I want to apologize for the lack of blogging. I’ve been a horrible blogger as of late. I feel about as low as the rent on a burning building.
I know you’ve often thought of me as you sucked the spaghetti noodles from your dinner fork. I know you’ve wondered if you should call the blogging authorities to make sure I’m okay, to make sure I wasn’t abducted by Herpes-infested aliens in an Arkansas cornfield.
I’m alright, really I am. I got the Arkansas Herpes-infested alien vaccination in March, so I’m safe from that mess.
I’ve been awfully busy editing my old book and writing a new one. I’m also contributing to two short-story compilations, and I’ve got deadlines and stuffs. All of this writing has taken up a substantial amount of time, and Whoa! Susannah has been put on the back-burner…more like the rusted back-burner of a faulty oven in a dilapidated trailer home in eastern Kentucky…so I apologize for not blogging as frequently as I once did.
I just wanted to check in with you guys and leave you with a quick short story.
When the boy was a mere baby (last year), he often confused giraffes and zebras. I could go into great detail about his pointing to zebras and saying “raff” or his pointing to giraffes and saying “zeba”, but you get the point.
Some time later, we went to this petting zoo deal at the church and there was a “raffe”, which was really a zebra.
Dang, this is confusing, isn’t it?
Anyway, we see a zebra, and I- not he– say LOUDLY, “Hey, let’s go see the giraffe.”
“Yes,” he complies.
So we walk over to the zebra.
“That’s a big giraffe, isn’t it, son?”
“Yes, big raffe,” he agrees.
“What color is the giraffe?” I ask my little man.
“Bwack raffe. Hite raffe,” my smart offspring replies.
(That’s not Arkansas alien speak, either. And I can assure you that he’s no dummy, either. He said black giraffe and white giraffe….while pointing to the zebra.)
“You’re so smart. That’s right. Black and white giraffe,” I say, as a group of individuals concerned about my mental health begins to surround me.
I’m sure they were whispering things like-
“What a dumb ass. She thinks that zebra is a giraffe.”
“I’m updating my Facebook status now. ‘Dumb woman at church petting zoo doesn’t know her animals. I’m not talking about confusing Komodo Dragons from other dragons, either. She doesn’t know the basics. She’s calling a zebra a giraffe. Come down and see her before 2 pm. At the corner Highway 45 and Jones boulevard.'”
“Should we call the police? That moronic woman has a child in her possession. She’s not capable of caring for that child! Sweet Lord!”
We gawked at the black and white giraffe for nearly five minutes before I realized I was calling the animal the wrong name.
Look, I’m not an idiot. I know most of my animals. I’ve even identified some stray hairs on the trampoline as Sasquatch DNA. I know my animals. I wanted to become a veterinarian at one time. I used to eat Fruit Stripe gum. I know a giraffe from a zebra about as well as I know my ass from a hole in the ground, okay? I had just grown so used to my kid calling zebras the wrong name that I didn’t think to correct myself.
I know my zebras. They are those horse like things.
I even drew one up there.
I hope to blog regularly again soon. Thanks for your continued support, follows, and likes on my Twitter and Facebook page. Love to you all.