Saxon Bennett's Blog, page 8

NUCLEAR POPCORN

��I��ll get the movie streaming and you make the popcorn,�� Layce said.

��Sure,�� I said. I��d never actually made microwave popcorn before but I��m all about new experiences. My first mistake was not reading the directions. I mean I��d watched Emma make popcorn. If a kid could do it, a grown-up with more skills shouldn��t have a problem.

I put the bag in the microwave. I pondered how it was that people could screw up popcorn. In every office environment there was always the idiot who��d burn the popcorn and stink up the whole break room.

��How come I don��t hear the popcorn popping?�� Layce said, as we both studied the television screen where Netflix refused to load saying we didn��t have an internet connection.

��It��s not done,�� I replied. Layce pressed buttons on the remote. Still no luck. ��Get Emma, she��ll fix it,�� I suggested.

The microwave beeped and I pulled out a flat bag of popcorn. What the hell? There was a slightly acrid smell. ��I think we have a defective bag of popcorn here.��

Layce handed Emma the remote and came over to check out the defective bag of popcorn. ��What did you do?��

��I put it in the microwave for three minutes,�� I said.

��Did you turn the turbo-power down?��

��What???�� The microwave had blast off capabilities? Who knew?

��Yes, turn it down, here just press this button and take it down.��

Layce handed me another bag of popcorn. I put it in the microwave and turned the turbo-power down to fifty percent. I still didn��t understand why the popcorn didn��t pop because the microwave zapped it too much. Hot is hot. Popcorn should pop when it��s hot. I didn��t care what anyone said. The bag was obviously defective. Orville Redenbacher probably had a disgruntled employee who wanted to mess with an unsuspecting popcorn consumer and put in reject kernels.

��How��s it going over there?�� Layce said.

��Got it all under control,�� I said, peering into the microwave��nothing appeared to be happening. The microwave dinged. The bag was still flat. ��I think we��ve got another bag of defective popcorn over here.�� The disgruntled employee must have been really pissed off. He��d gotten the whole box.

Layce returned to the kitchen. ��What did you do?��

��Just what you said. I turned the turbo power thing down,�� I said defensively.

��Down to what?��

��Fifty-percent.��

��It needs to be a seventy-five.��

��Well, why didn��t you just say that?�� I replied peevishly. This popcorn thing was getting annoying.

��At least you didn��t burn it this time.��

She put the bag back in, amped up the turbo on the microwave and set it for three minutes. It turned out perfect. ��I did it!�� I called out. I was ecstatic. Evidently the whole batch wasn��t defective.

��Impressive,�� Layce said. She and Emma were still messing with the internet problem.

Confidently, I put in my bag of sea salt and caramel popcorn, set it for three and a half minutes just like the package said. I figured since it was a different kind of popcorn maybe I should read the instructions. They were evidently there for a reason.

Since I had three and a half minutes I went to the check out the television problem.

��Did you ever press play?�� Emma asked. She glanced at her mother.

��No, why would I? It said we didn��t have a connection so why would I press play? What was there to play?�� Layce said defensively.

Emma pressed play and the movie came up. ��Geez, mom.��

I rolled my eyes. ��Takes a kid to figure it out,�� I muttered.

��What��s that smell?�� Emma said. She��d missed the early debacle.

Layce looked at me. ��What have you done?��

��Nothing. I followed the directions.��

We all ran to the kitchen. I opened the microwave and a huge cloud of acrid, burnt, nose-burning smoke poured out. The smoke alarm went off. Layce grabbed the bag, and flung it on the counter. (See attached photo.�� This was after it had cooled down and we’d de-smoked the house.)

Emma ran to the back door and opened it. Layce swatted at the smoke alarm with a broom until it came crashing down, made one last peep and stopped.

I whipped out dishcloths and wet them in sink as smoke continued to pour out of the microwave. ��Here, put these on,�� I said, wrapping mine around my face so I looked like an old western bank robber.

��Why?�� Layce said.

Emma didn��t hesitate. She put hers on. ��Smoke inhalation. You can die from it. I saw it on iFunny.��

I snatched the bag off the counter and got on the ground, army-crawling my way to the back door.

��What is she doing?�� Layce asked Emma.

��Smoke rises, we better get down.��

��I am not crawling around on the floor,�� Layce said. She opened the front door and got the fan out of Emma��s room.

