BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

“Awww, just shoot ’em,” Karen said.

It was an interesting response to spoiled milk, but hey, we all have our own take on life, correct? What? You don’t understand what I’m talking about? Well, I suppose I can see where the above might be a little confusing. How about if I back up a bit and see if I can explain…

So, I have these two girlfriends…

No, not like that… Sheesh… Get your minds out of the gutter, please. What I am saying is that they are girls, and they are my friends, therefore they are my girlfriends. And, since they are my girlfriends we do girlfriend stuff… You know, we sit around drinking coffee (or soda, or water, or nothing) and generally gossip about whatever comes to mind.

Well, that’s as far as I take it, anyway, because I just have to draw a line in the sand when it comes to shoe shopping, painting my nails, or getting all googly eyed over Antonio Bandera Pitt DiCapriGereFord-McWhoever. Not that there’s anything at all wrong with that. In fact, it’s healthy in a lot of ways. However, I’d much rather get all googly eyed over E K. (I’d
throw some actress’ names out there but I’m still recovering from the last beating The Evil Redhead gave me, and I’m not sure how much my insurance can handle right now…)

But, back to my girlfriends. We’ll call them Karen and Mindy. Not their real names for reasons of anonymity, of course. Also not my original pick for pseudonyms either. I actually wanted to call them Karen and Brenda, but girlfriend #2 didn’t like Brenda, so I have to call her Mindy. She was almost Muffy, but we won’t go there. Although, when she shows up doing the whole sweater arms tied around her neck, sunglasses on top of her head, and Star-make-a-bucks cup in her hand, she definitely looks like a Muffy… Or even a Buffy.

But, Buffy starts with a B, and that makes it too close to Brenda, so I think we’ll just stick with Mindy. Of course, after she reads this we might end up calling her Miffy.

I guess we’ll see.

Now that we have that settled… (sigh)

So anyway, here’s the thing. I only get to see Karen and Mindy for two weeks out of each calendar year. One straight week during the summer, and 5 consecutive Saturdays during the winter. I’m sure you are wondering why this is… I mean, if I were you I would certainly be wondering.

Well, I’ll tell you… It’s like this. Karen and Mindy are my College girlfriends, and by that I don’t mean we went to college together, because we didn’t. You see, twice each year I take the O-Spring out to one of the local community college campuses for “College for Kids” classes.

Yeah, as I’ve rambled on about before, my kid is utterly brilliant. Yes, I’m sure yours is too, but mine is more brillianter. (Yes, I know that’s grammatically incorrect. Remember, I’m a word on paper putting type person what make those things with words and stuff what tell things like… umm.. stories.. yeah… that’s it… So, I’m a professional… Therefore you should NOT try bending the English language over the dining room table at home without proper training. It’ll just get messy.)

Either way, back to this college thing… My kid is utterly brilliant, and so is Mindy’s kid and Karen’s grandkid. Therefore, because of this whole “College for Kids” thing it makes us college friends. Not “The Big Chill” sort of college friends, mind you, but college friends nonetheless.

Of course, once again I can tell that y’all are wondering how this all came about. Well, it’s pretty simple, actually. Parents of gifted kids will often seek one another out and come together to share notes. Important things like, “Who should I call when my kid clones the neighbor’s dog using only a PlaySkool Pretend Doctors Kit and a Dora The Explorer juice tumbler?” or “So, how do you handle it when your kid builds a supercollider out of Legos and aluminum foil and creates a God particle in your living room?”

See what I mean?  Really important crap…

And so, anyway, this friendship developed between Karen, Mindy, and yours truly. There’s even a particular corner on the second floor of the Science West building where we park ourselves around a table and chit chat – remember, I said no to the shopping – while we wait for the kids to finish their classes each day. This corner actually used to be my special quiet place. I would take my notebook computer with me, sit on the back side of the table, and write (we writers do that sort of stuff.) However, one day Mindy found me and, well, whenever I am on the campus I simply haven’t been able to get any work done since. She won’t allow it. But, that’s just part of Mindy’s charm.

And, yes, you guessed it – as it happens, this particular August week it is “College for Kids” week, and yeah, you guessed it again, I’ve been visiting with Karen and Mindy. That’s where guns and spoiled milk come into play.

There we were, talking about fast food and airports. (Hey, I said we talk about whatever comes to mind…) Anywhow, I had just finished telling about my bad Fuddrucker’s experience, how they had ponied up a gift card, and that I was impressed by their integrity. Mindy became wide-eyed and fidgety which was a sure sign she had her own story to tell.

Well, as signs go this one was pretty clear.

“So I was looking over the counter,” Mindy declared. “And I could see that the girl was using expired milk for my latte…”

Karen piped up. “Did’ja shoot her?”

Mindy looked horrified. “No.”

“You shoulda just shot ‘er,” Karen reiterated.

“Anyway,” Mindy continued. “I told her, ‘don’t use that in my latte, it’s expired,’ so she put it back in the refrigerator. You know she was going to use it for someone else, but since I was standing there watching she didn’t use it in mine.”

“Yeah,” I said, not entirely sure where this was going.

Mindy shook her head in an animated fashion as her eyes grew wider still. “Can you imagine that? Expired milk!”

“Was she running with scissors too?” I asked.

“No.”

“Okay, just wondering.”

“Shoulda just shot her,” Karen offered.

“So anyway,” Mindy said, ignoring Karen’s advice. “I kept watching and she started to put 2% milk in my latte. I mean, come on, 2% milk?!”

Karen grunted, “That’s what guns are for, you know…”

“So I said, ‘no, no, no you don’t’,” Mindy explained. “I only take skim milk in my latte. And do you know what she said?”

