My mother once told me I was destined for drama on the big screen. She also told me I was destined to be handcuffed to the oven door handle if I didn’t clean my room. And beating kitchen utensils against my headboard to get me out of bed in the morning didn’t make me move any faster. I’m sure she would have cried if I ran away, although she probably cried when I didn’t. I just hope all my protests I demonstrated didn’t spoil her enjoyment of parenting.
Another thing my creator did against my will was wash my hair in the tub when I was little. Water always got into my eyes. Then Mama added a few sisters, which made way too many Tinkel-belles in the bathwater. Pee in pools and the wash basin is probably the main reason I have all these side effects. That kind of urethra release does not boost the stimulation of any swimmer or bather. I didn’t need the exothermic expulsion of other siblings body fluids. I loved my family, but not when the bathtub was turned into a blemished body of water set for stewing in someone’s juices. Mom told me to stay in the contaminated reservoir until I was clean. Which made no sense to me. Now I take long soothing bubble baths without anyone whom I think might taint my tub.
Playing has long been a pre-occupation, such as dressing the dog in a bonnet and forcing him into a baby buggy when I was eight. I couldn’t figure out why he didn’t want to be held captive while being whipped around the driveway at warp speeds. He was a little scared of me. Once I found our pooch four blocks away, I held him down again attempting to comb his hair. I also liked playing school in the garage. But my siblings didn’t like being forced against their will to sit there as students, which is the reason they started skipping class. That, and the fact that I made them sit up straight and give me a list of conjunctive adverbs. I didn’t know any, so someone had to tell me what they were. I never paid any attention to my teachers either. Detainees just can’t stand the emotions that we are called upon to endure. Lunchtime was the only thing that induced any kind of pleasure. Although I would have enjoyed my life a whole lot more had I been eating at the beach instead of an educational facility. I asked Mom on several occasions if I could play hooky. But she said hell had already frozen over and was not accepting any more demons.
One time our cat caught a cricket and would not let go without a fight. It was a clear indication of who wanted custody. That bit of weevil and cat tenacity taught me never to be held hostage against my free will. They’d have to threaten me with a branding iron first. Now that I think about it, bureaucratic tax enforcement agents hold me hostage. I will pay what I owe. Even if I have to borrow from the federal government to do it. After postmortem pet lizard, came my mother’s investigation into the postmortem piggy bank. I filled coins faithfully into my pink hog after my parent’s insistence on saving. Coming from a large family, we never asked for anything when Mom and Dad went shopping. One day Mom asked if I wanted to go to the store with her. I craved red licorice at the time, so I retreated to my bedroom searching for the omnivorous container holding the coins that would cover the cost of my craving. Then I ran for the hammer, obviously prepared to bust the bank. I found the nail gun instead. Evidently it’s bad form using this sort of tool with overt aggressiveness thus having metal shrapnel and shards of ceramic poking holes in the lamp shade. It ended in mortal conflict with my Mama. Not to mention siblings hovering with stares and appreciative scowls. If my mother had known I was saving for a Mark Eden breast developer, maybe she would have let me spend my money on licorice. Being thoroughly interrogated, I became troubled with her line of questioning and was forced to stay home. I felt it was a bit hasty, never mind totally against my will to be that claustrophobically confined to my sleeping quarters. I wanted to move to Peru where goats could raise me. Though I doubt goats are that great to live with either.
No one wants to be held coercively. Especially by nail cosmeticians. The last one planted me in a spa chair and submerged my feet into a rushing vat of scalding water made of certain crystals and for all I know, the glands and guts of a desert mole rat. Then she disappeared for the next forty-five excruciating minutes. I continued my spasmodic attacks of pure toenail neglect, brought on by this foreign speaking woman for which I was at her total mercy. She strolled by me several times saying, “I be there two minute.” I started a series of interesting sounds, none remotely pleasant or admired by fellow spa sitters. I would have left had my hooves not transformed into trench feet, plus my nails still needed pruning and polishing. Too much water is just a recipe for dermatitis, unless you need it to build a bay. Maybe she didn’t know my day was filled with other vital activities like the supermarket triathlon and cleaning the cupboard calisthenics. My salonist originally assured me of a prompt time frame, but cheated me out of valuable post office step aerobics as well. I should have been handed a free coupon for my next visit… GOOD FOR ONE RAPTUROUS DAY IN PRISON.
Those spa people sure look at you funny when you leave chewed gum as a tip.