Through the cloud of smoke, Layce said, ��You are never, ever allowed to make popcorn. Is that understood?��

��Who knew such a thing was possible? I��m telling you it��s defective popcorn,�� I replied standing out on the back porch with Bear. She was no dummy. The house stunk bad. Emma joined us.

��No, the person making the popcorn is defective.�� Layce said.

I will never look at another packet of microwave popcorn without trepidation and a healthy respect for its capabilities. Who needs tear gas when there��s popcorn for making terrorists evacuate a building?

��Maybe we should go out to a movie,�� I suggested.

��I��ll get my coat,�� Emma said.

MAKING THE WORLD A HAPPIER PLACE��ONE BOOK AT A TIME!

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Published on February 24, 2015 08:45

The History Of My Hair

Mine started long and got shorter. I was the typical little girl (well, sort of. I was odd then as now, but that��s beside the point.) My hair went from newborn short to progressively longer. Then the battle of the brush began.

I would have to be cajoled into having my hair brushed or I looked like Medusa. ��Do you want to go to school looking like Medusa?�� my mother said. I didn��t know who Medusa was but I did know that we must have had a lot in common��the tangle.

THE TANGLE

The tangle was a mystery to both me and my mother. Between brushings the tangle would grow around the nape of my neck into a snarled knot of ever-growing proportions until the next morning when my mother would attempt to de-snarl it. That��s when the screams and tears reminiscent of the medieval torture chamber began. I wailed. My mother screamed. She hated it as much as I did.

Having conceded defeat, my mother took me to the hairdresser who gave me a shag. I loved my shag. It was short and tangle free. It was a success. I could care for my own hair. My shortened locks required minimum brushing. It was heaven.

Then middle school came and the shag went out of style. I tried for shoulder-length hair. The bangs became the problem then. Keeping the bangs out of my eyes was the new hair battle. My hair is an over-achiever. The minute it gets cut it grows like a field of alfalfa in Spring. By the time I walk out of the salon and to the car it has already grown two inches.

I took to trimming my own bangs. They always ended up crooked.�� I would keep cutting in an effort to straighten them up. However, that only made them short and crooked. For the entire 7th grade I had to keep my head at an angle so it gave the illusion that my bangs were straight. See class photo below.

THE BANGS

Then Farrah Fawcett came along in high school. I had to get up early to style my hair because it required, hot rollers, a curling iron and lots of hair spray. I did a great job on the front. I couldn��t see the back so for three years I had a bed head and never knew it.

THE FARRAH

The next adult hair cut was the perm. I decided I wanted what I didn��t have��curly hair. So, I bought it. I looked like Orphan Annie. The perm lasted a couple of years until I fell in love with a girl and had to choose from one of the 1980��s lesbian hairdos. I had seven choices. I chose the mullet��short on top, but keeping the long hair in back as some sort of concession to ‘I��m still a girl but I like girls now.’ I freely admit it was a confusing time for me.

THE MULLETT

Once I became more secure in my sexuality and a tad militant while in college��all that woman-power-anti-patriarch stuff. I read Mary Daly Gyn-Ecology and even went to one of her readings�� I took to shaving the sides of my hair right down to the skin and looking rather dangerous with a pony tail in the back. I resembled some sort of other worldly nymph sprite creature.

It was my attempt at creating my own unique hair style. I couldn��t get a stylist to do my design��something about professionalism. I had my girlfriend cut my hair. I kept this hairdo until I went to London and was labeled a hair Nazi.

THE MILITANT

Next came the flat-top. I went to Luigi��s Hair Salon and had him cut the ponytail off and create a full on flat top. The only concern I had with Luigi was that he wore grease-smeared, coke-bottle lenses and I couldn��t be sure if the flat top was truly flat with any precision.

THE FLAT-TOP

My girlfriend wasn��t certain she liked this new hairdo.�� I also got called ��young man�� a lot. There was also another problem��ladies often thought I was in the wrong bathroom.

The flat top evolved into the shingle cut. It was like I had a sloping roof on one side while the other side lay sedately down. This ‘do lasted a few years until I got sick of swinging the longer side out of my eyes and the chiropractor couldn��t figure out why I had so much trouble with my neck.

THE SHINGLE

At last the hairdo that fitted me best came along. It came about as a combination of two stylists. One was a woman who talked about clubbing in Phoenix so long that I came out with almost no hair. People at work were startled and gave me the names and numbers of their hairdressers. This ended up with me in a black barber shop where this wonderful old barber did his best even though he had never cut a white person��s hair. I really owe it to him. I came out with a modified flat top with a bit of a twist and the spike was born.

