Sunday Allowances with Patty Cake

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Sunday Allowances with Patty Cake

A new old list of small town characters I have recently met. ‘Not So Disposable’ persons I won’t soon forget. Wrapped in J.D. Salinger motif…smelling of patchouli, Suave Green Apple and hand rolled cigarettes; I allow myself some reclusive Sunday allowances…Gibberish, vacant but substantial thoughts and/or flashes images that belong in a straight jacket.

This past week there had been…the Sled-neck, snow monger, who begrudgingly helped my forest seeking Forester…down off the tracks. Of course, no week is complete without…the law. That is where Jason, a bloated with authoritarian pride baby-faced ‘itty bitty’ village cop, comes in to play. No, Jason, I ain’t no Ma’am and I ain’t no lady. But he insisted with the small town favoring…whilst guiding the Sled-neck who had been egging my forest seeking Forester…down off the tracks.

And, than, there is Michael. Michael the vagrant vagabond with Don Juan style…Michael who believes I will eventually, say, ‘yes, I will marry you!’ If he continues to badger me long enough.

Sitting amongst the list of Beautiful People…I am erected. An athletic built monk writing amongst a back drop of other people’s lives.

Least I forget to mention the definition of Sunday Allowances; Moments of a day given to wandering and roaming into the attics of strange but carnivorous thinking. And, very not least of all… there is Patty Cake. She is my favorite valiant virtue of all. She speaks of Bosnian refugees. She contains herself with the solitary idea that marriage and procreation does not make the woman. A free spirit who insists love should be cherished not examined. A pixie who will tell you right off the bat,

I am not one of those dates that you can feed with a salad fork. Women too often cower down to the man to bring about submissive past times. And, we all know, women are the dominant breed…there is no need to cower to anyone!

Patty is truly a Sunday Allowance. The delicate bowel movement chatter from the night before dwells well into the next day. The next day of lying around in bed and enjoying the vibrant people who have made my imagination run wild.bogart

The list of enlisted acquaintances, such as the Build a Bear, ex-marine, who is captivates the ladies with more dents than smooth surface, Chevy truck. Not the best plow guy but that is swept under the rug by his off-color and off text…lesbian jokes. The list is endless…in my small town.

However, Sunday Allowances would be nothing without the C of O.C.D. , thoughts. Compulsive allowable nuances that scatter a mid level writer’s mind.

Hence, the following…shall come with no rhyme or reason. IT the compulsive written, verbal and visual diarrhea…is freelance and without restraint.

Current spousal question:

Why do we need 25 pieces of Glad-ware? Why do we, a household of 7 neurotic cats, 2 co-dependent dogs and 2 lesbians, need 20 cereal bowls? How much are we not eating? How much gluttony is going on? So much sloth…that the following ensues:

We store the leftover food. Our eyes were bigger than our stomachs and pride. This small, and sometimes, large, parcel, gets contained. That event usually leads to giving ‘treats’ to the dog. Which results in my explaining to the Vet a varied amount of excuses on ‘how the dog’ gained ‘the weight’! This in turn lures me into the idea of…an aged old inner conflict…when my dog goes for her, late winter physical, shouldn’t certain allocations be made, as far as, her winter coat? Shouldn’t at least 5 pounds get knocked off. And, in the end, does this all make it okay to have an over abundant inactive amount of cereal bowls and Gladware?

I am only just out of the shower…and beaten down but elated with freakishly varied blobs, blogs, logs and chewing gum thoughts.

sunday 1
It you can’t be least, be a freak!

So, this is how it goes…I open the closet. I have closet upon closet of new ‘tomboy’ adornments. But I prefer to douse myself in old one’s that comfort me. The same could be true of the ‘Not So Disposable’…people I have met. The same holds true for the cherishing of my innate comforting ability to think, let’s say, RANDOMLY.

From the shower to the closet to the rehab for a leisurely 3 Stooges romp…Sunday is lazy…Oh, wonderful day of rolling in deep repose. Imagine my gratification…when an old saw horse makes its way into the path of on going and off going snow shoes…thanks to the DOGS. Broken down like the town!

‘Franklin: a dilapidated saw horse…usable but a little unsightly!

Imagine, furthermore, my excitement when I inform the one small four-legged Stooge;

‘You are a 4 and a half! I’m so proud of you!’

The ugly but charming English Bulldog is America’s number four dog in popularity. Or, so NHPR has informed. The stubborn enough to cause the owner constipation, Beagle, is the number five dog. Therefore, my Bea-Bull, a designer breed designed by a man on crack, is a mid grade dog. Similar to his owner…a mid list writer.

Quick note to readers: Beagle/Bulldogs, akin to humans, prefer to be called, little dogs. Like little people. It is not fashionable to call them a dwarf!

Before we take leave of the rustic rehab. Shortly after the newly famed, asshole, but cute as my Grandmother’s knees, dog, has un-zipped the snowshoes, several times over…I surmise the following, ..many people do not go to rehab on their own. It takes a boatload of drinking to get there!

We end our ride into vacant vagrant Franklin delights and mixed meetings of the minds that be, Patty Cake, Baby Cop, Bill the Build a Bear…at the Dollar store. The building is abuzz…no regular, naturally packed, tampons to be had. No balloons of Frozen. However, there is a sale on Sponge Bob items. Again, a not so UN-ordinary thought, how can a dollar store have a sale? And, how is it there are so many mistakes at the register?

The Sunday Allowances of embracing the visits from Patty Cakes…Franklin answer to Rosie O’Donnell… and after trying to make sense of ‘new’ religions that pop up in old store fronts, seemingly over night…. After all of this, I wonder,

‘What the hell was Bryan Adams getting at when he wrote: the Summer of 69?

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