It Usually Ends In Tears

*** continued from previous post ***

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"Get up sleepy head. Time for breakfast."

Gah. I didn't think I would ever eat again, but then . . . ummmmm . . . maybe there would be bacon!

Mom, who had evidently been up for some time, sat on the edge of the bed folding some clothes that had finally dried. "Did you hear an animal outside last night?"

"Umm. . . no. Did you hear one?"

"Well," Mom said, picking up a pile of shirts, "I could have sworn I heard growling and rumbling. Of course I was pretty out of it, so I might have been dreaming."

My stomach, realizing that the topic of conversation was drifting its way, seized the moment and let out a mighty roar. And when I say mighty, I mean that it rattled the lamps.

Mom looked at me, slightly disgusted. "Yeah. That was it."

"Sorry to disappoint babe. Although, if it makes you feel any better it kind of was an animal growling. Albeit one that had been partially digested."

"Ew. Too early in the day for that image."

Who can argue with that logic?

"So," Mom said, "are you going to be up for breakfast?"

I yawned and stretched. "I could probably manage a little. I don't want to be rude you know."

"Oh heaven's no, you wouldn't want to appear rude," Mom said and threw a pillow at my head.

"Of course not," I said, throwing the pillow back at her and catching her square in the lower back. "We, my dear, are emissaries from a strange land. It's our duty to observe the local culture, to integrate with the natives and present our 'best side' as representatives of THE STATES. If that involves forcing myself to consume delicious meats and copious amounts of protein, well, I'm up for the job. Wouldn't want to offend, you know?"

Mom had made a slight 'gulp' when I hit her, and now she had armed herself with a pillow in each hand. She had one armed cocked over her head in what I was positive would be a vicious arc when released. Before she could let fly, I said, "Be warned. If you hit me with those pillows I will interpret this as an act of war and ---“

WHAP! WHAP!

I shall not recount the next ten minutes in detail, but I will say that as so often happens with pillow fighting someone got a little carried away and tears were shed.

"Oh my God," Mom said. "Are you crying?"

"No," I sniffled.

"I didn't hit you that hard."

"I know. Will you help me look for my tooth?"

"You are such a drama queen," she said and walked into the bathroom.

I wanted to argue the point with her, but I had nothing. It was a statement that I could not refute. I would have preferred the term 'Drama King', but it doesn't have the same lyrical power as 'Drama Queen'. Really, I prefer the term 'positively emotionally engaged' but can I convince your mom to use that? No.

Even though I was bleeding profusely in my imagination, I managed to struggle to my feet and wander over to the window to take a peek at the moose party down below.


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*** the journey continues ***