I was fascinated by it. The straight line of one part of the cord. The rounded, looping curve of the other half and how it wound around the straight side as if hugging it.

The harder I pulled on the looped half, the tighter it wound around the straight side. The stiffer the straight side seemed to become, as if it had been threaded around a bit of wire, when the looped side squeezed over it.

If I pulled the end of the looped side, it would slide up the straight side like a merry-go-round horse rides a pole. But then, all my work disappeared. The looped became straight and the straight seemed to taunt me. I resolved the issue by weaving a finger in at the top where the straight side bent into the looped side. Whenever I tugged at either end of the cord, the bend at the top remained.

My finger, however, grew purple and hurt, then tingled.

Tingly. I like that sensation.

Devoid of pain. Pleasant, actually.

Did you know that if you push past the pain, you can actually begin to tingle? It's a fascinating experiment. Each time I tried a new form of the exercise, the results were always the same. Sooner or later, the tinglies would come and on its heels, a sense of euphoria.

But then, after the tingly sensation and the euphoria, both would go away. There's nothing left. No pain. No tingles. No euphoria. No headiness. Nothing. It's like the complete absence of being.

I think I may have liked that better than everything else.

Some say that absence is death. Or the equivalent.

Possibly.

I would know about those kinds of things, wouldn't I?

I learned a new knot today.

I studied it closely. I tried out several ways to move it. Up. Down. To the very end when it would disappear. Tight against my finger. And then a stick. Finally, I fashioned a neck tie.

The tingles brought the euphoria.

After that, the blankness stared straight into my open eyes.

I think that's the last slipknot I'll ever tie.

-----

December 10, 2009

© 2009, Kathie Leung. All Rights Reserved.
No portion of this may be copied, transmitted, printed, or otherwise disseminated in part or whole without the express written permission of the author. 

"Funny you should mention 'earth' John, because that's exactly what I was doing - saving the planet!"

"Really? And how did you accomplish that?"

"Well, we needed some more wine glasses for the barbecue, right?"

"Uh, right."

"So, of course buying plastic disposables is out of the question. They don't decompose well and are toxic to the environment, right?"

"So the story goes."

"Exactly! So glass is a better bet since it can be melted and reshaped into other goods, or, new glasses for that matter."

"Okay."

"So I was shopping online for recyclable glasses and came across glasses already made from recycled materials. Windshields as a matter of fact!"

"Windshields you say?"

"Yes, incredible, isn't it? Who'd have thought!"

"I wouldn't. I sure hope they do wash them first. For some reason all I can picture is a black fly floating in my glass of Chablis."

"Very funny, John. Of course they wash them first!"

"Good. So you bought some I take it?"

"Yes, of course."

"How much?"

"Two dozen."

"No, Tiff, I meant how much were the glasses?"

"I don't quite recall, but I remember they'd been on sale and I got a better deal by ordering more."

"What was the company's name? Glass Implosion?"

"Yes! Yes, that's it!"

"And you said you got a good deal?"

"Uh huh."

"I see. Did you happen to check the Sunday ads?"

"We don't get the paper anymore, John. We have an online subscription, remember?"

"Yes, but we still can look at the ads, right?"

"I believe so, why?"

"Well, Tiff, did you check there first?"

"What are you asking, John?"

"So you didn't see the ad for the set of twenty-four glasses on sale at K-Mart for less than a buck a glass?"

"K-ame-a-Part? Don't be absurd, John! I'd never be caught dead shopping there!"

"And yet you have no qualms about buying recycled windshields out of a warehouse less than six miles from 3-Mile Island at thirty-five times what it would have cost to buy them from - what did you call it?"

"Kame Apart."

"Yes. And did you also realize this Kame Apart offered free shipping? Meaning you wouldn't have had to step foot in their wretched store?"

"But John--"

"I suppose next you'll tell me the money you spent is recyclable too."

"It's safer for our environment!"

"And I suppose the computer and the electricity is safer than the newspaper that's (a) recyclable and (b) printed on recycled paper and is better for the environment, too."

"Of course it is!"

"Really? And what do you do when the computer stops working, Tiffany?"

"Give it to an electronics recycler." 

"I see. And the plastics? They're recycled how?"

"I'm not sure. I suppose they're melted down too."

"Really? You can safely melt plastic?"

"Stop it John! You're giving me a headache!"

"Well wet a towel and go lay down."

"I've too much to do to lay down. I'll just take some Motrin."

