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Change. I've learned to embrace it, ride it out til the end. Sometimes I'm kicking and screaming, other times weeping with my eyes clinched tight. Once in awhile I ride like a dog in a car, head out the window snorting what life has to offer. Mother to young adult children, a marriage of thirty years, and a desert to mountain to valley waltz with God have shaped me into someone I never imagined I'd be. Life is short and I want to live it. Tears, sighs, laughter and change. Every morsel granted to me. Scrambled, shaken or stirred.

Thursday, July 20, 2006

Scribbles and Scrambles – Pat’s Practical Joke Part Two

I fumed while I walked to my bus-stop. He’d scared at least seven years off my life. Had to have. What kind of creep puts a monster picture on a mirror?

I shuddered in the cool November morning, and not because of the chill in the air. The photograph had been an 8 x 10 glossy with a light gray background and it blended right in with the shower wall – especially since my senses were not exactly honed so early in the morning.

The hideous monster wore globby, oozy flesh colored makeup. An eye protruded and draped over a scarred cheek. A partially severed hand dangled toward an unseen victim.

A genius in the art of practical joking had placed that picture. My dad probably hunkered down to about my height and placed the monster slightly off-center so it appeared like the nasty thing stood right behind me. Very bad dad!

How could I possibly come up with something to equal, let alone best, this sinister act?

I climbed onto the bus, mulling over inadequate and anemic possibilities.

The school day flew. I mentioned the rotten trick to a few friends. My dad gained cool points in their estimation so I stopped sharing. Other than setting his sock drawer on fire, or squirting syrup on his side of the bed, I got no input on possible retaliation. All day I rejected my own lame thoughts of revenge, too.

I stepped back onto the bus ready to surrender to the master as soon as I arrived home.

Mom met me at the door after I trudged dejectedly up the hill from the bus stop.

“Did you have a good day?” She asked.

“Not really. Did you see what Dad did?”

Mom laughed. Not a sympathy type of laugh either, it was outright rude. It should be enough to declare defeat with becoming the butt of the joke. I headed toward the stairs, so I could have a good pout in my room.

Mom laid her hand on my arm. “Wait. I’m not laughing at you. Dad got up and took his shower a little while after you left the house. And I heard a shriek from the bathroom. You left the picture on the mirror. He ended up scaring himself, too. It was perfect.”

Ah, the irony of life. Gotta love it.

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