THE SCALP

Now I was the hip spiky girl. If someone didn��t know my name at work they did a hand gesture which involved wagging all five fingers at the top of their head, saying, ��You know the girl with the spiky hair.�� My hair became my signature. Michael Jackson had his glove; Madonna had her pointy bra; I had my hair. Even when I went to a writer��s conference people knew who I was because of my hair. My hair even made people I didn��t know think they knew me. It was remarkable. I��ve kept it ever since.

It only took me 45 years to find the perfect hairdo.�� It��ll go grey and I��ll add a pink or purple highlight and be forever happy. Oh, and I haven��t owned a brush in years because my fingers with the aid of gel does the job. Every day my hair is a bit different�� like a mercurial being with its own identity.

And then sometimes I just wear a hat.

PRESENT DAY

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Published on February 17, 2015 06:51

Things Not To Say If You Want To Be On TV

You learn a lot of things about your parents when you become an adult��stories untold. I was visiting my parents last month and I heard some doozies.

I was sitting at the kitchen table with my father when he told me about an experience he had while in London. He and my mom were walking down Fleet Street, the high-brow, financial section of town��all tailored suits and fancy shoes. They saw this well-dressed banker type drunk as a skunk weaving down the street.

As if this wasn��t alarming enough, as my father so aptly put it, ��With his dink hanging out his fly catching a breeze and I��m not talking just having the barn door open, I mean the whole horse was hanging out.��

��I think she��s got the point, dear,�� my mother said.

��Oh, my, that must have been a sight,�� I said, trying frantically to bat this visual out of my brain.

��Well, it gets better,�� my mother said.

��Yep, so at the end of the street, there was this reporter stopping tourists and asking them about the most amazing sights they��d seen while in London.��

��We could��ve been on the evening news except�� my mother said.

��We must��ve looked like tourists, because he stopped us. He asked, ��What was the most remarkable thing we��d seen so far,�� my father continued.

��You��ll never guess what he told them,�� my mother said.

��He didn��t,�� I said. Even I wouldn��t do that, I hoped.

��Sure did. That guy over there with his dink hanging out,�� I told him and I pointed. ��I��m pretty sure the camera man got a good shot.��

I think my social faux pas might be genetic. Nurture only goes so far. Nature gave me a big dose of what-not-to-say because I would have done the same thing if the opportunity had arisen . Yet another example of I am my father��s daughter.

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Published on February 09, 2015 06:45

Laughter Is The Best Medicine

Need a good laugh? You can find it here!

From the award-winning authors who brought you More Than a Kiss and Crazy Little Thing!When Willy and Allistair meet, it is hate at first sight. The last thing they want is to witness a Mafia murder and be put into the Witness Protection Program together. Join Willy and Allistair as they go on the run from the mob and are forced to hide in a convent, a Wild West ghost town, and a nudist colony. In the end, they discover that sometimes love is found where you least expect it.

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Published on February 06, 2015 12:52

Where Do The Socks Go?

��Why are all your socks spread out over the bed?�� Layce said.

��What? I can��t hear you,�� I said.

��Take your head out of the washer that might help. Why are you in the washer anyway?��

��I��m looking for socks,�� I said. I put the flash light back in my mouth and resumed my search.

��Why? You have plenty of socks,�� Layce said. She was now peering into the depths of the washer with me.

I removed the flash light from between my teeth and pulled my head out of the washer. ��I know. I have 106 complete pairs of socks. I also have 52 single socks that used to be pairs but somehow, somewhere, their partners have gone AWOL. That means that I lose on average one sock a week every year. I want to know where they go.��

��And you think there��s a trap door in the washer where sock gnomes pop up once a week and steal a sock taking their precious back to the King of the Sock Gnomes to offer tribute,�� Layce said, doing a good impersonation of Gollum.

��Well that��s one hypothesis. And since our garden gnomes went missing last Halloween they may have joined the sock gnomes of their own volition or they have been forced and now they suffer Stockholm Syndrome and are willingly stealing our socks because we are the bloated bourgeois of socks and need to be taught a lesson.��

Emma came in the laundry room.

��What did you find out?�� I asked her.

��The only thing was a post that said the washer repair man thought it was possible the socks get under the agitator.��

��I don��t think 52 socks would fit.�� I looked at Layce. ��Can we remove the agitator and check?��

��No, we cannot.��

��How about this, there��s a black hole under everyone��s washer that leads to another Universe where aliens wear all the mismatched socks,�� Emma said.

