Don't smoke that Oobleck!

Spent a luxurious weekend in Austin being totally pampered as the guest of my cousin and her husband. It lulled me to a level of relaxation I don't attain often. For years now as a single mom I have been the Parent On Duty, the Official Decision-maker/Worrier/Driver/Enforcer/Grocery-Shopper/Chief Cook, Bottle-Washer and Scullery Maid. It's part who I am, part my situation, and part how I got in this situation (if I have to be honest). In short, this weekend was like being transplanted to Xanadu where someone else takes care of me, makes the plans, feeds me well and often, and I just have to show up, ride along and enjoy.

Back at Dallas Love airport this afternoon, fifty-two hours after I left, I was half dozing, half reading the NY Times Book Reviews. On the shuttle back to the "Parking Spot" I observed my fellow passengers through gritty, runny eyes. Having parked the old Buick in the cheapo part Friday, I was the last dropped off, and by then I was getting really groggy. Threw my bag in the car, figuring if the flower vase inside hadn't already broken it probably wouldn't.

Ran late driving to the airport Friday morning, and didn't stop for gas. Had to head for the first Chevron to fill up, and squint through the two-day tree pollen accumulation. Instead of fixating on the dollars, cents, and gallons whirling past at the pump ($2.19/gallon), I washed the windows. And washed. And washed. Adding water seemed to reconstitute the dry green scum into a gooey green film that resisted my efforts like Slimer in the old Ghostbusters cartoons.

The king of Didd would be so pleased. He was tired of snow, rain, fog, and sunshine in Dr. Seuss's Bartholomew and the Oobleck. He had his magicians create something different--a green and gooey all-new form of precipitation. Wreaked havoc in the kingdom of Didd, as I recall, much like the time little Bradfinkel brought Silly Putty to preschool art class in the pockets of his McWee Schwisms, but on a global scale.


Drove on home, and my pool shark son entered, stage right, reporting that "something was on fire down by the mailboxes". We each carried a pitcher of water down to the other end of the condos. Someone had tossed a ciggie butt into the drifts of dried yellow-green tree fluff, and it was smoking and spreading. Didn't smell like sage or incense, but more like punk for lighting fireworks.

Remember, only you can prevent Oobleck fires.