Sometimes on Saturday, after we’ve taken our early morning walk and participated in an afternoon lounge with our mother, we become unexpectedly on high alert when our parents announce that the garage door opener stops working creating a questionable situation when it comes to our food stash. Will we ever be able to eat again? we wonder to ourselves. But it turns out that there is nothing to poopie in our pants about because our concerned parents turn into detectives and talented garage door openers, thereby ensuring that we will be fed forever.
Can I Get a Hallelujah?
Glen of the Grateful
Sometimes on Saturday, after a relatively melancholy week, we like to whisper our fears and secrets into Sharkey’s ear, knowing that between him and our mother there will be some happiness concoction that will be created to wash all our troubles away.
Sky’s Still Blue and That Can’t Be Bad,
Orenthal the Optimistic Overthinker
Sometimes on Saturday, after a juggernaut trot across a black topped parking lot that leaves our feet feeling as if we’d roasted them on the barbecue, we like to take the rest of the afternoon off and air out our little tootsies, hoping to god that our mother will resist our stubborn insistence to walk across the equivalent of burning coals in the future.
I Know Not What I Do,
Hal the Hot Tamale
Sometimes on Saturday, after the twentieth warning from the weather man that there will be “monsoonal moisture in the region” we like to see how long we can go without moving a muscle, all the while praying for just the slightest poof of a breeze to refresh our parched hiney.
Mister Master Muggy
Sometimes on Saturday, after a long, muggy morning walk under the marine layer that blankets the area in which we live with perspiration, we like to take the afternoon off to work on our PhD in Rubber Bones Relaxation and air out our privates.
Wake Me Up When The Humidity Is Over,