I looked at Emma. ��That��s not bad. But why do they want mismatched socks? Why not take a matching set? Is it a fashion statement? Do they think we won��t miss the missing sock? Are they using it as a test of will to see if we will fight for our missing socks? Are they operating on the assumption that if we just accept the sock thing that taking over our planet will be a breeze? And why are so few people interested in this dilemma? I mean if you walked outside and your car was missing one tire wouldn��t you be more invested?��

��I think most people have more important things to think about than where their socks go,�� Layce said, as she shut the lid on the washer. I guess that settled the taking the washer apart option.

��That��s how society begins to unravel. It starts with little things,�� I said. I peeked behind the dryer.

Emma asked, ��Mom, have you seen my Duomo hat?��

I raised my eyebrows and pointed a finger at Layce. ��See! It��s starting already. First socks��then hats, then cars, then bank accounts. Who knows where it will end.��

Making the world a happier place��one book at a time.

Available Feb. 5th!

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Published on January 28, 2015 10:48

Squirrel in a Box

I had assumed the position of classic mediation sitting legs crossed. I couldn��t decide if the right foot should be over the left foot or the other way around. I tried both ways and decided that since the right side of my body always got to do everything that I should put left over right. It seemed more eastern to honor the weaker side in hopes of giving it confidence.

I did the inverted ��okay�� sign with my forefinger and thumb. I never did understand the significance of that. Perhaps that would be the first thing revealed during my enlightenment. I sat quietly. I thought about how well I was doing with my New Year��s goal-setting. This was day three of ten minutes of meditation.

Hold on! I was supposed to turn my mind off and think of nothing��absolutely nothing. I concentrated on my breathing. In out, in out, in out. I wonder what interesting things are on Pinterest today.

Hold on! I concentrated on putting an invisible screen up blocking off my brain. In out, in out. My brain threw a tantrum. She kicked her feet and pounded the floor.

��I really can��t concentrate when you��re doing that,�� I told her.

I thought of the ocean, the Oregon coast specifically because I liked it there. Waves in and out, in out. I would like to go there again.

��Be quiet,�� I told my brain. In out, in out. I��d like to go back and visit with my cousins and maybe go crabbing.

Hold on! Breathe in an out. I put my brain behind an invisible door. She pulled on the door handle, putting her feet on the door and pulling like in those cartoons when a character tries to get a door open.

��Just stop it!�� I said.

She sat down and wept.

��Stop that! Really you can��t give me ten minutes of peace?��

She rushed the door and crashed through. I needed to concentrate to keep the invisible door with the invisible wall up and my brain had distracted me with her weeping.

She dashed at me, grabbed my knees and threw me to the ground like we were wrestling. That reminded me of The World According to Garp. He was a wrestler. My brain and I scrambled until I had her pinned to the floor.

��Stop it! I��m supposed to be meditating not engaging in violence. I��m sure that��s not how you��re supposed to be tapping into the good vibe of the universe, seeking enlightenment and serenity.��

We were both worn out. We lay on our backs. ��Maybe we could practice the Corpse Pose?�� my brain said. ��I mean yoga is a close relation to meditation.��

I sighed. ��I have a headache.��

��Let��s go have a cookie. That always makes you feel better. We have those sugar cookies we made last night,�� my brain said.

��I can��t believe those cookie cutter goats ended up looking more like sheep,�� I said.

��Well, if you would have followed the directions and put less butter so the dough was stiffer it might have turned out better,�� my brain said.

��Well, if you were staying in the ��now�� of the moment and concentrated on paying attention that wouldn��t have happened. You were too busy thinking of Downton Abbey and why the Earl put all his money into Canadian railway stocks and then lost it. Everyone knows you should diversify,�� I retorted.�� I thought I had it under control,�� my brain said, evidently chastised. ��Are we done meditating for today? I��m bored. Besides there��s always tomorrow. Maybe I��ll be better.��

��Promise?�� I said.

��Sure, well, maybe, there��s always aspiration. I wonder what the world would be like if there were no North America? We should check that What If? book. Maybe it��s in there.��

��Oh my God, you��re terrible. I��m never going to learn to meditate.��

��Whatever. Let��s get a cookie.��

Coming in February!

