POINT AND SHOOT

I was born in February and I’m a little concerned that the symbol for my birthday month is a fat, naked stalker baby with underdeveloped wings and a bow and arrow. I don’t know about you, but I go some places a baby should be afraid to follow, even one armed with projectiles. 

Somehow the thought of an undiapered toddler, especially one packing a weapon designed to shoot warm fuzzies, accompanying me to the mall clearance sales and auto-flushers seems horribly inappropriate.  I still bear a French manicure-shaped scar from reaching for a cunning pair of Capri pants on the red dot clearance rack.  If that naked baby grabs the last pair of Prada pumps on the sale table, he’s likely to lose something more important than a finger.

I can see why he’s armed. Anybody named Cupid who goes parading around in his birthday suit here in the red mud section of the South is likely to suffer grievous knuckle prints from guys named Pork Chop or Tiny. And if he ventures out to watch the Nascar drivers go fast and turn left, he just may get tire marks someplace where parking is prohibited.

So just to be sure we’re on the same track, I checked with Cupid to see how he felt about his job.

Me:  So, Cupid, how does it feel to go to work naked every day?

Cupid, the God of Love: Well, I save a lot on dry cleaning and there’s no dress code, so it’s kind of empowering. I use an awful lot of Chap-Stick, though. I’m trying for a corporate sponsorship.  My endorsement deals keep me living in the lifestyle of my dreams.

Me:  You dream of flying naked for the rest of eternity?

Cupid:  Don’t knock it. Even in the weather that frosts my feathers, it beats a business suit and 80-hour work weeks. And I don't have any place to carry a cell phone, so the boss can't ever call me on my lunch hour.

Me:  But do you think it’s safe for a baby to fly around by himself?

Cupid:  It’s not like I’m unarmed. (He tested the point on a heart-tipped arrow.) Hey, I’m the one that made Kanye apologize to Taylor Swift. I just grazed him enough to let all the hot air out.

Me:  If you’re such a sure shot, why are there so many divorces?  You know, I was married and divorced before I settled down with the Captain of my Love Boat and I’d rather have my legs done in the hot wax section of the car wash than go through that again.

Cupid:  Hey, everybody makes mistakes. Actually I was aiming for someone else, but, when you bent over it was like a heat seeking missile and a barn fire.

Me: So you’re saying the whole fiasco was my fault?

Cupid:  Well every action has an opposite and equal unexpected consequence. That’s math, you know. Or science.  Whatever. I was a Liberal Arts major.

Me:  I can identify with that. I graduated with honors, but they don’t take GPA in the Express Lane at the Piggly Wiggly.

Cupid:  Well, don’t be eyeing my job. I had to knock off a guy with winged feet to get this gig.

Me:  So now that Valentine’s Day is almost past, it’s the off season for you. What keeps you busy the rest of the year?

Cupid:  Oh, there’s lots to do.  I like to spend part of the summer posing as a sculpture in a wishing well fountain.  All that loose change comes in handy for the bathroom vending machines. 

Me:  Is that all you do? Make people think their wishes will come true, then steal their money?

Cupid:  Of course not.  Somebody’s got to keep up with the Kardashian sisters.  And Jennifer Lopez. I think I’m gonna need a bigger box of arrows.

 

 

 

 

 

Point and Shoot

I was born in February and I’m a little concerned that the symbol for my birthday month is a fat, naked stalker baby with underdeveloped wings and a bow and arrow. I don’t know about you, but I go some places a baby should be afraid to follow, even armed with projectiles.

Somehow the thought of an undiapered toddler, especially one packing a weapon designed to shoot warm fuzzies, accompanying me to the mall clearance sales and auto-flushers seems horribly inappropriate. I still bear a French manicure-shaped scar from reaching for a cunning pair of Capri pants on the red dot clearance rack. If that naked baby grabs the last pair of Prada pumps on the sale table, he’s likely to lose something more important than a finger.

I can see why he’s armed. Anybody named Cupid who goes parading around in his birthday suit is likely to suffer grievous knuckle prints from guys named Pork Chop or Tiny here in the red mud section of South Carolina. And if he ventures out to watch the Nascar drivers go fast and turn left, he just may get tire marks someplace where parking is prohibited.

So just to be sure we’re on the same track, I checked with Cupid to see how he felt about his job.

Me: So, Cupid, how does it feel to go to work naked every day?

