Minnie was the kind of person who liked to yell at the TV when she watched costume dramas. Often she had a glass of wine by her side, but not always, because having wine every night would mean she was a drunk. And she was many things — middle-aged, paunchy, prone to outbursts — but she was definitely not a drunk, at least not in her own book. And if someone did think she was a drunk, well, that was their problem, not hers, right? Fuck ’em.
Vinnie considered it a sort of manly honor to rake the leaves, but he drew the line at picking up the 12 million gumballs that goddamn tree dropped every year. Some of them naturally came up with the leaves, but many were left behind, and that’s where his son came in. Not that he was happy about helping — but he did, and with only minor prodding from his father. And without mentioning The Event, which was actually very kind of him. Because there wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t think about what happened at the quarry.
Timmy wondered when he’d ever be able to reach the light switch. Everything would be so much better if only he could get up there. But how? Stack the blocks, or drag the chair over, or… no. The singing stepstool!
Fluffy pushed herself up from her fleece-lined perch, stretched, yawned, and lay back down again. “So many mice, so little time,” she drawled. She was only trying to impress the new cat, though — she had never so much as chased a mouse. No, why waste her time on mice when she much preferred dragons? Delightfully crunchy dragons.
Buffy looked around the room, scanning the mostly unfriendly faces, and then the question entered her mind, unbidden: “What would Don Draper do?” Not that he would ever have been faced with a roomful of vampires, but still, it was interesting to think about. Also: handsome to think about, no harm no foul. But anyway, back to the question: what would that Mad Man do? Other than drink himself into a suave stupor, duh.
The mice considered their options carefully, knowing their next move could cost them everything. Was it worth the risk? Only one way to find out. Pick a path, move forward. “But how are we supposed to pick,” whispered Jasper, “when they all look exactly the same?”
The table felt neglected. It had been days since the family had used it for a meal, and it was heaped with papers, toys, electronics, you name it. The way they were treating it, it felt more like a closet, or one of those awful plastic bins. Nobody even knew what was in those anymore until they went digging for something they only needed once a year. Holiday things, or perhaps a baby toy for a visiting tot.
Out in the shed, the empty flowerpots were stacked neatly, waiting for spring. Inside, Mathilde settled down with a mug of Darjeeling and a stack of seed and plant catalogs. It was her favorite time of year, the sitting and plotting season. She picked up the stack and flipped through, scanning the titles — Burpee of course, and a couple of heirloom seed companies, but also the one she liked best: Gifted Gardener. She didn’t know how they did it, but they always had the most cunningly unique specimens.
Every so often, the thought entered her mind, but she usually shoved it away and went back to whichever of the thousand daily tasks she was in the middle of. It just didn’t seem wise to dwell on it, and she was pretty sure it was illegal anyway. And it wasn’t like she knew the right sort of person to ask. Not anymore. She was a full-on housewife now, or hausfrau, as her wife sometimes jokingly called her.
“Can I ask you something, Ron?” Hermione called from the kitchen. “It’ll only take a minute.”
“It better,” he said, shuffling in with a vacant yet annoyed expression, “Quidditch is on.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, even though she knew Ron could see. “Just look.”
She held up one finger, paused until she knew Ron was following along, and pointed out the window.
“Honestly! Why on earth do you let Myrtle play with that broom when you know very well she never remembers to put it out of sight when she’s done?”
Read Full Post »
Mama-Come-Lately 