Few know of Sue, the Santa Shrew, and that’s a curious thing in view of all the schmoozing she would do once scooting down each chimney flue.
She’d shoot the breeze with skillful ease in English, Welsh, or Taiwanese, while feasting on her hostess’ cheese. Then right back up the flue she’d squeeze.
‘Round every tree, she’d socialize – she’d dramatize and improvise, and aggrandize, and summarize. Shrew ebullience, epitomized.
As starlit skies turned pinks and golds, Sue’d slip ‘tween Santa’s soft cloak folds and there, she’d dream of each household and all her stories, still untold.
I should first explain that I went 30-plus years with a severe reaction to butter and chocolate. ONLY butter and chocolate. I know, I know … it makes no sense. For 30-plus years, I have had to be ridiculously careful, because even minute amounts wreaked havoc. When my thyroid was fixed, this went away.
THANKSGIVING, 2020
Buttered potatoes, and stuffing with butter. Slather that nut bread (my heart is aflutter!).
No need to ask “is there butter in this?” Now I can happily fill up my dish.
But now that selecting what goes on my plate no longer concerns me, we can’t congregate.
This debate was more civil than first. But responses seemed vague and rehearsed. Though some orderliness was restored, Many questions were simply ignored.
Undecideds, I’d just like to ask: Did you learn who is up to the task? Or perhaps you just think it’s a crime that the fly did not get equal time. 😉
He says hi there; she says hello. “Which floor?” he asks. She doesn’t know. His finger waits, then starts to tap. Her face turns red. She thinks, “Oh crap. Why can’t I think? Just pick a floor!” Her brain congeals. He taps some more. “Just. Pick. A. Floor.” That thought now slips from clotted brain through tense, pursed lips. With sideways glance and impish smirk, he presses 12. (Joker? Or Jerk?) Long, silent ride can’t end too soon. It seems to take all afternoon. She ruminates entire ride, should parting words be kind? Or snide? She isn’t sure how this should end –
I’m thankful for this man I’ve known for 10 years, but have yet to meet. Without his encouragement, I would never have referred to myself as a “poet.” I’m not the best poet, and never will be, but I am a poet nonetheless. Thank you, Walt. Thank you.
P.S. This little gal looks like she could brighten the darkest of days! ❤
Don’t like my string cheese stringy.
Don’t care for fishy fish.
Don’t want this squash-y thingy
that’s squishing in my dish.
I’ll take my eggplant scrambled, please,
with not-too-toasty toast.
I feel so sad for black-eyed peas,
and for the poor shanked roast.
My coffee grounds me just enough
to move on with my day,
but navigating it’s still tough.
Will curds show me the whey?
You’re nuts about my pecan pie,
but beef about my stew.
And I just chuckle, and here’s why:
It’s so fun ribbing you. 😉