Diggin' for Gold!

A is for Alivia
B is for Belle
C is for Cute
D is for Dig
E is for Eeeew
F is for Finger
G is for Gold

It’s so much cuter when it is your grandchild instead of your child!

When your Bubble is Burst

When I was nine or ten years old, a delicious innovation in bubble gum was introduced—Bubble Yum. It was a child’s chewing sensation. Thick, soft rectangular chunks of sugar-laden heaven—it had only five pieces to a pack, but it was so worth it.

Having lived a life of occasional Wrigley’s chewing gum (that wouldn’t create blowable bubbles), and Dubble Bubble (often hard enough to crack a tooth or jaw), the miracle of Bubble Yum was greeted with gusto by my mouth.

There was one downside—the yummy, gummy glob lost its flavor far too soon.

I spent my Saturdays flopped on my bed, reading every book I could get my hands on, and this particular Saturday was even better than usual because my sister and I each had our very own pack of Bubble Yum.

My gum quickly lost its flavor, but no matter—I spit it out and popped in a new piece and continued my reading marathon. The second piece followed the first, and the third piece found its way into my mouth. Life was good.

My bubble was burst, so to speak, when my older sister came in and took her gum down from her shelf. She slowly opened it, unwrapped the first plump piece, and popped it into her mouth. She stared at me as she savored the sensation of the soft sugary morsel. “How many pieces do you have left?” she asked her seemingly innocent question.

I counted the two remaining pieces in my package. “I’m on my third.”

Her gloating nature revealed itself. “I’m only on my first.” She smiled like the gloater she was, put her pack of gum back on the shelf and left the room.

I tried to ignore her, but couldn’t. I had always been a piggy when it came to sweets. In those days, a quarter could buy a bagful of candy. When we were fortunate enough to each get a quarter, we would spend it all on candy. Mine would be gobbled up in one day, but my sister could make hers last for a week—and she always made sure I knew it.

I tried to make my third piece last—I really did—but it was beyond my capacity. Soon piece number four was in my mouth. Perhaps thirty minutes had passed and my mind left the plot of the book and fixated on my final piece of Bubble Yum. I craved it. I wanted it. I seized it. I chewed it.

I concentrated again on my book, enjoying the texture, taste, and elasticity of my fifth and final piece of Bubble Yum. Truly my life was complete at that moment.

The moment came to an end a few minutes later when my sister wandered in and grabbed her gum. She took her second piece, popped it in her mouth and smugly said. “I’m on my second piece. How many do you have left?”
As she gloated at me again, it didn’t occur to me to lie. I felt a little embarrassed and annoyed as I confessed, “This is my last piece.” She smirked at me, put her pack of gum on the shelf, and left the room.

After she left I reflected on how mean she was to gloat at me about her miserly ways, and I burned to find a way to get even with her. Now I never considered myself to be a thief, but when my final chunk of gum lost its flavor, I was drawn to her pack, just setting there on the shelf. She needed to be taught a lesson.

I put down my book, climbed on her bed, and took her gum down from the shelf. I unwrapped her third chunk of gum, removed it from the wrapper, then took my ABC gum out of my mouth, formed it into a nice rectangle, placed it into the wrapper, wrapped it up, and carefully put it back in the pack. I put the pack back on the shelf, and stretched out on my own bed, book in hand, nose in book. I savored the gum and my revenge.

I didn’t have long to wait. She came in a little while later, gave me a condescending smile as she retrieved her gum. “Is yours all gone?” she asked. I didn’t answer, keeping my nose buried in the book so I wouldn’t give myself away.

I stole a peek at her as she unwrapped her gum. She was still looking at me, not the gum. I stifled a giggle. She popped it in her mouth as she stared at me. I was shaking with laughter. She looked confused as she chomped on the gum. She realized something was wrong. As the texture and taste registered in her brain she shrieked, “Eeewww! You already chewed this!”

I couldn’t hold back. I rolled on the bed with laughter. She spit out the gum, leapt on me and beat the snot out of me. Such is life in the revenge lane—sweet, but quick to lose its savor.

Look out below!

I’ve spent the past few days in Rawlins, Wyoming…work, not pleasure, in case you thought it might be a vacation hotspot.

I was eating a breadstick at lunch and felt a hard crunch—my temporary crown cracked and half stayed glued on, and the other half tumbled around in my mouth. I’ve heard of spitting teeth, but spitting crowns?

Since I only had half a crown, I was limited as to what I could eat for dinner. Since I was in Rawlins, and it is a pretty small place, the choices of where to go were limited. My limits had limits.

Should I go to the Hoot n Howl or the drive-through liquor store? I ended up at the City Market, wandering through the aisles, looking for something to eat. My thoughts meandered along with me: Chocolate milk looks good…Good n Plenty will work if I only chew on one side…side of beef—roast beef, I have a microwave in my hotel room…room for that package of snickerdoodles just waiting for me to grab…grab a fork, roast beef is messy if eaten with my fingers straight from the package…package of plastic forks has way too many for my needs…need only one fork and I don’t want to walk all the way back…back of the store has a deli with individual sporks folded neatly in two parts…part of me wants to give up and eat trail mix for dinner one more time, I still have half a bag…bag the whining, buy the food, hurry and eat so I can go to bed.

Tired and hungry, I climbed out of the car and breathed the fresh air—clean from the afternoon thunder storm. I heard the cry of a seagull and relished the moment of being one with nature…

SPLAT!

Nature had become one with me in the form of a bird pooping on my head.

Maybe the cry of the seagull was a warning, “Look out below!”
More likely it was one smart aleck gull gloating at another, “I bet I can crap on that woman’s head from fifty feet!” He won the bet.

Next time I’ll stay inside and eat the trail mix…again.

Turns out I was pooped in more ways than one.

one foot, two foot, I got a new foot!

One day I woke up to find I had grown a foot overnight. Two of my feet were gargantuan and the third dangled uselessly from a flabby calf. A barrage of thoughts flooded my mind. What mystery was afoot? Did my feet make me look fat? Where could I score an extra shoe? Do three feet make a yard? Would I be charged extra for pedicures now?

Not wanting to get off on the wrong foot, I lay abed and pondered my situation. How would I handle life as a tri-pod? How would I know if I really was putting my best foot forward? Would my two huge, puffy, outside feet actually explode?

I wanted to put my foot down and take action, but realized that I would trip over my own feet if I tried to take a stand.

Like a pregnant woman with border-line toxemia whose photo-happy mother had shoved her aging foot in between my own swollen extremities, I labored to rid myself of the image of being a three-foot woman for the rest of my life.

I needed a nap, so I obliged myself.

Fortunately, when I awoke, I was no longer a fifteen-toed freak of nature. If it wasn’t for the highly-realistic photographic evidence, I would think I made the whole thing up.