Thursday, February 28, 2008

Dearest Diary,

I did so love our day at the park with Mr. Scruffles. It was an arborial delight. I dare say it was an omage to days at the park everywhere, firmament to fundament. Mr. Scruffles did have a time, I can tell you. In fact, (dramatic pause) if I don't miss My guess, and I most assuredly do not, I rather get the impression Mr. Scruffles has come over all weak in the knees for you, and being that his knees are stuffed with fluff of a less than adamantine nature, one must surmise that his knees have come over very weak indeed.

How can he be held accountable, I ask you? How can anyone that sees you not immediately fathom the course of his thought? Your's, My dearest Diary, are the highlights, and hyperion graphic designs and layouts of an artistic genius. Just look at all your subtleties. Fluffy bunny children with enormous eyes, looking frightened and vulnerable, huddling together in the darkened underbrush...oh, dear, they're gone. Perhaps that bobcat I added to the page went off somewhere to play with them.

Still, it's no matter. Mr. Scruffles, rest and keep him, flew off in a twirling arc towards a neatly stacked pyramid of propane tanks, along with Alice's diary, that rag of a flammable floral patterned piece of scrap, muttering something in high-pitched French about assisting with the barbeque. I imagine I shall have to keep you in trust for that dear sweet little Derdre while she gets well done with the ensuing festivities. Alas, such is the way of the generous soul.

Say, here's a larf: Let's go to the library, and see if we can't stir up a companion or two for you...

Friday, February 15, 2008


Dearest diary,

there are days the question comes up and again of what it's all for. What indeed does it matter or accomplish, in the ultimate, absolutist sense of the words, whether the agoraphobic gentleman I spoke with through the door crack gets a consignment of agitated scorpions in a box as opposed to the handfuls and handfuls of deliciously crunchy, sweet carameled kettle corn kernels and nuts he had meant to purchase from Me with such giddy, directionless verbosity. What indeed is the purpose of pushing past the young wife's uncertainty of whether to wait for her hard working husband to return home, instead winning her trust and consent to demonstrate the handy-dandy wetvac with a kind smile, and jolly well winning a sale with a simple, four hour interactive demonstration of her various configurations, and little known never the less knee weakening applications and special...accessories.

Indeed, as I stepped away from a previously neglected young spouse, wondering idly whether her important husband is any good at mathematics, or child-rearing--as My thoughts led Me to wonder whether the holed-up crackerjack enthusiast had been listening carefully, and would find the anti-venom individually shrink-wrapped at the bottom of the box, I couldn't help but stop where I stood. I turned a sidelong smile skyward to give the sun a single glint from tooth then side of bright eye. I tipped My hat to the only cloud in that great big blue firmament, and asked the heavens "What was the question again?"

The cabby that squealed to a halt inches from the pleat of My slacks couldn't appreciate the gravity of the moment, oh but I could. I would have explained it to him as well, in the interest of fraternal love, but the poor man had honked and yelled until he lost focus, trailed off into sing-songy nursery rhymes, and his ears began to bleed.

It was, My dearest diary, with a heady sigh that a turned back along My way, and a heart heavy to lose yet another cabby's ear to his own high-pitched song, and bodily humors. That is, of course, when I met you, with your charming floral motif made out in pinks and pastels...well, we both know I first had to meet little Alice, but less said about the curly and precocious the better, for it was immediately after Mine eyes fell to you, and immediately there upon I could tell her idly fancies touched your pages as sand and ashes would the pallet of an empress. If you care deign to spend one wit in wondering were her words went, I sent them away. Little Alice would do better to know her audience, and I'm certain a little constructive criticism from this...Johny-Wonny person, and from this teacher of hers will set her back along that path nicely.

Meanwhile, let's you and I find a tuffet under a tree somewhere with some tea, and a well mannered teddy with good stories and excellent listening skills. Already I feel My woe in private joy falling, sinking, and fading to black, forgotten like the one puppy too many that went swimming with a pillow case and a rock...