Samsonite


The suitcase opened its mouth.

“Are you really going to just ignore me right now? C’mon, Sammie! Of all the times we’ve gone through this, and you’re going to wait until right now to ignore me? We’re going on a trip for gods’ sake!”

“Not ’we,’ Henry. I. I am going on a trip. You are not.”

Sammie then turned from the closet addressed her bed. “Do you hear that Mr. Bed. Do you hear the suitcase in the middle of the floor? Oh, the nerve!”

“Oh yes,” said Henry. “Let’s begin to mock me. Yes yes, we always love when you patronize the fact that I’m a thing now, a heartless, bloodless, jobless thing . It’s not like we haven’t been around the corner with this whole human/suitcase charade in the past. You know what your problem is?” The zipper around its mouth turned and twisted slowly as the words came out of it and formed on its face.

“The problem is that you just don’t believe in yourself. You believe something else. You think there’s actually something to this whole life thing. You think you’re just going to get on the flight and it’s all going to go nice and queenly and I’m not going to make a fuss; is that it?”

It was the only green suitcase that she had ever owned – a Stillwell’s brand. But then again, Stillwell’s went out of business nearly thirty years ago. It was the only portmanteau she head aver considered borrowing (at that time you could borrow), but they owner said it wasn’t really selling off the showroom floor. The store was partly hers anyway and she wasn’t about to go in on any sort of negotiation deals. It was the end of the night, the end of her shift, and she was done. By the time her boss found out in the morning, she would have been long gone. She was quitting that job anyway – the next day, in fact. Said the they had an advanced managerial position ant the Piggly Wiggly down on Madison Ave. – the only Piggly Wiggly that was open in Savannah.

“Helloo!” Said the suitcase, flustered.

“Stop!’ Sammie said. “Okay, okay are you done? I mean I have been sitting here listening to you prattle your old zipper back and forth, and yet, you still look at me and give me that stupid silver, well….smile.”

“And you know what, Sam? It’s gonna pay off. Listen. I have connections, We’ve talked about this. We’ve talked about how much my connections are going to help you on this flight. You haven’t even gotten on the plane yet. How can you doubt me here? Look, let’s say. It was just you and me, and we were going to the airport and you were there having this breakdown on your own…And ~”


“It’s not a break down Henry, it’s not. You died on me back there, and now just because you can’t admin that, you …Oh, you just get me so mad!”


“It was an accident!” Henry shifted on the floor and turned to face her as she spun around the room wildly, flipping through various sets of clothing.

“Not working,” he said, intending to prod.

“Don’t care,” she added in the same tone as she crossed back to the chest of drawers on her side of the bed. She looked in the standing mirror which had stood there since their marriage had been good. It looked back at her as she rummaged through her underwear draw to find a few pairs which she placed neatly on the bed next to a stack of t-shirts, several pairs of socks, and even two new pairs of sneakers. – ADIDAS – It was a new brand, but something she had to try; they were 30% off, after all.

Exasperated at his voice, “Zip it!” She cursed at him. “You’re not going to convince me to take you.”

“You don’t know that,” the zipper folded. “Besides, if you know you didn’t want to take me, you wouldn’t be having this conversation with me right now.”

“I’m not,” she said. “Look, can we just not talk about this right now? The cab is going to be here in the next few minutes, and I have to have all my stuff together. Besides, it’s not every day that a girl in my position gets to take a tip to Disney World.” She turned back to the closest and let her fingers run over the dry wooden hangers making a clickety-clack sound.

“You know something, there’s something I’d like to do.”

“Oohhhh,” She turned back to him. She was well into her sixties, and still knew how to wield her smile – the same one that got his attention the first place, the when he was still human and didn’t play with the magic that got him turned into a suitcase in the first place.

“There’s something I heard, Henry. Would you like to know what it is?”

The portmanteau didn’t counter. It was finally her turn. And she let the time drag out. She let the old stained and worn portmanteau just lie there on the beige rug of the master bedroom – the one which had belonged to her uncle’s former college friend from Cornell.

“What?” He asked

“I heard that they’re going to be opening an new Neiman Marcus at Disney world. Did you hear that?”

“No,” he said reluctantly.

She gave hm him that look where she hates her hops one direction andante turned her head the other. “What do you think of that that? It said.

“Never,….” Henry started. “Never heard of it.”

