To Be a Guest

Guest (noun): a person who is invited to visit the home of or take part in a function
                                   organized by another.    

 “Be our GUEST, be our GUEST, put our SER-vice to the test . . .”

You know the tune.  

                                                              

UnFORtunately,
     guests do not get PAID to visit. 

(Well, maybe SOME of you PAY your guests, but that’s an entirely different story . . . )

I have been invited to be a guest writer for this 
UNIQUE, QUIRKY, RANDOM, FUN! 
     and ALL AROUND AWESOME website.

While I do NOT get paid, I DO get incentives if I receive the most views and "likes". 

So, I wouldn't mind at all, NOT AT ALL (is there an echo?)

     if you would view and “like” my stories,

EVEN IF YOU DON’T LIKE THEM. 

Well, no, you shouldn't do that.  
That wouldn't be right.  

YES, YOU SHOULD!

Did I say that?

http://monkeypickles.com/author/leslie-m

                              

http://monkeypickles.com/2013/09/10/ignorance-and-an-hour-at-the-nail-salon/

Ignorance (and an Hour at the Nail Salon)

http://monkeypickles.com/2013/09/10/ignorance-and-an-hour-at-the-nail-salon/

I stared down at my toenails. 

They were beginning to resemble chipped paint, from an old, rusty automobile,

only, one might describe that as “vintage” or “classic”, or even . . . “charming”.

It was a Friday afternoon, and I had an hour to spare – time for an overhaul. 

I went to my “regular” place, where the nail technicians speak very little English.

BUT, I am not there to have a discussion about world politics,

     and small talk bores me, so that suits me just fine.

I, once, read an online review by a customer who could speak Vietnamese. 

She indicated that the nail technicians were all taking trash about the customers.

I asked myself if that bothered me. 

     “NO,” was my response.

As long as they do a good job, I don’t care what they have to say about my

     “charming” toenails (or, any other part of my body, for that matter).

I just stick my feet in the warm, bubbly, non-judgmental water, press the “seat recline” button on the remote control, close my eyes, and tune everything out.

Sometimes, I do get caught up in the sound of the language.

And, sometimes, I am AMAZED at how MUCH these ladies can talk!

I am not a big talker (in ANY language), but what could they possibly be talking about?  For THAT long??! 

     I wonder . . .

Then, I laugh to myself. 

They are talking about my “charming” feet.

That may be so, I think, but this calf massage feels REALLY good. 

Sometimes, I look at the other customers,

     and try to imagine what the nail technicians might be saying about THEM.

OH, I can have a good time with that . . .

 And, wouldn’t it be great if I COULD speak Vietnamese???

I could spontaneously chime-in on their conversation.

Can you imagine the looks on their faces?

I wonder how you say “Oh, shit!” in Vietnamese??!

Language, in general, fascinates me. 

I always wonder what American English sounds like to foreigners.

I, once, asked a Dutch speaking friend what he thought.

     (Now, DUTCH is a funny sounding language).

With one eyebrow raised, and a semi-frown, he tilted his hand side-to-side,

     and said, “Nothing special,”

which is exactly what I would have guessed. 

    

After my nails were painted (the color of the day),

     and I sat with my feet under the “toenail dryer” for ten minutes,

I went to the counter to pay my bill.

With a smile and a tip, I said “thank-you” to my nail technician, Aya.

And, maybe she did talk trash about my “charming” toes,

  but when she smiled back at me, I chose to believe that it was sincere,

for ignorance (and an hour at the nail salon)

                                                               . . . is bliss. 

http://monkeypickles.com/2013/09/10/ignorance-and-an-hour-at-the-nail-salon/

     

"A Tree is NEVER Just a Tree"

The tree arborist came out to confirm its death.
I knew it was dead, but . . .  still, I needed to hear the words.
 
     "What do you think caused it?" I asked, as he stood and stared at the tree.

He looked up at its brittle, lifeless branches.
He rubbed his hands across its smooth bark with its rough edges.    
He placed his foot upon its roots, still grounded.     

Taking a step back, he paused, as if waiting for an answer.

     "For the life of me," he said, finally, shaking his head,
          "I have no idea. Must be something underground that we can't see."

The following week, the tree was gone.

     A few months later . . . . . .

I received a notice on my door from the Department of Utilities.
The reading on my meter indicated that there was a possible water leak.
The next day, I noticed that there was water leaking from my front yard,
     spilling onto the sidewalk.
The day after that, a plumbing company came out to look at the problem.

Diagnosis:  a crack (somewhere) in the underground pipes,
                         probably due to age.

Then, I thought about the tree.

Could the removal of the tree have caused the crack in the pipe? 

     "Highly doubtful," said the plumber.   

I thought about the tree, again.

The water had most likely been leaking from the pipe
     well before there were visual signs.

I remembered the words of the tree arborist:

"Must be something underground that we can't see."  

     It was a slow leak.

