Upon the birth of her baby Desdemona was horrified: her baby had three eyes. Everyone said the baby looked like its father, but all that Desdemona could see were three eyes. It was indeed a deformity that couldn’t be corrected.
Only a few commented on the three eyes. Most were polite and coo-cooed at the “lovely baby”. But it wasn’t lovely; it was hideous. One or two offered a cruel joke by way of coping. Things like: Peek-a-boo, I see a twinkle in its eyes.
Eyes in society are not only for seeing; they are things of beauty. Eyes come in different colours. Some wear coloured contact lenses to complement their hair colouring. Some wear makeup – mascara and eye shadow and artificial eye lashes.
Desdemona and her husband came from different worlds. Her husband’s planet was renowned for its eyes. In fact her husband had eleven eyes and Desdemona had hoped that some of his genetic material would have rubbed off on wee Billie. It was disappointing. Despite his eleven-eyed father Billie would be saddled with only three eyes for a lifetime.
A lot of photos in my late grandmother’s photo album have some person cut out with scissors. I asked my mother about it and she didn’t have a clue why. She said she thought the pictures were complete when she got the album when grandma died.
I went through the album carefully trying to find two photos the same or similar; one with a person cut out and one with the whole photo intact. I couldn’t find any. And then I found two that might be of help. It looked like they were both taken on the same occasion. It was someone’s birthday because a man was blowing out candles on an outside table. In the first one the figure standing behind the chair of the candle blower had been cut out. There are four other men in the photo counting the candle blower. In the second photo they are standing in a row. I can be certain that four of them are the same because of their hats and scarves. The fifth person could be the same as the one cut out but I can’t be sure. I didn’t know who any of them were. The one cut out is the only one wearing a hat without a noticeable hatband.
I showed the photo to my mother and asked if she knew who they were. She looked at it and said she didn’t know.
“Where did you get that photo from?” she asked. And I said it was in grandma’s album. Later when I went to look at it again the fifth figure in the photo had been cut out. It could only have been cut out by my mother because grandma is dead. I didn’t like to ask my mother about it because she sometimes gets quite cranky when I ask too many questions. She brought me up on her own. Apparently I was an “accident”, but I’m certainly pleased I’m here! I often wonder who my father might have been. A picture would be nice.
They simply didn’t get on. What is more, Rose and Jillian lived next door to each another. Whenever one visited the other it would end in an argument. Goodness knows why they even bothered to visit; just trying to be neighbourly I guess.
It came to a head when Rose called in and offered to take Jillian’s daughter to ballet classes. “You know,” said Jillian, “that I’m more than capable of taking her there myself. What’s more, I quite enjoy it. So thank you, but no.”
It happened while Jillian was in the shower. Rose turned up, bundled the daughter into the car, and took her to the ballet class. Jillian was furious, and perhaps rightly so.
It can be a pain living next door to one’s mother.
It had rained all week. Sometimes the showers were quite heavy and accompanied by thunder. Trixie was trapped inside for four days with her five school age children. It was the “summer” break. Her husband was somewhere up in Alaska on some business with oil. He wouldn’t be back for another week.
What does one do with five children aged five to twelve (including the twins) stuck inside for a week? The colouring-in books were finished; the computer games had run their course (at least the time Trixie allotted for computer games had run their course); jigsaws were done; cards were played… Even the guitar sat abandoned and untuned in the corner of a now fairly messy living room.
The rain had caused havoc. Surface water covered backyard lawns. The roads weren’t dangerous rivers but still required much care. The local park was a lake!
“Come on children,” declared Trixie. “Leave your raincoats behind. We’re going to the park.”
Off they went in the rain complete with soccer ball. Never was such muddy fun had! They were a family of drowned rats – including Trixie. Soon they were joined by a few other families, maybe twenty people in all. By now the playing field was in a fairly muddy condition, but Nature sorts out such things, and it is what parks are for.
Back home they couldn’t stop talking about it! All were showered, dried, and changed. Trixie baked some cinnamon buns with lashing of melted butter.
Letitia’s nine-year-old son, Jason, was a brat. It was a quality he had inherited from his mother. Jason’s teacher (currently on strike) had described Letitia as “the meanest, nastiest mother I have ever encountered in my thirty-two years of teaching.”
Indeed, Jason had inherited every inch of his mother’s nastiness, and not an ounce of his father’s niceness. His father visited once a month, for an hour only. That was all that Letitia allowed. The father was there, said Letitia, to “pay the bills and stay out of our life.”
How the tables turned when Paddy came into a considerable fortune! The ink had hardly dried on Paddy’s newly-created will, leaving all to Jason, when Letitia conceived a plot. Next time Paddy visited she would poison him.
Letitia shared her plan with Jason. “You want to be rich? Let’s not hang around. Let’s get rid of him. Here’s the plan…”
Jason was to offer his father a cup of coffee. He was to put the poisonous powder into his father’s mug along with the sugar.
Jason took after his mother – the meanest, nastiest mother ever encountered. When his father visited Jason prepared the coffee as instructed. He gave his mother the special mug.