“Why would you? Well… No reason you should, actually.” She turned back around the tone closest. “They sell suitcases. Samsonites. Supposed to be very good.” She allowed her hand to rifle through the hangers again, turning back to the closet.

Then she paused. “Very good.”

Clickety-clack.

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Why the Old Man Smiles


It’s 11:22 p.m. and before I crash, I need to tell you about how my day ended.

Today had some stress to it. It’s a Sunday – a day off, but still, there was some stress. If you’ve ever been a student (so, I presume most of you), you’ll understand what it’s like when your vacation ends and there’s that one day where you’ll have to get back to school…and then of course there’s homework, tests to study for, lab reports, essays to write..that kind of stuff. And that’s if you’ve ever been a student.

But this especially hits home if you’ve ever been a teacher. If you’ve ever been a teacher, you’ve no doubt experienced that time when your vacation ends and there’s that one day when you’ll have to get back to work…..and then, of course, you will have had to have prepared all of the homework, tests for the students to take, the components of the lab reports, the rubrics for the essays you’ll have them write….that kind of stuff. All the stuff that, as a student, you just sort of expect is going to be there, and as a teacher, you never knew that you had to prepare.

            But it’s there – all that stuff.

            Today was a day in which I was doing all that kind of stuff. During the course of the day I got e-mails from students asking me why their grade was an A- and not an A, I had thoughts about the parents I’ll be speaking with throughout the term, I opened my e-mail for the first time in two weeks and had to respond to each of those. After all that I had to figure out how not to use a certain grading tool because of some of the disadvantages it brought me last term, and learn how to use another grading tool with which I am completely unfamiliar.

            And, finally, AFTER ALL THAT, begin planning for the week.

            Hours. It took hours off the day. I had to somehow manage to sneak in a lunch there in the middle, and then get back at it.

            Then there was dorm duty. The kids were great, but there are 40 of them and none of them have homework, and they all want to crowd in the same room and have yelling conversations when my colleague’s bedroom is right next door. In the meantime, there are other students walking in and out, traipsing through the hallways yelling out the names of their friends. “Hi,” I say, “who are you again?”

            So there’s that.  Four hours there.

            It’s 11:00 p.m. The day is done. It’s very black, dark, and cool out. I have but to drop by my office, drop off some books, send some e-mail messages, print something, use the restroom, and then I can leave.

            Done. Walk outside. <DEEP SIGH>

            Then, stopped, in the middle of the quad, I just want to listen to the silence. It’s so quiet, I just want to hear that.

            I look up….

            …and begin to laugh.

            Not a chuckle, a giggle, or a snigger. A full laugh. An out-loud laugh. A hearty gut laugh.

I take a breath and bend over laughing aloud again. I look around at where I am, in the middle of a quadrangle, surrounded by dormitory windows (some on, some off), and in the middle of the night’s silence, I’m laughing aloud.

            To answer why, here is what I see.

 

Many of you just see a moon, but what I saw this.

 

            Here he is, my guardian, my spirit. And in that moment he reminded me that I was worried about bullshit – that all my worries were completely irrelevant. Considering how very vast the great Great Cosmos is, and I am getting anxious over the infinitesimal.

            Now that’s true love. Thanks for the reminder.

Balls


by

L.P. Stribling

    “Okay, now do you believe me? She had me by the balls, Frank. And I mean that quite literally. Balls. All of my balls in all of her decrepit granny paws.” Bart took another chomp of his double-bacon cheeseburger and chewed while he spoke, symmetric specks of grease glistened on either side of his mouth under the neon pulse of the late-night Burger Bobby joint. The blue bill of his Pepsi hat seemed to bob upon his forehead as his animations grew. Frank sat across from him smoking, his eyes half closed, blinking mildly to keep out the easy wisps from a fresh pack of Kools.

    “Seriously. I don’t have to tell you now because you know, and I don’t want to keep talking because it’s a waste of my breath and a waste of your time, but no shit, that’s the girl.  That’s the fucking girl!” His eyes bulged at Frank as he rapped his index finger several times firmly on the cheap plastic of their table. They were the only customers in the Burger Bobby at 3:00 a.m. According to Bart, it was the best time to go. Best lighting, best place for conversation, best food (if you knew what to order), and the best place to talk about why you should not listen to anything a devil grandma waitress tells you about going home to meet her daughter.

