The Eighth Day of Christmas
So, for those just tuning in, it is now the eighth day of Christmas (meaning there are only four days left—I think I got the math right this time!). I have not done any Christmas shopping to speak of, though I did some that I am trying to forget. On the other hand, here’s what my true love has given me so far:
-A partridge, whom I have christened Leo II in honor (if that’s the right word, which I doubt) of the cowgirl’s demon cockatiel. There was also a pear tree, but I kind of forgot about that til just now.
-A pair of turtle gloves.
-A thorough housecleaning, courtesy of three French Kens.
-Singing telegrams, delivered by Four Calling Birds.
-Five golden rings on a necklace.
-Six Policeman Playing (aka SPSquared), a musical sextet who serenaded me with weird, I mean awesome, arrangements of Christmas songs.
-Seven swans a’swimming in my backyard pool—swans who may or may not be able to talk. There was some debate about this, but since the debate was actually with the swans, I’m inclined to think they may have some skills in the verbal arena after all.
Which brings us to today.
I had woken up to the sound of Leo II’s high-pitched whistling, which startled me because I’d sort of forgotten about him, thanks to the silencing sheet I kept over his cage. Unfortunately, forgetting about him meant I had also forgotten to feed him, and he was now reminding me. Vociferously.
I went downstairs to give him some food and make him shut up. First goal accomplished, second one not so much. Groaning, I went outside to pick up the morning paper and get away from him for a minute, and stopped suddenly on my porch. There on the lawn were eight charming little old ladies in rocking chairs, rocking away as they laughed and chatted and worked on a gigantic quilt, upon which they were embroidering a huge picture of… my own face?!
I blinked. Several times. I was speechless.
“It was your true love’s idea,” said one of the grannies.
“I can’t imagine how to thank him,” I said.
“Oh I’m sure you’ll think of something,” she said, and winked.
“Oh I really doubt it,” I said, smiling.
I picked up the paper and went back in the house. For awhile, I had forgotten to worry about my true love’s sanity but now, suddenly, I remembered.
I sighed. I had another, more immediate problem demanding my attention. Namely, what sort of breakfast I could offer to eight ladies quilting.
How do you think they’d feel about fresh partridge?
-A partridge, whom I have christened Leo II in honor (if that’s the right word, which I doubt) of the cowgirl’s demon cockatiel. There was also a pear tree, but I kind of forgot about that til just now.
-A pair of turtle gloves.
-A thorough housecleaning, courtesy of three French Kens.
-Singing telegrams, delivered by Four Calling Birds.
-Five golden rings on a necklace.
-Six Policeman Playing (aka SPSquared), a musical sextet who serenaded me with weird, I mean awesome, arrangements of Christmas songs.
-Seven swans a’swimming in my backyard pool—swans who may or may not be able to talk. There was some debate about this, but since the debate was actually with the swans, I’m inclined to think they may have some skills in the verbal arena after all.
Which brings us to today.
I had woken up to the sound of Leo II’s high-pitched whistling, which startled me because I’d sort of forgotten about him, thanks to the silencing sheet I kept over his cage. Unfortunately, forgetting about him meant I had also forgotten to feed him, and he was now reminding me. Vociferously.
I went downstairs to give him some food and make him shut up. First goal accomplished, second one not so much. Groaning, I went outside to pick up the morning paper and get away from him for a minute, and stopped suddenly on my porch. There on the lawn were eight charming little old ladies in rocking chairs, rocking away as they laughed and chatted and worked on a gigantic quilt, upon which they were embroidering a huge picture of… my own face?!
I blinked. Several times. I was speechless.
“It was your true love’s idea,” said one of the grannies.
“I can’t imagine how to thank him,” I said.
“Oh I’m sure you’ll think of something,” she said, and winked.
“Oh I really doubt it,” I said, smiling.
I picked up the paper and went back in the house. For awhile, I had forgotten to worry about my true love’s sanity but now, suddenly, I remembered.
I sighed. I had another, more immediate problem demanding my attention. Namely, what sort of breakfast I could offer to eight ladies quilting.
How do you think they’d feel about fresh partridge?
posted by grackyfrogg @ 12:05 AM
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