Hi Doozy Suzie. I really love your blog. What I especially like was the photo you put in your header of your dog. I have a dog and it is very special. Every day we go for a walk and he greets everyone he meets. He would be useless as a guard dog because he wouldn’t bark but run up to the thief for a pat!!!
He is a Xoloitzcuintle, also known as a Mexican Hairless Dog, and his name is Buffy. He got that name because when he was born he didn’t have any fur and my grandmother said “He’s in the buff” so after that he was called Buffy.
I don’t know how you think of things to put on your blog every day. Your posting today was really interesting – all about your mother dying yesterday. The blow by blow account of her last hours I couldn’t stop reading. I don’t know, as I say, how you manage to think of something different every day to blog about.
Your posting last week of how your baby sister died of the flu was quite exciting, although I don’t really understand what that has got to do with your header of a dog. Was your baby sister and the dog good friends? Or was it something else?
I showed the picture of your dog to my grandmother – not the one who named Buffy but the other one – and she read what you wrote and said from what you say your mother would have been “a mean old hag”. (These were her words, not mine). My grandmother said the world is better off when people like that are not stealing the air we breathe.
Anyway, I just wanted to say that I like the picture of your dog. You never said what its name was. If we get a cat my grandmother said we should call it Fluffy – to go with Buffy. I suppose your grandmother hasn’t suggested you get a cat because she’s dead.
When Natalie came home from school she overheard her mother say to her little brother, “You’re not to do that again. It was very naughty.”
“But the cat was hungry.”
“I told you not to feed the cat between meals. It will get fat. So feed the cat only in the mornings and in the evenings. I’ve enough to do without having to run around covering up for your naughtiness.”
Later Natalie asked her mother what was wrong with feeding the cat, and her mother said that it was wrong to overfeed pets. “You should know that because of your goldfish. You can feed them too much and they overeat and die.”
For the rest of the day Natalie noticed that her little brother was pouting. He never liked being told off, and Natalie made it worse by reinforcing what their mother had said, and told him that “he shouldn’t overfeed his cat. You are a very naughty boy” – which made her little brother pout even more.
Later, when Natalie went to feed her goldfish it almost looked the same but she was pretty sure it was a different fish.
Look, I told my son. Look, I said. I told you how to do it but you wouldn’t listen. And now you’re in deep trouble. You’re just like your father was, I said, always acting before thinking things through.
I tried to warn you, but oh no! Young people always know better these days. Well in this case I knew better, from personal experience. You didn’t listen, so now you’ll have to pay for the consequences on your own. I’ve achieved what you’ve achieved I suppose a dozen times or so, but without any of the hassle.
I’ve come across so many like you. They all thought they knew better. They just ignored common sense advice. And now look at them.
You know I’ve been wanting you to do what you did for a long time, but not in the way you went about it. If you’d asked me I could have given you names to help. From now on it’s nothing to do with me. Just don’t involve me.
If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you twice: if you were going to murder your father you didn’t have to do it yourself. You hire a professional. I could have helped with the cost. Now look at the mess you’re in.
(Thanks to Matthew for suggesting the opening sentence).
He lived on hills resembling ‘The Shire’ and his feet were covered with curly hair. His name was Bartholomew Baggins and his solo mother always said that his father was a hobbit. He thought it was a big fib, but now that he’d reached puberty he began to suspect, with his hairy feet, that what his mother claimed was true.
Bartholomew always wore shoes to school, even though sandals (and even bare feet) were permitted in summer. That was to cover up his emerging hobbitness. He was ashamed to think that his father was a hobbit. No one had seen a hobbit, and even though everyone liked hobbits in books and films there wasn’t a person at his school who believed they actually existed. They would make fun of his hairy feet.
And then, one evening, Bartholomew left his mother’s house. There was a full moon although ragged clouds scuttled across the night sky. He knelt down and drank rainwater that had gathered in a strange footprint in the garden. Bartholomew stood and howled to the moon. He was covered in hair. He was on his first hunt.
Bernard’s wife does nothing other than complain. She’s a stay-at-home mother, which is a luxury most of us can ill afford. She complains that there are not enough hours in a day. Not enough hours in the day for what? Lounging around watching the soaps while the kids are at school?
Being a well-paid consultant I asked her to write down what she does in a day, so improvements can be made and then she’ll have no reason to complain. Here is a typical Wednesday – or so she claims:
Get the kids ready for school – 1 hour Tidy the house – 2 hours Prepare meals- 1 hour Get the groceries – 2 hours Do necessary odd jobs, e.g. take the car to get fixed etc. – 2 hours Mow the lawn and weed the garden – 1 hour Do the laundry – 1 hour sometimes 2 Pick up the kids from school – 1 hour, sometimes less, sometimes more Take the dog for a walk and feed the dog and cat – 30 minutes
The list for Wednesday went on and on, but I won’t bore you with more details.
Look, I said to her, just get yourself organized and stop the complaining. Do some of these jobs on another day of the week.