WRITING ABOUT LIFE: CROCS, STOCK & BOTTLE (Humorosity #43) By Honeydew Zubari

WRITING ABOUT LIFE: CROCS, STOCK & BOTTLE

(Humorosity #43)

By Honeydew Zubari

My Support Team has gone ‘round the twist…over the NY stock exchange. He recently bought some shares in Crocs, the wonderful, light-as-air shoes that are all the rage lately.

In order to make him a couple of pennies richer, I purchased two pairs of Crocs in Seafoam Blue and Cotton Candy. Hee. I’m actually on a waiting list for some other colors.

I absolutely love them and recommend that everyone (male and female, young and old) rush to your nearest Internet or Nordstrom’s and grab as many as they have in your size. If everyone in America buys just one pair of shoes, I’ll be getting mega-bucks Christmas presents from my newly-wealthy Support Team this year.

The down-side is that I have to sit on the phone and listen to the Support Team moan over every quarter-penny he loses. Then follows a detailed analysis on the loss and what that would amount to, had he millions invested instead of ten bucks.

What does this have to do with writing? Hang with me folks.

While listening to said Support Team I filed my nails into points in order to avoid becoming a blithering idiot. (As opposed to the regular idiot I normally am.) when I reached down to pet the cat and she got stuck to my fingers, I filed the points off. Since I now had no nails left, I resorted to word games to pass the looong hours.

My favorite is the stream-of-consciousness game. You know! Say a word and I’ll say the first thing that comes to mind, then you say the first thing my word makes you think of, etcetera unto eternity or until a fist-fight breaks out. Only in this case, I’d have to punch myself—which would hurt, so I won’t.

Potato, elm, maple, glue.

Explanation about the last couple: I had pancakes for breakfast recently and knocked over the syrup bottle. It spilled all over the floor, and I put my foot in it without realizing. Naturally without realizing, or I would have moved before the syrup set and I became glued to the floor. I had to throw cutlery at the phone and knock the headpiece off the stand, then bribe the cat to push it my way so I could call 911. The cynical woman who answered thought at first I’d been tippling. When I read the Mrs. Butterworth’s label as proof, apparently over the loud speaker, all the operators laughed until they had to stampede en mass for the bathroom. Finally a couple of fire engines pulled up in front of my condo. I watched with cynicism as they scurried around, unraveling hoses. What, were they going to power wash the windows? No. They were going to break down my $2,000 custom-painted-flamingo-pink steel fire door, pile in and laugh at my predicament. I tossed the syrup at the one holding the crowbar. He ducked and the bottle zoomed over his head. I didn’t think firemen could be so agile in all that heavy plasticwear. The syrup bonked the guy behind him, but they don’t call them “protective helmets” for nothing.

So anyway, to bring an end to this tragedy of a comedic tale, all the guys grabbed a part of me and pulled (get your minds out of the gutters!) while the crowbar guy crowbarred. Betwixt the two groups, we got my foot free.

The writing lesson? Be careful what word games you play, or you might leave a couple layers of skin behind on the floor. That can ruin your day as well as the finish on the wood.