    “Okay, again, and I know this doesn’t really make a difference, but I was drunk. Frank, don’t you roll your fucking eyes at me. I know you’re judging me right now and that’s bullshit because you’re not giving this a chance.” He waived the last quarter of his double-bacon concoction stringently at his best friend as he promulgated his most recent date. “I was shit-faced so hard that I probably couldn’t have walked, seen straight, or pissed in a mega urinal without hitting the floor, but goddammit, Frank, what happened that night is not some made up bullshit drunk story. She fucking!…” he shot a glance at the register to watch the woman there look up at him and quieted. “She could have castrated me with her nails, Frank. FOOMP! Gone!” he made a sharp slice through the air; a tomato flew from his burger and partly stuck to the plastic of his tray.

    “Go head,” he leaned in to Frank who shifted his lips to exhale a misty white into the quiet air of the burger joint. “Go ahead and look at the girl, Frank, and tell me that your balls don’t want to duck and hide inside pelvis when you look at her. Look! …”

    Frank made to turn.   

    “Wait! Wai – wait, wait! Not now,” Bart said.

….

    “Okay now, look, now!” Bart said with an obvious air of trying to be inconspicuous.

    Frank turned to look.

    The woman in the slender tan Burger Bobby uniform was old. There was no getting around that. Really old. She was Egypt old, I-opened-the-first-Piggly-Wiggly old. She was Jesus-was-my-pen-pal old. Her curly hair was white from where they were sitting, but it seemed so in an unkempt manner. Some of the curls shadowed her face, others seemed to twist with others, ending up in knots. Even as she counted money in the register, Frank could catch a quiet glimpse at her eyes, and the salient hollows behind them.

    “Yeah! Picture that, my friend,” he said popping the last bite into his grease-ringed lips.  “Picture her at around this time in a dark room with her sarcophagus breath dusting your drunk ass, and she starts playing with your happy trail with her plastic nails, which, by the way, if you listen carefully enough, are also screaming to be away from her. Picture that girl right there with her hair all fucked up, wispy, and haggard and shit, and her wiry tarantula meat claw nails around your testes. Fact!”

    Frank turned back around to face Bart and shrugged before taking another sip off his current Kool. “Don’t look that bad,” he muttered.

    Bart’s mouth eased open in disbelief. Then he let out a giggle despite himself. “I cannot believe you just said that. Do you – No,” he said and but his hands up in surrender. “Nope, I give up. You know why? Because you’re being an asshole, and you know that kind of behavior, or whatever, bothers me.” He his same table-stabbing finger was in Frank’s face now; Frank smirked.

    “What’s the big deal, it’s not like your balls had any other plans that night.”

    “No other plans!? You serious right now? Frank, I was going to go back and bang her daughter silly! I was going to be a king that night Frank, a rex, the goddamn Pussy Prince of Peoria. But -“

    “She has a daughter?”

    “No!” Bart said, and again lowered his voice as well as his hat brim to his eyes while he slid down in the booth. He turned back to a whisper. “No! But I thought she did and, AGAIN…” he said the world emphatically, stretching his lips to their full extent. “I. WAS. DRUNK!”

    Frank nodded, took a drag, and nodded to Bart’s empty plate. “You done?”

    Bart sighed and looked at the same. “Yeah,” he said.

    “Let’s go.”

    The two walked up to the register, Frank held the bill in his hands.   

    “That be all for you,” said the woman. Her voice was a whisper of someone plotting on escaping their coffin. Bart turned and casually walked out of the Burger Bobby. A small bell chimed when he pushed the door open into the cool black morning. when Frank stopped at the register,

    At the register, the woman handed Frank his change and thanked him. Frank nodded and turned toward the exit.

    “Excuse me, son?” Frank heard the woman’s voice from behind him.

    “Yes?”

    “Should your friend want the same treatment as from the other night, you tell him I’ll take half off.”

    Frank cocked his head in response. He imagined it was much like his dog, Jasper, when he heard the microwave sound. “I’m sorry? Half off?”

    The woman nodded. “Yep,” she rasped. “And I’ll do whatever he wants. What ever.”

    Frank left without responding.

    Bart was leaning against the car, an old beat up Ford, when Frank walked out. He adjusted his Pepsi cap before straightening. “Weird shit, right?” He said.

    Frank didn’t really know how to answer at first. He walked to the driver side door and unlocked the passenger seat from his seat. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, weird shit. Get in.”