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Published on January 14, 2015 07:49

All The Crap I Didn’t Know

“You probably didn’t know that you wouldn’t be here if not for me avoiding a life-threatening moment in the woods,” my father said.

“What? Were you almost eaten by a bear?” I asked.

“Nope, it was a train accident,” he said. We were looking at some old photos of his life working on the Canadian railroad. “See this here.” He tapped his finger on the photo.

“That looks awful. Did anyone survive?”

“Not a one.”

My mother walked into the den. She recognized the photo album. “I hope you aren’t telling her that awful story?”

“Why not?” my father said. He looked a little put out. “It’s part of our family history. She should know.”

“Know what?” I said.

“Our children do not need to know everything.” My mother sighed. “I think we all could do without that particular story in our family history. And besides you do remember that she is a writer and anything can be used as fodder. It’s like having a spy in the family.”

“I’m not a spy. I just happen to be a good listener and stuff gets stuck in my head. I admit some things pop up in my novels but I do change the names to protect the innocent,” I said.

“Like telling the world that I let you fall out of the car? You were saved from, as I remember, a ‘blunt trauma injury to the head’ had you not fallen on the birthday cake. I wouldn’t call that protecting your innocent mother.”

“Well, that story was too priceless to go unnoticed.”

“See, what did I tell you?” my mother said to my father.

“Are you going to write about this bit of family history?” my father said. He eyed me wearily.

“I won’t. I swear.” I had my fingers and toes crossed.

“Okay then, back to the story,” my father said.

My mother threw her hands up in the air. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She left the room. Evidently she couldn’t bear to hear this family jewel of a story again.

“So… what happened?” I said.

“Well, I was what you call a fireman.”

“A fireman on the railroad?”

“It meant I shoveled coal into the boiler. I kept the fire. I didn’t put them out. It was the first job I was ever downsized from when the steam trains switched over.”

“Oh,” I said and stared at the picture again. “So did you work on this train, you know, before it got blown up?”

“I did. Our train was sitting on the tracks at the station when another train came into the yard. It wasn’t stopping at this station. It was passing on by. But down the line one of the switch operators didn’t change the track over so when the train came into the station it hit our train full on. Both engines blew upon impact. It was really nasty. Had I been on that train, I would never have met your mother and had you.” He looked at me solemnly.

“So, if you weren’t on the train where were you?”

“I just don’t think that this pivotal moment in your existence needs to be common knowledge. You could just say you were taking a break and thus wasn’t on the train when the crash happened,” my mother said from the other room.

“What were you doing?” I asked.

“Ugh,” my mother said.

“I was in the woods taking a shit,” my father said, leaning back in his chair and putting his arms behind his head.

“You were spared by a turd?”

“Yep, the butthole of destiny saved me with a timely turd,” my father said.

p.s. Dad, if you’re reading this you should know Mom was right. I am a spy and cannot be trusted.

Making the world a happier place, one book at a time!

A new short story

A romantic blend of Sweet and Heat!

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Published on January 07, 2015 06:35

The Birds and the Bees and Sticks

My mother and I were on the way to my tap dancing recital. We didn’t know then about my inability to dance. I was hog-tied into taking the class because my mother and my bbf’s mother decided that both us tomboys needed a good, hard dose of femininity and fast.

I had heard some older girls at the dance studio talking about the birds and the bees and it raised a few questions in my mind. “Mom, what’s all this stuff about the birds and bees? I don’t see the similarities. I’m certain that it’s a euphemism for something else. But I don’t get it.”

This was one of those moments when my mother thought perhaps the hospital had given her the wrong baby. I had learned long ago to recognize the look on her face.

She hemmed and hawed and must have been considering her options. Evidently, she decided now was the time to have “The Talk.”

While she was deciding how to approach the subject I’d moved on. “And why do girls grow hair down there?” I pointed at my pre-pubescent crotch.

She hemmed and hawed again. “Well, a long, long time ago people didn’t have toilet facilities so they went pee outside. So we have hair down there to keep the sticks out.”

“Sticks? Would that include grass and other woodsy things?”

“Yes.”

When I got hair down there I was going to test her hypothesis. By now I had realized the lack of veracity when it came to adults. “Now, back to the birds and bees.”

My mother sighed. She’d already figured my tangent hadn’t waylaid the question, rather it was a segue. “Well, you know the puppies next door…”

“Yes, the five Huskies.”

“Well, you see the daddy dog puts his magic stick into the mommy dog and then the babies come.”