A slow, undetectable leak . . .  that, most likely, killed the tree.

A slow, undetectable leak.

A friend of mine made a comment that "a tree is never JUST a tree."

He has no idea how true those words really are.

A tree is NEVER just a tree.    

  

 

   

Just a Tree

There is a tree that sits in my front yard, just outside my bedroom window.
Its branches extend upward, above the roof, and toward the season-changing colors of the sky.
Nature's wildlife frolics and thrives among its mighty limbs.

Every morning, I awaken to this tree.
Standing tall, and full of life, it offers me peace, and comfort, and joy.

     This year, it did not bloom.

With late snow in April, I thought, maybe it is not ready.
Maybe it just needs more time.  

The month of May came and went.
And, now we are well into June.      

     Still, no bloom.

Like me, the birds and the squirrels have been patiently waiting and hoping.
Like faithful companions, they continue to visit their dear old friend, singing life into its branches,
     and continuing to frolic among its mighty, yet weakening, limbs.

   Still, no bloom.

Its branches, now reaching toward a summer sky, still carry the brittle cold of winter.
Yet, every day, I look out at the tree, and hold out hope.

     "Come on, tree," I say.  "Show me a sign."

But, the tree is silent.

My seventeen-year-old says to me, "Mom, I think the tree is dead."

     "I know," I say. "And, it makes me sad."

     "It's JUST a tree," he says.

Just a tree, I say to myself.

Just a tree . . .

      full of hope,
          full of beauty,
     full of joy,
          full of LOVE.

     Just a tree.

And, So it Is . . .

Crystal clear, blue sky, warm sun; cool breeze.
It was a perfectly beautiful Spring day.
The kind of day you want to permanently capture in your mind,
     and take a trip there, anytime that you please.

Flying around, with not a care in the world, until . . .

SNAP!  

He chose to land on the wrong spot.

Across the air, he sailed, landing on the hard, rustic surface;
     lying, helpless, on his back - his legs, dangling, toward the sky.  

Why, why, WHY did he have to land on my finger like that? I asked.

When I was a child, I would not even harm an ant,
     believing that all creatures had a purpose and deserved a chance.  
Watching him wriggle and squirm, I just could not take it.
I removed the shoe from my foot, and . . .

WHACK! 

I had to do it.
It's all over for him now.

And, so it is . . .

     one minute, flying around, happy and carefree,
           enjoying the blue sky, the warm sun, the cool breeze . . .
     the next - unrecognizable, lying squished on a dead piece of wood.

In that moment, just for a brief moment, as I was feeling the weight of my sorrow,
     I stared at that dead, squished bug, and thought,

I wish someone would put me out of my misery.

Just for a moment, you know?

But, I am the one with the feet and,
     as weakened as my spirit may be,
I have to lift myself up and carry the weight of my troubles . . .

     see the sky, feel the sun, touch the breeze . . .

AND, JUST TRY NOT TO LAND 
                       ON THE WRONG SPOT.  


 
     

Images of Spring

Intruder in the Night

1a.m.

I awake to my dog, 
     who is practically standing on my face.

     What the . . . ? ? ?

I pry him off of me and,
     like a leech (only, soft and fuzzy; not slimy and wet) . . . 

okay, more like a lint filled dryer sheet, 

                      he is now stuck to my face.

He won't budge.

     What the . . . ? ? ?

Then, I hear it.

Chirp . . .
                         
       chirp . . .

That sound that terrorizes my dog, filling him with fear,
     and sending him into a frenzy, as he frantically searches for a safe place to hide.

Dog:  WHERE CAN I HIDE ? ? ?

Me:  Why does this shit only happen at night ? ? ? 

Chirp . . .
       
       chirp . . .

                                                                  

I know that I will not get any sleep, until I take care of the problem.

I get out of bed, and try to locate the source. 

As I suspected, it is coming from downstairs, in the front hallway.

I can't reach it, so I grab a chair from the kitchen table.

In the meantime, Charlie is glued to my feet - tail, between his legs; ears, back, 

     looking as if our house is under attack.  

I stand on a chair and grab its hard surface with my hands.  

I turn it one way, I turn it the other - it won't budge.

Chirp . . .

       chirp . . . 

At this point, 

     I am so agitated that I just want to yank the f 'ing thing from the ceiling!

BUT, I keep (patiently) turning it one way, then the other, until FINALLY, 

     the thing comes loose from the ceiling. 

I yank the battery out, set it on the table, 

                                              and give it the old STARE-DOWN.   

At this point, my dog is nowhere to be seen.

I have to send out a search party (me).      

He finally comes crawling out from somewhere, 

     and I convince him (I think) that the coast is clear, the danger is gone, 

            the battle is over, the bad guys have been chased away . . . 

but, more importantly, 

THE MEAN OLD SMOKE DETECTOR BATTERY HAS BEEN REMOVED !    

Back to bed, now.  

Please don't stand on my face.