumpets are different than English. I must go back…or maybe I’ll just go to Seattle and check out The Crumpet Shop.
Meanwhile, English muffins aren’t crumpets. In fact, they are an American invention, I believe. If you find yourself wanting some entertainment, do a search on “the difference between English muffins and crumpets”. Be sure to read all the comments. It really is quite entertaining.
Of course, this may or may not have anything to do with a duck named Roger…but he keeps asking me to try making some crumpets. Then we can settle which we like better. But I can’t imagine anything better than our tried and true English muffins.
My hair has been so unmanageable lately…easiest put in braids and forgotten about.
I don’t think I realized though, how bad it really was until I went to the beauty school in MH today for a haircut.
The little gal with pink hair trimmed some layers without changing the length much, just like I asked her. But it sure seemed like a lot of hair falling to the floor.
Then her supervisor came and cut more, and suggested I let “Pinkie” (I coined that all by myself) try a straight iron on it.
I did.
Ooohh!!! Your hair turns soft when I run the straightener through! How nice!
What? As if it wasn’t soft before? (Don’t answer that. I know it wasn’t)
But to top it off, the little old lady who was sleeping through her coloring treatment woke up to see the finished product and said,
WOW!!! You should have gotten a before and after picture on that one! It looks great!
Okay. So maybe it really did look that bad before the hair cut.
I came home and Grandma said that my hair looked longer than when I left and that she thought I was going to go get a hair cut.
“Like mine”, said she.
Which means very short. To which I just smiled.
And that’s a slice of my crazy life…which may or may not have anything at all to do with a duck named Roger. Who, it might be observed, never had a hair cut in his life.
“I am cranky today.”
So I stated as we sat at dinner tonight.
Three very surprised and rather blank faces looked back at me.
“Well,” said Frank, “it’s good that you can recognize that.”
“Yes, but I think it would be better if I could be cranky and no one else notice that.” said the sage in me.
Three blank faces stared at me a moment.
“Well,” said Jack. “I have nothing to complain about.”
And three clueless people with nothing else to say went back to eating their soup.
Roger winked and nodded at me from across the room. I’m glad someone else gets it. Because really, all of this obvious oblivion may or may not have anything to do with a duck named Roger.
A Duck Named Roger 