Cupid, the God of Love: Well, I save a lot on dry cleaning and there’s no dress code, so it’s kind of empowering. I use an awful lot of Chap-Stick, though. I’m trying for a corporate sponsorship. My endorsement deals keep me living in the life style of my dreams.

Me: You dream of flying naked for the rest of eternity?

Cupid: Don’t knock it. Even in the weather that frosts my feathers, it beats a business suit and 80-hour work weeks. And I don't have any place to carry a cell phone, so the boss can't ever call me on my lunch hour.

Me: But do you think it’s safe for a baby to fly around by himself?

Cupid: It’s not like I’m unarmed. (He tested the point on a heart-tipped arrow.) Hey, I’m the one that made Kanye apologize to Taylor Swift. It didn’t matter where I hit him. I just grazed him to let all the hot air out.

Me: If you’re such a sure shot, why are there so many divorces? You know, I’ve been married before and I’d rather shave my legs with a potato peeler than go through that again.

Cupid: Hey, everybody makes mistakes. Actually I was aiming for someone else, but, when you bent over it was like a heat seeking missile and a barn fire.

Me: So you’re saying the whole fiasco was my fault?

Cupid: Well every action has an opposite and equal unexpected consequence. That’s math you know. Or science. Whatever. I was a Liberal Arts major.

Me: I can identify with that. I graduated with honors, but they don’t take GPA in the Express Lane at the Piggly Wiggly.

Cupid: Well, don’t be eyeing my job. I had to knock off a guy with winged feet to get this gig.

Me: So once Valentine’s Day is past, it’s the off season for you. What keeps you busy the rest of the year?

Cupid: Oh, there’s lots to do. I like to spend part of the summer posing as a sculpture in a wishing well fountain. All that loose change comes in handy for the bathroom vending machines.

Me: Is that all you do? Make people think their wishes will come true, then steal their money?

Cupid: Of course not. Somebody’s got to keep up with the Kardashian sisters. Those gals make Snooki look like Hannah Montana. I think I’m gonna need a bigger box of arrows.

Point and Shoot

It's not that I don't enjoy sharing my birthday month with a fat, naked, stalker baby.

But couldn't he spend a little less time playing Black Ops and a little more time practicing his real life aim? Join me over at An Army of Ermas to see what Cupid's up to now.

And if you missed my birthday, don't worry. There is no late fee for expensive gifts.

Or chocolate.

P.S. That flower the Captain is holding? Is DEAD.

On Fire for You

“What’s this?” The Captain tossed his hat and coat by the door and picked up a folded pink paper from the table.

“It’s Valentine’s Day. Cupid left it for you.”

“What’s that smell?” He wrinkled his nose.

“Maybe Cupid was having a bad day.”

“It smells like gasoline.”

“Well if Cupid didn’t have to pump her own gas, it might smell like meatloaf.”

“We’re having meatloaf? Did you put the little heart made out of catsup on the top?”

“We don’t have any catsup. I was going to the store when I ran out of gas. At the gas station the note fell out of my pocket and blew under a pickup truck. When I bent down to get it back, I spilled gas on it.”

“I’m sorry you had a bad day. Why don’t we go out?”

“Because we’re having meatloaf. It’s your favorite.”

“But we don’t have any catsup. What did you put on top?”

“Strawberry jelly.”

“Oh.”

“That’s all we had that was red.”

“Maybe I should read the note.”

“Well, I was kind of annoyed by the time I finished it.”

“I see.” He tossed the note in a bowl on the table and touched it with the lighter we keep handy for starting the grill.

Hungry flames and the smell of burning gas flared and then receded.

He grinned. “Hottest love note I ever got. Let’s go eat.”

“Can we take your car?”

“Okay,” he put his arm around me and grinned as he guided me toward the door.

“But we’ll have to stop for gas.”

A-Mused

A Valentine’s Poem for my Muse

Lead me not to rhyme that’s tired,
Hackneyed, clichéd, uninspired.
Writing poems is for the wise,
Thoughtful pen and depth of eyes
Don’t let my pen leak violets blue
Or illustrate with I HEART you
Send me images as fresh
As fruit in stalls at Marakesh
Hair like moonbeams, skin like silk
Odious scenes of mother’s milk
Won’t tweak the senses, light the eyes
Or make the breaths turn into sighs
Important now that Cupid’s near
So his bow shoots heart, not rear
I’ll write now or pass my bonnet
And turn my Lim’rick into sonnet.