"Out of a plastic bottle ...."

by Kathie Leung
(c) 2009
All Rights Reserved

Well, well, well. Amazingly, we pulled it off. It was a grand time, too!

It was pirate weekend as evidenced by this couple we saw as we waited in line to enter the faire.

And then there was this wizardly fellow.

Some came in costumes. Some were simple, some were in the making for something fantastic and others were quite extraordinary. It truly was like walking into a different world altogether.

We were greeted by carolers dressed in beautiful, ornate costumes of the era...

We're fans of the show "How I Met Your Mother" and in one particular episode, there's a flashback to when Ted came home from the Renaissance Faire and showed his friends what he got. Of course, the Pie Dudes stopped off at the first place displaying the same weapon, mimicking Ted's famous line: "Look what I got at the ren-ee-sance fair!" Boys!

And for your information, no, they did not get these!

There were pirates and people and minstrels.  And look, it appears there was even a bear in our midst - check out the gal on the right. Yes, it was cold and rainy. Not your typical June day, not even up at Lake Tahoe.

And then there was this guy, Tobias the Adequate, who was strolling about the fair, hawking his show at the Queen's stage. He put on a grand magic show that was, if not amazing, quite funny!  But more about Tobias another day, he deserves his own blog entry.

The Queen of Poland enticed these two naves in a game of "Nay or Verily." One had to belt out the tune "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star!"

Musicians of the royal court play while one of the queen's hand maiden asks us if her doll looks just like her. One of the Pie Dudes noted the doll was missing a pair of glasses. Such a wise acre!

Around the corner, nearby the queen's stage, this Viking woman was greeting faire goers. She drew quite a few stares, too. Think it was the copper uhm breast plates? And yes, we did happen to overhear someone ask about cup sizes...

This gent was teaching the crowd how to load the canon. Dadzilla didn't think he looked very "Renaissancy."

As if this little lad was looking "Renaissancy"? He does get credit for coming in costume and possibly creating the costume, or a good portion of it, himself. Go Lego Warrior!

Lego Warrior had a friend. We called him Sir Silver Dude. He seemed enthralled with the cannon loading drill.

Plenty of helpers gathered for this drill.

And we'll end this post with this fair maiden who captured my heart. There are many more pictures of this sweet little lass, but that'll come another day. My spontaneous burst of posting energy has drained out...  

I know, I know.  This from the very same man who manages to make me laugh (even though I grouse about his teasing that can go overboard and me, Miss Sensitivity on a rather frequent basis, overreacts - shhh... that's our little secret), has created some pretty interesting ways to Topsy-Turvy our tomato plants, did a fair job at reupholstering the boat seats during the short 4 months or so we actually owned a boat.  I was pretty surprised myself he couldn't come up with anything.

In his defense, I must say that he was pretty good about involving the kids in coming up with some thoughtful, personal creations; such as the ceramic plate they put their handprints on and then painted, had it fired and presented it to me when they were about five or the beautiful beaded necklace and bracelets they created and gave to me for Mother's Day a few years ago (ones that I still get raving comments about whenever I wear them and can proudly say "my sons made these for me"). 

But then, something truly amazing happened.  Oh, I won't just tell you, how about I show you? Let's take a gander:

After unwrapping this very heavy box, I see that it's a case of the only diet soda I can drink, Pepsi One, because it has Splenda in it (I can't drink saccharine or aspartame because it gives me an instant migraine that shuts me down for several hours).  Nice.  But then I break it open and find that it already was opened once before.  Inside, each individual can is wrapped with Press-n-Seal plastic wrap with a Dutch Bros. $1 gift certificate underneath.  Twenty-four (he gave me the remaining 6 after I got them all off the cans. 

This was a few years after I'd found these (see below) in my Easter basket from him...

Which was seven months before I opened this...

a photo album with printed copies of all the digital pictures we'd taken over the past year, with...

you guessed it, Dutch Bros. certificates tucked into several (about 19 in total not including the one in the front pocket) of the sleeves.  But that one I figured out already because they had been in such a hurry to get the gift assembled and then out the door to go play a round of golf before sunset and forgot to clean up after themselves.  The only trick was, trying to figure out how they "hid" the certificates. 

This particular gift, a table-top Lazy Susan style rack of seasonings, was more-or-less regifted.  I'd bought my husband, a master chef (well, more or less, he's one mean tri-tip griller among other things) a similar rack but several of the lids were broken and so he took it back.  There weren't any more left and then along came my birthday, so, voila! Anyway, this was the hardest one the boys and he put together for me.  They wrapped the bottles with the certificates and then put them back inside the rack.  The problem was, the paper kept uncoiling and sliding down the center. I was completely surprised, though!

