I'm Not Like Most Girls

I am a girl who blurts out incredibly stupid things for no reason at all. I am delighted with the sound and feel of certain words, the taste, so I indulge myself on a regular basis, oftentimes frightening some individuals who aren’t familiar with my, er...habit.



Last night was a prime example of scaring the uninitiated, of forcing an acquaintance to shuffle their feet, lower their eyes, wish to hell they could just click their heels three times and disappear from my home.



I was up in my office, see, and I didn’t realize that we had company -- adult company. My daughter’s little friend was over, that much I did know, but my unusual word-blurting doesn’t seem to bother the young ones, so I don’t censor myself around children. I throw out the odd word or phrase, sometimes song lyrics, with abandon, regardless of who’s present -- as long as it’s a person under the age of sixteen, or family, or close friends.



I’m strange, yes, but I’m not hopeless. Got it?



All right then. So I bounded down the stairs with the intention of starting dinner, and as I happily danced down into the hallway, I felt the need to yell, “In the year 2525, if man is still alive!” And it was good. And it was right. So I yelled it once more, this time with feeling: “In the year 2525, if man is still alive!”



Now, many of you are probably too young to know what of I shrieked. The above is from a song, popular back in the late sixties, early seventies, appropriately titled “In the Year 2525 .“ Abysmal song, really, yet very enjoyable to blurt when one is about to prepare chicken casserole.



“In the year 2525, if man is still alive!”



Of course, I don’t know the rest of the song as I hadn't heard or even thought of it in years (I was just a toddler when it was popular), but that matters not one whit. The whole point of my uttering those particular words was how they felt to me, how they tasted (like M&Ms and kidney beans with a bit of hotdog thrown in), and damn it, it’s my house and I can shout whatever I please. If you happen to enter my home while I’m in the throes of making sweet, sweet word love, and you find yourself uncomfortable beyond what you can handle, then that’s your problem. You should ring my doorbell before entering, yes? If you sneak in quietly, perhaps thinking that just because our door is unlocked it’s an invitation to step on in unannounced to retrieve your child, then I guarantee you a most uncomfortable time indeed.



You all can see where I’m going with this, I bet.



And you would be correct in assuming that as I turned the corner and entered my kitchen,



“In the year 2525, if man is still alive!”



I found myself staring into the eyes of a terrified, shoe-clicking woman who only wanted to take her child home for dinner, but who, unfortunately, had unwittingly entered the Twilight Zone.



“In the year 2525, if man is still alive!”



She quickly looked down at her feet, as is the norm, maybe even peed in her pants a little, as I cheerily greeted her with a “Why, hello!” and a “Come to get Heather, did you?”



I could read her mind. I heard her thoughts, every single one of them, and they weren’t nice ones. She thought me insane, she feared for her precious Heather, wanted to hold her daughter close and run like the wind, never to darken my doorstep ever again.



I probably should've been embarrassed, but as this entry's title suggests...



So goodbye, Heather’s mom. Goodbye to you and your nasty little Heather, mean, boogery, dirty-handed Heather who never washes up after using the bathroom. Good bye, and God bless. May you have recurring nightmares about this night for years and years to come.



***Insert maniacal laughter interspersed with choking sounds***