    The engine cranked over and grabbed the car. Frank put it in reverse, backed out, and strapped his seatbelt on. They pulled out of the Burger Bobby and their headlights blasted the night.

Superhero Dick and the Brave Cat


batmen

Superhero Dick knocked at the door of the unsuspecting nameless civilian with an unfamiliar and uncomfortable rapidity. He stood there in true stoic velvet uniform – all deep red from the cowl down to his painted toes. The golden SD monogrammed insignia was an extra bold glow against the white pine door.

“Sir or Madam!” he said. “Please, it’s urgent that I use your facilities!”

The last time he recalled his voice being so nervous was when he faced off against the Hank the Glimmering Shrew back in August. It wasn’t the most common of scenarios, but what was done that night was what had to be done – the sixty seven windows, the boxes of sugar, the eggs, and leftover butter rolls. All of it had to be done. The civilian population recalls what it recalls – usually the story is twisted and tweaked, but still, what happened was certainly necessary.

Moments after the second rapid knock, sounds of unlocking from the other side of the large wooden door floated though the wood and then, the seal loosened and the door opened several short inches, then stopped. 

Peeking between the gap was a gaunt man. The ladder of wrinkles on his forehead aged him twofold. His eyes squinted behind his spectacles and his voice was both a shriek and a grunt.

“Who in the -“

“Please, kind citizen,” began Superhero Dick, throwing up a palm in the face of the unknowing homeowner. “It is necessary I use  your facilities.”

The wrinkles on his nose flared up at Dick’s response.

“Whaa? Why in the hell for? Get the hell outta here, you goddamn homo vagrant!” the man moved back behind the door and made to close his home.

“Sir, please,” Superhero Dick blocked the closing door. “If you truly value your home, you’ll need to let me use your restroom.” Without waiting for an answer, Dick pushed his way boldly into the man’s abode, gently-but-firmly allowing the man to back up into the depths of his own entryway.

“Now, first I’ll ask you to look here,” said Superman Dick, lowering his hands right in front of his package, making his fingers into parenthetical shapes around his junk. There was a huge bulge there.

“Now! The primary reason there’s such a huge issue here is because, again, I need to use your facilities. Suffice it to say, sir, that it is a matter of National Security. The size of what you see here has nothing to do with my personal sexual preference, sir, but with how I’m about to save you. Your life, your house, your family, husband, girlfriend, and possibly your pets. Everything is currently in danger.” Dick stopped and looked around. “Got any pets?”

The man’s eyes frowned and confused, shook his head first slightly.

Dick eyed him and leaned in.

The man nodded.

“Spot! Here boy!” Dick bellowed through the house.

fatcat1

A slow meow accompanied a fluff which leaned and fell over itself several times. It approached Dick, but several feet away, it fell to the hard wooden floor and collapsed into sleep.

“That’s Spot?” Dick asked.

“I’ve always called him Sylvester,” said the man.

“No matter!” said Superhero Dick. “Tell me you have a porcelain bowl!”

“The man eyed him with one eyebrow cocked high above the eye. “What?”

“Your facilities, sir, your toilet, is it porcelain?” Superhero Dick leaned in more and raised his voice to ensure that he was getting his point across.

“I don’t know what they make ‘em out of nowadays, but this house is old, Red, pretty damned old. I would think that everything from the flusher to the pipes is porcelain. Isn’t that what they’re all made out of?” Realizing he had gotten off track, he shook his head and again focused. “But that doesn’t matter. You are not using my head!”

“Quick! We must away!”

In one swift movement, the superhero snatched the feline from the floor and dashed through the house. The cat slunk from it’s new perch in the crook of the muscleman’s arm as it was whisked away.

Superhero Dick rushed into the bathroom and locked the door. He turned to the sink and dumped the sleeping cat into the shallow water basin.

“Don’t worry, Sylvie; it’s for all of us. All you have to do is stay out of the way.”

Superhero Dick unbuckled the neon yellow Ultra Belt at his waist and dropped the spandex of his lower extremities to the faded yellow tiles of the bathroom floor.

“Hey!” a pounding came from the outside of the door. “You cannot be in there without my consent, you! This is my house and you are a smelly…odd-looking..fellow,” coughed the old man. “You come out of there at once or I’m calling the police. You hear? I’ll report you, dammit. Don’t think I won’t.”