And finally, the recreated picture of the very first time he did this little project and presented it to me.  He bought $20 worth of certificates and then pushed each one into a paperclip strung through the end of a zip-tie to create a colorful bouquet and then used a travel mug as the vase.  I burst out into tears when he gave that to me, it was so very moving.  It's now become a joke to see (a) if he can outdo the previous gifts he's given me and (b) if he can surprise me with the new creation. 

Does this mean I'm cheap? That I can be easy with a mere $20 worth of coffee certificates?  Oh, I won't answer that one!  Only he gets to know that answer! ;0) 

This photo has been retouched to draw focus upon the rainbow directly in the center.  Originally it was intended to be a composition piece showing the wetlands, fields being prepared for harvest, blossoming nut trees, the foothills, snowcaps and in the distance, clouds that are leaving after raining down on us for several days.  The rainbow was just an added bonus.

This photo, aside from being shrunk and cropped, has not been retouched.    Absolutely stunning colors!

Uncropped, unretouched and merely shrunk to fit.  The colors in the rainbow (or would it be rainbow spotlight?) intensivied at times, as seen here.

Unretouched, cropped and downscaled image of the moon, taken at the same time as the pictures above, just about two frames to the right. The one following is the same shot, just with the telephoto lens in use.

And finally, this shot (cropped but otherwise, unretouched) comes from when we went to the Yuba Sutter area about a month before the other shots.  Again a moon and a most incredible up-close look at the top of the range. It looks even more incredible here than it did gazing up from the dirt road way below.

"Well, here you are," she hands the jacket to me.  There's a tag tacked onto the label just inside the collar.  My fingers position it right and I look.  Sure enough it is labeled $9.98.

"Well I'll be..." I say in surprise.  She smiles.  "Thank you."

"You bet."

"Now if I could just convince her she has shoes at home that will go with this outfit," I say as I look reproachfully at Courtney.  "We might be able to get out of here without dipping into the emergency savings."

The woman looks to Courtney then waves me down to the end of the shoe aisle.  I shrug - what do I have to lose? - and follow her.

"Here's an idea," she says in a low voice.  My back is to Courtney and she glances over my shoulder at my daughter, probably to make certain Courtney can't hear her.  "I know that girls her age - she's what, sixteen?" I nod, she continues. "Don't listen to their parents so well but will heed the advice, the very same that their parents are giving - when given by someone else."

I see where this is going and am now convinced God did answer my prayers and has sent some help.

"Why don't you go and pay for the dress and jacket, then wait outside for us?  I'll talk to her, get her to understand and bring her out once she does."  The woman's green eyes catch under the lights and twinkle.

"That's a good idea," I say as I shift the clothes to my other arm and already am making my purse available for a quick check out.  I turn and look at Courtney who now has three boxes by her feet and is putting on a rather ridiculous pair.  I roll my eyes and let out a slight puff of exasperation.  "Yes, that would be fine."

"Good.  I'll try not to be too long," she says.  I hesitate.  Should I say something to Courtney or just go?  As if the woman can read my mind, she waves me away.  I mouth 'thank you' and she grins and then I go.

At the register, a girl not much older than Courtney rings up my purchase.  As she does, she stares at the display on the machine.  "Something's not right," she says although her lips barely move.

"What's wrong?"  My fingers nervously work over the clasp of my wallet. I knew it wasn't possible that jacket's been marked down to under ten dollars.  Why would they leave the security tag on if that was the case?   Even if they marked it down to, say, half off, I couldn't imagine them going lower than that - that would mean the jacket was only twenty and who's ever heard of putting a tag on an item less than a hundred?

My heart pounds, my ears ring and I can feel myself breaking into a cold sweat.  I feel like a criminal on the brink of being busted. 

The girl at the register waves over another woman much older but still much younger than me.  "Is this right?"  She points at the register.  The woman looks past her at the jacket and dress then up at me and never does look at the register.  Odd.

"Yes, I tagged that myself just a little bit ago," the other woman says.

"Oh!"  The girl responds as if that statement triggers the glitch in her short term memory banks and releases the images of the recent activity.  "Was that the wom..."

"Just finish up the transaction, Julienne," the other says tersely then changes into a lighter, almost apologetic tone as she goes on.  "We have customers waiting."

"Oh, right," the girl says and fires into a rapid chain of movements.

