Julie Andrews is one of my all-time favorite actors. And during the holiday season, the song My Favorite Things from “The Sound of Music” is never out of my mind. On a whim, I personalized the lyrics to reflect my favorite things and I’d like to share them with you.
Cue music, please….
Remember the old song, Rainy Days and Mondays (Get Me Down)? Well, I lubs rainy days. Even at my age (which, and I’m not kidding, I truly forget how old I am) I still splash mud puddles. (You’ve been warned.)
My problem lies with Mondays. They force me back to a mundane 8-5 routine (not exactly those hours, but you get the idea) and I loathe that kind of schedule. I’m a night person. (A vampire could be my best friend, but I’m too in love with the werewolves.) The hubster, aka Professor X, is on a night schedule. Lucky
It takes a crane to haul my butt out of bed at 5:30 on Monday mornings. And fire retardant gear. Somehow after falling asleep I morph into a dragonness. I snarl and snap and breath fire on anything or anyone
foolish brave enough to wake me.
Still, he repeatedly tried to coerce me into accepting this world-wide phenomenon. While he plastered his Facebook page with Gangnam images and wheeled around the house singing and doin’ the dance, I stuck to my phasers, raised my shields, and ignored the antics.
Now I’ve been GANGNAMized. Have you?
Is that a baby stroller hanging out by itself on the sidewalk?
I roll to a stop at the four-way. Why yes, it is.
The stroller looks brand-new. At least there are no obvious defects seen from my car window as I nosily cautiously drive past. Just a perfectly decent, designer stroller stuck in the middle of nowhere.
An eerie sensation crawls my skin.
There are no people around. No houses. No apartments. No bus stop or cars.
It’s like baby and (insert caretaker’s name) were sucked up into the belly of a menacing space ship to have their central nervous system ripped out recycled into some sort of TRANSFORMER hybrid.
That’s kinda the plot of SKYLINE.
What else could cause someone to leave behind a baby stroller in such an odd place?
Some time ago, I heard whispering about the “Rapture,” where God whisks his faithful into the heavens for eternity.
Cue bright lights. People flying up into the clouds….
Yeah, in my head, that still looks like a scene from SKYLINE.
A call to mom is in order. She’s my control test. If she’s still here, the “rapture” hasn’t happened yet. All moms go to heaven, right?
No-wait. That’s All Dogs Go to Heaven.
I don’t have a land line at home for Monster Puppy and Brave Little Bassett to answer. Mom will have to do.
And, she f-i-n-a-l-l-y answers her cell phone fractions of a second before the voicemail kicks in.
My heart can stop pounding now. Crisis of being left out of something important averted.
One-sided conversation goes something like, “Hi mom. Just checking the status of the rapture. Gotta go. Bye.”
She doesn’t bother to call back. Chalk it up to her many years of experience as my mother.
The stroller lingers in the rear-view mirror. Sad and forsaken.
Like the lone sock sucked from the dryer, dragged through a vortex and deposited on the side of a municipal road. What? How else do you think it got there?
I bet you’ve seen something strange. What was it?