I shook my head. “Nope. I wasn’t there.”

“She said it was really skim milk, it just said 2% on it.”

“I’m tellin’ you, you shoulda just shot her,” Karen grumbled.

“So, what did you do?” I asked.

“I stepped away from the counter and called Star-Make-A-Bucks corporate office. I have them on my cell phone speed dial, of course…”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” I mused aloud.

Unfazed, Mindy continued. “…I told them that I was standing right there at the airport and that their employee was trying to use spoiled milk in my latte.”

“Awww, just shoot ’em,” Karen said.

I had always figured Karen for the non-violent type, I mean, what with her being pretty laid back. After all, she didn’t even object over her pseudonym like Mindy had, know what I mean? But her grumbling at this particular moment definitely wasn’t bearing that out.

“I couldn’t shoot her,” Mindy objected.

Karen sighed. “Why not? You forget your gun?”

“I don’t have a gun.”

“See,” Karen said, clucking her tongue. “There’s the problem.”

“What do you think, Murv?” Mindy appealed.

I shrugged. “Karen has a point. If you don’t have a gun you can’t shoot the girl with the expired milk.”

“See there,” Karen announced, then lowered her voice to a grumble. “M R agrees with me… You West county people make me tired. I think when I get home I’m just going to sit in my chair.”

After that, we talked about squirrels. Sounds like a good time, eh?

All I can say is I’m glad our kids are brilliant, because I think maybe the three of us have gone the way of the expired milk.

More to come…

Murv

I have to be honest. I’m rarely shocked by anything E K does, especially if it involves evil. However, please make note that I said rarely. There are occasions when the Evil Redhead will do something that throws me for a bit of a loop. Of course, since I am telling you this now it should be obvious that Her Majesty has recently managed to leave me wondering…

As is the custom whenever E K is about to do something I will inevitably blog about, I was standing in the kitchen minding my own business. Well, in truth I was minding the business of a pound of ground turkey as I set about fixing the evening meal. Now, what was unusual about this is that instead of pacing back and forth behind me while gently slapping a riding crop against the side of her leg, The Evil One was nowhere to be seen. This, in and of itself should have set off a few alarms for me, but I was too busy concentrating on what I was going to prepare with the ground turkey that I hadn’t already prepared at some point during the 2009 calendar year. (You see, E K doesn’t like to have the same thing twice within a 365 day period.)

Anyhow, there I was trying to come up with a unique dish that involved ground turkey when I heard a voice from across the room.

“Hello, Lackey,” E K announced, her tone both serious and bemused. (Don’t ask me how she managed that. It’s an E K thing.)

I looked up from the meal fixin’s and there, standing in the doorway, was the evil redhead, decked out in her own version of Indiana Jones adventure attire, complete with a fedora and bullwhip.

Of course, noticing the whip my first response was, “I’m sorry, your worship, I’m cooking as fast as I can.”

She ignored me, which wasn’t unusual except that she rarely misses an opportunity to enjoy a good bit of groveling on my part. Instead, she stared out the window into our back yard.

“Japanese Beetles,” she finally said , and then let out a heavy sigh that was obviously filled with deep seated trepidation. “Why did it have to be Japanese Beetles?”

I screwed up my face with confusion because I was… well… confused. “Japanese Beatles?” I repeated with a questioning tone. “Are they some kind of tribute band?”

“Popillia Japonica,” she replied. “Very dangerous.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Are they really loud or something?”

“Hungry.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Hungry?”

“Very.”

“I’ve only got a pound of turkey here so that might be a problem,” I told her.

“They’re vegetarians.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” I agreed with a nod. “McCartney is all about the veggie thing isn’t he…”

“There are Japanese Beetles in the back yard, Murv!” she barked.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Calm down. I can defrost some more turkey in the microwave. Not a big deal. Just go out there and stall them for a bit while I get to cooking. So, just out of curiosity are these guys any good? I mean, should we sell tickets or something?”

“Whiskey,” she replied, a demanding note in her voice.

“Yeah… Okay…” I returned with a shrug.

Since she was still holding the bullwhip I decided I had better comply. I pulled a bottle of the good stuff from the cabinet, poured a shot, then placed it on the island in front of her. She picked it up, tossed it back, then slammed the empty shot glass onto the counter upside down. From out of nowhere a Nepalese man dressed in Yak fur appeared, burped, then passed out and fell to the floor. E K proceeded to take all of his money then kicked him a couple of times to make him move out of her way, and of course “just because”… She’s evil like that.

“Get the pry bars in there,” she ordered, a wild look in her eyes.

“Do the what?” I asked.

She rolled her eyes then barked, “Open the damn back door, Lackey!”

I did as I was told, because that’s what I do. As I turned back to face her I noticed that she had unfurled the bullwhip and was now rearing her arm back over her head. I immediately cowered in the corner, fear running rampant through my veins. However, the sting of her lash never fell upon me. I peered out from behind my hands and watched on in complete awe.

With a speedy swish and a sharp crack the braided leather snaked out the open doorway, the end wrapping itself around a tree branch. E K pulled on the whip to cinch it tight, then grasped it with both hands, jumped up in the air, and swung through the open doorway and out into the back yard.

As she flew past me I heard her mutter, “You wanna talk to God, let’s go see Her together…”

I’m still not entirely sure what all that was about. She insists that we don’t talk about it. Ever.

All I know is that we never sold a single ticket, I never heard a single Beatles tune, and I’ve now spent the past three days using a paint scraper to get the scarab carcasses off the bottom of her shoes…

More to come…

Murv