Superhero Dick turned to face the door, his feet shoulder-width apart and his fists neatly rested on either side of his hips. “Have no fear, kind citizen, Superhero Dick is here for the safety of all!” He turned back to the sink and placed the cat softly therein. With his other hand, the superhero snapped the lid from the toilet with a crack and  placed it over the cat.

He exhaled. “Spot, you’ll be remembered for saving your nation. Be brave.”

The cat gave a acquiescent purr of confusion.

While holding the toilet lid on the cat, the superhero looked at his large blue-faced INVICTUS watch and counted down. “Five, four, three, two….”

The ground beneath him began to rumble and the house shook.

“What the hell! You son of a -“

KRREEEEEAAAAAAA~

SLOOOP

The lid fell as the Spot was sucked through the sink and the underground pipes of his once comfortable kitty abode.

Seconds later, the rumbling stopped, and for effect, Superhero Dick flushed the toilet and replaced the lid after washing his hands. Several handfuls of old long unwashed fur dusted the once white water basin.

When he opened the door the old man stood there, his eyebrows hovering over full-blow balls of confusion. “What the hell happened?! Where’s Sylvester?”

Superhero Dick placed a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder and kept his tone low. “Sir, be proud today, for today your pussy has been sucked into legend. He’s a hero, sir, your pussy.” He dipped his head for a moment of silence. “I’ll make sure the name ‘Spot’ is remembered, here, now, and forever.”

With nothing more and leaving the old man looking through his bathroom and the house calling for his cat, Superhero Dick left. Once again, he had saved the day, the nation, and possibly the planet, from total annihilation. And no one save the old man in his wake would know.

Ode to the Short Bluish Eraserless Pencil That’s Usually in the Back Part of the Second Drawer on the Left of the Desk in my Younger Brother’s Bedroom. He Doesn’t Know about You.


by

L.P. Stribling

—-

funny pencil picture (29)

Dear Roger,

I’m writing you this letter while I’m in Gym Class. I hope you’re well.

It’s like 10 minutes after the bell and I’m writing this letter with a different writing utensil – a pen, actually.

Then again, he’s not that great, the pen, and he’s certainly not you, all nice and blue. Well, bluish.

I’m using him to write on a white sheet of Inga Peter’s homework. Don’t worry, I won’t hurt it at all – some bit about the Fall of Rome and the Colosseum or some sort of humdrum thing.

God, Gym Class sucks.

The last thing I want is to be fit,

Speaking of which I’ll be home soon and I can take you out of that drawer that you so abhor.

Sorry it’s so boring in there. I’m working on building a place for you. Maybe under the stairs or in that little mouse hole above the cuckoo clock in mom’s bathroom – somewhere nice.

Sit tight for now; it’ll be all right.

‘Member that one night when you and I were writing in my journal (well, you were writing, anyway) and then I tried to draw that drawing of mom’s face and how twisted it gets when she smells farts? It was art, right?

And then she found it, and despite our hard work, she took the journal and yelled at us. She went berserk.

That’s when I put you in the drawer in Kevin’s room.

It was like ZOOM! Right in to the room! ‘cause mom was chasing us trying to brake you in half.

Plus, I didn’t know what else to do.

But don’t worry; it’s cool. Kevin doesn’t know about you, and as soon as I get out of here, I swear…

God, Gym Class sucks.

Okay, Okay, there’ the bell.

Don’t worry, Roger, all will be well. I’m on my way home and, well, I’m bringing you a brother…or a friend.

It’s a pen, actually. But he’s not as great as you, all nice and blue.

Well, bluish.

Reminders


smoke

So, here’s something you may not know about me – I live in a house with ten high school boys. Ten. Everything goes on in that house; the stuff they take care of, the stuff they don’t; the stuff I want to know about; the stuff I don’t. Let’s just say it’s an appropriate argument for the legality of currently illegal drugs. I have to remind them constantly. On their end, they have to hear me remind them constantly about the stuff they don’t want to be reminded about. Yet, without the reminders the house would likely burn in the night.

An example of this happened the other day and I thought it fit to share.

When the guys cook, they simply have to let me or one of the other adults in the house know. Obvious reasons for my readers (Please make the big people aware of the potential for job loss or lawsuits; thanks).

Does that always happen? Yeah, no.