"Don't forget the security tag," I remind them.  The older one steps in and helps by removing the tag.

"Sixty-seven dollars and twenty-four cents, please," the girl says.  I swipe my card through the machine and in less than three minutes am walking out the door in a daze.  Every part of my being knows something isn't right.  While I doubt my daughter is in any danger, she can hold her own thanks to the self defense classes, I can't help wondering what the deal is with this woman. 

It's all I can do to keep from returning to the bad habit I just recently broke, chewing my nails, as I sit on the bench outside the front door waiting for them to return.  Every time the doors open and someone walks out, my body jumps just a bit.  

To be continued ...

By Kathie Leung
(c) 2008-2009
All Rights Reserved

It's a perfect match and, as odd as it seems to even think this way, it does fit the mother approved criteria.  Oh sure, there's a possibility she'll wiggle out of the jacket at the dance, but my guess is that she wouldn't even dream of it.  It's just too beautiful to leave over the back of a chair.  I don't even want to think about the schoolgirl popularity factor.

"Can we get it?" she asks excitedly, just two shakes away from popping out of her skin.  Both Courtney and the woman look to me expectantly.

"I... I'm not sure," I say.  My lips are numb.  God I hope I'm not stroking out.

Courtney's face collapses.

"Tell you what," the woman says abruptly.  "I'll go get a clerk to look up the jacket and get it tagged for you."

Courtney looks to her as if she were her only ally in the world and would protect her from the wicked witch of a mother she has.  I'm vexed.  If this woman is my daughter's ally, would that mean she's no longer mine?  A bitter taste tugs at the insides of my cheeks.

"Why?" Courtney looks at the woman.

"Because there isn't a price tag and your mother is concerned about whether she can afford it," she softly explains.

My shoulders twitch.  Even my body doesn't know how to respond!  Should I tense up because she's clearly mothering my daughter or should I relax, be thankful that someone with her endless patience has been sent to me?

I drag my fingers across the crown of my head, my nails parting my own two-day dirty hair that hangs limply and probably looks like crap because I haven't colored it for some time.  I look like she should look despite the smart tailored suit I have on, my knock-off designer outfit I picked up off the clearance rack six, maybe seven years ago.  I know I look, altogether, a bit worn down.

"Mom?" Courtney asks, looking at me like I'm some weirdo starring as the main attraction at the freak show.

"I'm thinking," I say a bit sharply.

"Go ahead and get dressed," the woman nudges Courtney.  It's all I can do to keep from lunging at her to protect my baby girl from her. 

The door closes and I hear Courtney working out of the ensemble.  The woman glides past me and after she moves past my periphery, I turn and follow.

"I'm so sorry," she says quietly.  "I didn't mean to overstep your boundaries.  It's just that..."

Oh dear Lord, what have I become?  How could I be so mean to this woman?  "No, you've done nothing wrong.  It's me who should be apologizing.  Here I was about to reach the end of my rope and you come along as if sent in answer to my prayers.  And then what do I do?  Please accept my most humble apology for my inexcusable behavior."

"You don't need to apologize.  I understand completely."  She smiles so graciously.  Her eyes move down the row of dressing stalls.  "I hope it all works out.  I'm sorry to have interfered."

She starts to move away.  A vision of the "slow" girl comes into my head.  What I am doing is just mean.  I reach out after her.  "Please don't go."

She stops and turns back but stays just beyond my reach.  For a moment she looks at me, then back towards where Courtney is.  I follow her gaze as my daughter, cheeks flushed, carefully carries the outfit over her arm.

"Here you go." Courtney hands her the jacket.  She looks to me and I nod, then accepts it.

"We'll be over looking at shoes," I say as I give her another nod. 

"I'll be there just as soon as I can," she says.

"Who is that woman?" Courtney asks once we are out of earshot.  "Does she work here?"

"No, I don't think so," I say as we cut through the sportswear department. 

"Well, do you know her?"

"No."

"Strange," Courtney says, identifying my most basic take on the whole situation. 

Thankfully she ditches the interrogation as she starts picking up shoes.  There's a wide selection to chose from and my little shoe princess is itching to try them all on.  As she begins, I mentally run through her shoe rack at home, certain she has a pair already that will go with the dress.  The only problem I seem to be having is coming up with the most appropriate suggestion so that I can persuade her not to buy anything new. 

She's tried on at least five pairs and has two she's considering when the woman returns. 

To be continued...

By Kathie Leung
(c) 2008-2009
All Rights Reserved.

