Sometimes a Mediocre Notion

Sometimes, I feel like the old woman who lived in a shoe.

Sure, I'm old. That's not the reason. I'm old all the live-long day. And I don't actually live in a shoe. But if I did, by cracky, I'd be sure to stock up on Febreze. Have you seen those commercials? Febreze would have probably been called Fantastik if the name was not already taken. I suppose we're lucky it isn't called Coyote Ugly. You can strap used sweat socks, a stinky fish head with spine attached, a bucket of incontinent baby skunks, a fifteen-year-old boy's armpit, a brick of Limburger cheese, and the entire Azerbaijan wrestling team under a person's nose, and they will think they're smelling roses and freshly-laundered sheets. Febreze should be able to destinkify an ancient boot with one arm tied behind its back.

Furthermore, I don't have so many kids that I don't know what to do. Oh, I'll admit to the not knowing what to do part, but the number of kids is not the problem. No, what I have too many of are ideas. Ideas for stories that never get told. Sometimes they're on scraps of paper, but more often they're in a little computer file that grows bigger by the day. It's chock full of clever subjects that get bumped for more timely issues. Then I go back to retrieve them during a creative drought, and THEY ARE UNINTELLIGIBLE! Like notes of a dream on the nightstand that read flaming globes of Sigmund. I refuse to give up on them. I saved them for a reason. A story I wanted, and a story I'm going to get.

Here are my most recent Sigmunds:

--Not hold me back likes notoriety did he not brag about I ran over her one time

--Lost my crown flag pole snubbing post declared unofficial queen of the world

--Boys of august I'm not as dumb as you want me to be

--Dog snouts poking like sharks at a bloody piece of meat, tails whipping like a cane for a hooligan

--My nine lives

--Tupperware vs cheap containers for spaghetti, almond sink not stainless, stain, prop up clean items more recalcitrant that a 13-yo-hooker on beyond scared straight, stuffing all over stove like 11 yo peer around toilet

--Bedsheet head

--Mail pony express walk snail tortoise

--Bone rabbit graveyard delivery men wrong house

--Queen city on grid like spider web really can get there from here

--Compliment because I don't dress out of the rag bag

--Osteo aficionado Juno bones graveyard trap UPS lady

--Looking forward to tourney to kick off the season/crowds/sardines sideways

--Passive aggressive custodianship

--Great literary tombs went over my head

--When beleaguered night-school instructor Mutt Jefferson jolts awake to find his dimwitted class of adult GED underachievers (“The Idiots” to his fellow faculty) mysteriously miniaturized, bobbing helplessly in the puddle of drool on his desk, he inadvertently gasps, swallowing his entire roster, which precipitates a panicked call to his reformed-stripper fiancé: “Bunny, I drunk the Ids!”   (58 WORDS)

I imagine that last one was a blog contest of some sort. Whether I did not enter or failed miserably, I don't remember. I'm hoping the next-to-last one was a comment I saw somewhere, because I definitely do not want great literary tombs over my head.

I think it's time to clean out the file.