My bedroom is at the far end of the house (opposite the kitchen); it’s an architectural attempt at escapism. Last Saturday I was able to sleep in a bit, which I was grateful for. But when I did awake, I heard the distinct clanging of pots and pans to let me know that someone (someone not responsible enough to clang things) was using the kitchen in a food-cooking sort of way. I slowly got myself up and dressed and sauntered out to the main part of the house to see what exactly was going on.

The entire kitchen is filled with smoke (from oil heat and burning). Windows and the back door are al open. It had snowed the day before so flakes of it are gently blowing in the house. Two students are standing there looking at me as I approach.

“Morning, Levi,” says one of the kids. In one hand he is holding a blackened pan by the window. It was smoking as though it had just finished searing an entire cow.

I look around at it all and then look back at the kid. I’ll call him Jake here.

“Umm, good morning, Jake. How are things?”

“Good. I just cooked breakfast and it got a little hot.”

“Yeah, I see that. Thank you for cleaning up. Would you mind letting me know next time you cook.”

“Oh yeah, of course. Sorry.”

Right next to him, the other boy who had been silent the whole time speaks up. “Can I cook.” This he asks as the kitchen is smoking behind him.

The humor is sometimes passed over, and if it is there, most times the kids don’t see it. It’s the grand scheme of things that really gets us, though. The house is fun; there is life at home and everyone has a story and something to bring into the fold – something that is good for someone else. Herein lies one aspect of the comedy in the daily reminder.

Thor’s Day


Clint
“What day is it?” Thor asked

“It’s Thor’s Day, sire; your day.” responded Whilsie the Jester.

“My day? Hmm, I see…” he said. Thor sat upon the ornate pelt decorated throne and considered this.

“And if it’s my day, what should I do?”

Wilsie raised his eyes and hesitated before responding. “Well, emm, I um… whatever you’d like, sire.”

Thor looked confused. “What was yesterday?”

“Wednesday, sire.”

“And who does that belong to?”

“Count Wednes, I believe, sire.”

“But I am still king here, am I not? Count Wednes is still under my hammer.”

“Yes, sire,” Wilsie said.

“So, who’s day was it, really?”

“Yours, sire,” Whilsie said.

“Ah,” said Thor. “Then, it would stand to reason that all days are mine, would it not?”

“Yes, sire. It would.” Whilsie remained bowed and humble.

“Ah,” said Thor. “Well then, Whilsie, is there pizza?”

“Of course, sire; it is Thor’s Day, after all.”

Thor straightened in his throne and stroked his mammoth respectable beard. “Hmm, My day…Pizza Day…Yes, this pleases me. Wilsie, take note and make call; announce to every corner of my kingdom that all days are now to be called Thor’s Day, and pizza is to be served.”

Wilsie snapped upright and removed from his belt a pencil and pad and began scribbling erratically as his master spoke.

“And Wilsie! Make it known that Count Wednes, Brother Mon, Sister Tues, and Freya are to challenge one another to the death by way of Chutes and Ladders.”

Wilsie stopped and, brows furrowed, looked up at his master. “Chutes and Ladders, sire? But isn’t that a board -”

“Just write it down!”

Wilsie snapped back to penning and nodded reverently.

“And this final point, Wilsie. No longer am I to be entitled as the God of All Things, the Leader of the Winds, and the Legend of all Time. It’s just too heavy. From here forward I am to be called……” He paused and Wilsie’s pen stopped and hesitated just above the waiting surface of the eager page.

“…I am to be called….Clint.” Thor looked down at Wilsie and said, “That is all. Now go.”

Wilsie made two more dots with his pencil and bowed deeply. “Yes, sire,”

“Clint,” said Thor.

“Er, yes, Clint,” corrected Wilsie and turned and walked out of his master’s chamber.

Behind him, stroking his fluffy beard of glory, Clint leaned back in the easy comfort of his throne and thought of pizza, and all the possibilities to be brought about by Chutes and Ladders.

The Language I Live With


Without going into the sparkles and glimmer of the situation, let’s just say there are more than Kerrie and me in our house – quite a few more.

We got home today and Richard popped out of his space to say hello. Some nights he’s chatty; others he’s not. Tonight he was in quite the mood. English isn’t his first language and this is the gem that came up this evening:

R: Kerrie’s a life-saver. She saved my life.

L: I agree. She saves lives.

R: I was gonna knife my couch, and she stopped me.

L: Well, wouldn’t that mean that she saved the couch’s life?

R: Yes, but she saved my life too.

K: You’re so sweet, Richard.

R: You’re a light saber.