Seriously, has it only been an hour?  I consult my watch, tapping the face to make sure it’s still working.  “Courtney, I’m sorry, but absolutely not,” I say, pointing my finger past her to the entrance under the sign that says ‘dressing rooms.’

“But Mom,” she pleads, tilting her head and giving me doe eyes.  I can hear my teeth grating.  I don’t say a thing.  This is the hill I am prepared to die on.  My baby girl is not going to the Holiday Ball looking like a twenty-something-year-old in heat.

Instantly her body distorts.  She turns away and stomps off, the fabric swaying seductively behind her.  Jesus, she’s not even trying to look sexy and yet…

“Holiday Ball?” A woman nearby asks.  I glance her way but keep my focus on the opening my baby girl has disappeared back into.  I know my daughter well enough that I wouldn’t put it past her to sneak out and put the dress on hold then come back during lunch and buy it with the money she’s been saving from her babysitting jobs.  I nod.

“She’s stunning.”

“Thank you.”  I give her a bit more of my attention.  “You have one going, too?”

“Um,” her lip quivers, her green eyes glisten.  “Not exactly.”

Oh, the poor thing.  I’ll bet that girl I saw earlier, the one who looked a bit - slow - is hers.  Jesus, Mary, you and your big fat mouth.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what was wrong with the dress?” Her voice is a bit steadier, stronger.  She looks tired though.  It must be exhausting to have a child like that.  But she seems to have gone through the trouble of making herself presentable.  Her shoulder length reddish-blond hair sweeps over her shoulders, catching the light so I’m pretty sure she’s getting at least a shower a day in.  She doesn’t wear much makeup but it’s not been hastily applied either.  Her skin tone is a bit sallow, but whose isn’t in these God awful fluorescent lights?

“It’s too revealing,” I say and look away before she thinks I’m a little off for staring like that. 

“There’s a cute beaded Bolero half-jacket that would go with that dress,” she says.  “Not that I’m…”

“There is?”  I get that she’s not trying to butt in.  Maybe she needs to live vicariously if even for a bit.  So what?  Frankly I could use a little help.  Hell, Courtney’s normal, or so the doctors say, and she wears me out.  I can’t imagine how it must be for this poor woman.

She nods and smiles.  “Shall I go get it?”

Without even thinking, I nod.

“Okay.  You go tell her to put the dress back on and I’ll bring it in.”  She spins away and disappears, leaving me gaping like an idiot.  It takes a moment before my body responds and I walk into the back room. 

“Courtney?” I call out.

“What?”  Her voice is angst ridden. I suck in my breath.

“Put the dress back on, please.”  I practically cringe as the words tumble out of my mouth.  What have I gotten myself into?

Door number five opens and Courtney’s auburn hair falls out before I see her peaches-and-cream complected oval face pop out.  Her hazel eyes shine.  “Serious?”

My throat catches and I nod dumbly.

The stall door clicks shut.  “Okay!” she practically squeals.

“Here you are.”  The woman appears at my elbow.  The plastic arm of the hanger brushes my arm.  I look down and take in the lovely jacket.  I touch it hesitantly.  It is beautiful.

She passes it to me and my fingers automatically search for the tag - we are on a very tight budget - I can’t seem to find one, but it has to be expensive.  There’s a security tag on the back.

“I don’t know,” I say as I push it back to the woman.  “How much is it?”

“Nine ninety-eight,” she says, not even bothering to take it back. 

“Hundred?” I gasp.  The hanger pokes into her as I unsteadily jab it at her.  She takes a step back and laughs.

“No.  Ten dollars and change once tax is added.”

“That can’t be possible.” My mouth tugs downward.  “There’s a …”

“Okay, Mom,” Courtney says as she opens the door.  We both turn our attention to her.  She practically glows.

“Here.”  The woman lifts the jacket off the hanger and holds it out.  “Try this on.”

Courtney’s breath catches.  “Wow, that’s amazing!  It's so beautiful.” Her hand runs gently over the beaded fabric. 

Again, I’m left nodding dumbly, absolutely speechless as I watch Courtney turn around and the woman helps her into the jacket.

To be continued...

by Kathie Leung
(c) 2008 - 2009
All Rights Reserved

So that bucket of makeup was her salvation. 