“You mean if I get a stick in my vagina I’ll get five babies? I had no idea sticks were so powerful.”

“Just stay away from all sticks until you’re married.”

“But what about the birds and the bees? Should I stay away from them too?”

“Yes.”

Luckily for my mother we’d arrived at the dance studio.

“You know, I can’t dance. So if you get embarrassed by all means wait for me outside.”

“All right.” Evidently the question and answer session had zapped all her energy.

“Break a leg,” she said.

“Why would I want to do that? Are the others dancers going to do that if I mess up?”

My mother sighed. “Never mind. I think I need some alone time.”

I did mess up the recital and my mother did wait out in the car. I really couldn’t blame her. But the other girls didn’t break my leg so I figured my mother did tell the truth on that one.

The other stuff I’d have to research. The Encyclopedia Britannica would certainly have a better explanation. I decided to test my mother’s knowledge with another question, “What’s an orgasm?”

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Published on December 17, 2014 07:02

The Joy Luck Plant

I stared at the joy luck plant and pondered, ruminated, and feared my options. I bit my lip. There were several yellowing leaves on the plant. It had grown tall since Emma brought it home from the Tulsa State Fair. She’d given off caring for it so I felt obligated to assume stewardship. You didn’t purchase a joy luck plant on a whim. It was a serious responsibility.

“What are you doing?” Layce asked me.

“We’ve got a major decision to make,” I said, pinching off a yellow leaf.

“And that would be?”

“The spiritual nature and inevitable demise of this plant. We’ve had it every since I came to live with you all. It’s like our family mascot, our floral equivalent of a lucky rabbit’s foot, the Feng Shui of our house. I don’t know how long I can handle the responsibility. What if it dies? What should one do? Will we be cursed?”

“It’s just a plant,” Layce said. “Plants die…” she noticed my distress, “Eventually.”

“Curses can be quite serious. Remember Pele and the black sand? People have brought sand back and had horrible luck. They sent it back once they realized what was causing the bad luck and they profusely apologized to Pele.”

Layce considered this. “We could give it a proper burial when the time comes.”

“I hope you realize this is as serious as getting a chain letter,” I continued.

“What if we get the joy luck plant a friend?”

“We might be able to take this shoot and give it eternal life.”

“That could work,” Layce said.

I noticed she was staring at the plant intently now. “But what if that doesn’t work?” I said, squinting at the plant as if narrowing my eyes might make less of a dilemma.

“I say we get two more bamboos and that’ll make three—your favorite lucky number upon which you manage most of your life.”

I disregarded her statement. I didn’t think three was going to solve anything. “I wonder what other people have done if they killed a joy plant by lack of care?”

“Where are you going?” Layce asked as I picked up the car keys.

“To get twenty-one plants.”

“Twenty-one?”

“I looked it up. 21 joy luck plants are like a super charged blessing. It should offset things. And then I’m going to burn some sage and hire a holy man. That should do it.”

Layce sighed. “Do we really want to get into joy luck farming?”

“Yes, if it means keeping our house from being cursed.” I heard heavy sighing and something that sounded like “Ugh” as I exited the house. Maybe I would pick up a lucky rabbit’s foot while I was at it.

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Published on December 10, 2014 06:16

Scents and Sensibility

Emma lost her glasses under suspicious circumstances in a hay maze. She’d been hinting around about wanting new glasses and low and behold hers went missing. She apparently was well-versed in the “trying to find a needle in a haystack” only she went one better—a labyrinth of hay.

She attempted to negotiate her loss via text message.

Emma: Are you mad?

Layce: No, I’m ecstatic.

Emma: What’s my punishment?

Layce: We’ll talk about it when you get home. It won’t be pretty.

Emma arrived home, having discovered she didn’t have a passport so she couldn’t defect to a Slavic country with no extradition policy. She brought her chaperone up to the door in a blatant attempt to diffuse the parental bomb. Tick, tick, tick.

While Chaperone Lady (her name is being withheld in order to protect the innocent) and Layce discussed the logistics of the lost eyewear, Honey Bear darted out the open front door.

She’d spotted a skunk across the street and now had it cornered. I ran after her thinking she might have a cat. It looked like a cat but I didn’t have my glasses on so I went in blind. Honey Bear took a direct spray to the face and backed away, yelping. I grabbed her collar so I could safely get her across the street. I was now soaked in skunk juice as well.

Layce and Chaperone Lady backed away from both of us.