Being the responsible parent, her mother promptly ushered her into the bathroom for Liza's first makeup lesson.  Explaining how to properly add color to her eyelids, only use a faint amount of pencil across her brows and equal dabs of the mascara wand on her lashes, the magical transformation made her heart skip.  After spending several narcissistic hours gazing at her reflection, she dashed down the street to visit her friend, Tiffany, who was the youngest of three girls, all equally and strikingly beautiful with or without makeup.  It was Jennifer, the middle girl and possibly the most gorgeous of the three, who'd answered the door.  Liza asked for Tiffany and as she waited, carefully assessed whether Jennifer noticed the changes.  She was still undecided when Tiffany pulled upon the heavy oak door and blinked out into the sunlight at her. 

"Hey, Tiff, can you come over for a bit?" Liza batted her lashes, hoping that her friend would notice.

"No, sorry.  We're supposed to be going to my grandmother's in a bit."

"Oh," Liza cocked her head to the side to avoid her normal response which would have been to gaze down at her toes.  "Notice anything different?"

Tiffany studied her face for a brief spell and then inspected the ends of her hair that hung just to her shoulders and continued to move down as if she was taking inventory.  "Sorry, nope."

"Nothing?" Liza blinked her eyes furiously. 

"Don't you normally wear glasses?"

"No." Liza pouted.  "But I am wearing makeup, can't you tell?"

"Sorry, I didn't notice."  Even the apology didn't sound very apologetic which crushed poor Liza.  Jennifer called to Tiffany from behind the girl and soon the massive door was swung back into place, the lock thrown from behind and echoed in the small alcove where Liza licked her wounds. 

From that moment on, Liza spent a painstaking amount of time, much to the grief of her siblings who had to wait their turn to use the only bathroom upstairs, drawing the mascara wand over her lashes repeatedly.  Her father dubbed her "racoon eyes" and cautioned her to "lay off" all the makeup or he'd ban it before the month was over.  Fear riddled her.  For once, the boys were actually taking note of her and she supposed that was all because of her perfectly made-up eyes.  It never occurred to her that maybe that was just when boys normally did start taking notice in girls and acting upon it by engaging in conversation with girls.  She simply could not give up her makeup, so she began carrying a tube of mascara in her purse so that after she left the house for school, she could add the extra poundage of Maybelline's Great Lash and not run the risk of her father taking it away.  Likewise, she had tissues and a small flask of makeup remover tucked in her purse so that as she climbed the hill home from school and walked past the last house on her route where a potential suitor lived, she removed it. 

Her plan worked splendidly and she made it through the school year without her father taking making good on his promise.  The problem was, she'd become so used to seeing herself made up, she didn't stop to think that she should back off on using the mascara once she was no longer off at school.  And she'd converted to a waterproof type since she was swimming daily.  This was something her father hadn't missed, mostly because it was more difficult to remove the stubborn color from her lashes. 

The day finally came when they were packing up to head off to the lake for a week-long vacation.  As she tossed her duffle into the back of the station wagon, her father's hand deftly reached out and snagged it, mid-air.  With a look of horror, she watched as he unzipped it and riffled through her belongs.  A blush worked its way up from under the streaks of rogue on her cheeks when a hint of her panties spilled out from the heavy canvas.  Between his thick, ruddy fingers he held up a tube of her mascara.  "This is not coming with us," he said sternly as he slid it into his pocket. 

She opened her mouth to protest but knew that would only mean trouble and not just for her.  Her brain went into overtime as it rushed to figure out an alternative.  She didn't have any other mascara, she could only afford so much with her babysitting jobs and waterproof mascara was quite a bit more than the regular stuff.  She abandoned her scheming when her mother called from the kitchen for help with packing the coolers.

"Hand me that Sharpie so I can label this baggy," her mother said.  "I don't want your brother getting into this thinking it's tapioca."

"Ew, that's gross," Liza groaned as she passed the black marker to her mother who was tossing out the jar of mayonnaise she'd just scraped the remains from into the baggy she was holding.  And that's when it hit her.  Permanent. Black. Ink.

Hey, if they can do tattoos with ink and if permanent markers don't wash off with soap and water, they wore off after several days, why not use a magic marker? 

It's been well over two decades since Liza snuck the Sharpie on the camping trip.  She's since moved on to funneling her creativity in other ways, primarily in staying one step ahead of her own kids.  As it turned out, the permanent ink wasn't such when applied to eyelashes.  But, she rationalized, there weren't any cute enough guys there to make it that big of a deal after all. 

She still doesn't know that her husband first laid eyes on her that summer, out at the lake, where he admired her from afar as he fished and watched the dazzling golden-eyed girl swim circles around her brothers and sisters.

Kathie Leung
(c) 2008
All Rights Reserved