The Homeland Adventure Channel

WELCOME

Today's episode: Spelunking for Amateurs.

We will explore the deep and dark domain of the homosaphieus-teen, an immature breed of the biped species rarely seen during the daylight hours.

Before we set out on our grand adventure, we must make necessary preparations. Collect and inspect your gear before each excursion, you never know when it may save your life. Today we will require several laundry baskets and garbage bags (be sure they are empty!), a vacuum cleaner, an unused bottle of disinfectant spray and new roll of paper towels, cattle prod (just in case), elbow-length rubber gloves, flashlight and, most important, a commercial grade breathing mask. Cameras are optional, but be sure yours has a working flash.

And we're off! From our beginning place in the living room, we search through hallways and stairwells for signs of our specimen... Oh, we're in luck, a trail of discarded clothing! Picking up each piece leads us to a closed door. Making sure our mask is in place and gloves are on, we spray the handle and wipe it down. Slowly turning the handle, so as not to startle the specimen(s) inside, we find that the door only opens two feet.

Not to worry, we are prepared. Using the cattle prod, we reach around the blocked entrance to chip away at the debris piled up behind the door. After twenty minutes of arduous labor, the door swings free and we can enter. The scene is amazing! Shedded heaps of laundry cover every surface, overdue library books and school papers mixed in. Towels are hung over the closed drapes to keep out the dreaded sun and empty bottles and cans line the bookshelf. Somewhere, there is a closet... we must keep an eye out for it.

As we begin stuffing our baskets and bags, we come across several treasures long forgotten. So that's where my $140 cashmere sweater disappeared to. Ugh. A stapler, three cups, a plate, spoon and fork, two dozen pens and pencils, a whole ream of copy paper (ruined), the coat that nobody could find so I had to go out and buy another one, and... oh, please no! It's Bitsy, my last surviving doll from childhood--her body is missing.

It takes several hours of clearing away clothes and garbage, empty snack wrappers, dried out glue bottles and sticky lollipop sticks, before we find the specimen's sleep nest. Every spare pillow and blanket not already claimed (and some that were) lay heaped upon the surface. As we peel back the layers (cattle prod at the ready), we are relieved to find no bodies, living or dead. However, the final layer before reaching the mattress is a sheet worn so thin with heat and body oils, drool and whatnot, that it only comes off in pieces. We are careful to remove every bit before dousing the mattress with Lysol.

Bed cleared, we now have access to the heavily shrouded windows, and waste no time in throwing back the curtains. Sunlight streams into the cave, lighting up the dark shadows in the corners. A hiss comes from the far side of the room. Stand back!

A three-foot mound on the floor begins pulsating. With the cattle prod in one hand and Lysol in the other, we wait. A hand emerges, followed by a head and more hissing. The creature rises, angry and squinting...

"Mom! What are you doing?"

Certifiable

I am certifiable
I’ve never been reliable
so it should come as no surprise
to have this paper meet my eyes
that states in letters bold and blue
the thing that I already knew,
that I am certifiable,
certified a loon.
My memory is just so-so
’cause I don’t think I really know
what test I took so they could tell
that I belong in cuckoo hell,
though questioning it isn't fair
the proof’s in how I fix my hair…
Yes, I am certified a boor,
I cannot be your friend no more
the boys in coats will come for me
they’ll lock me up and eat the key
to keep all safe who wander near,
unknowing of the danger here
’cause I am certifiable,
a loco from the moon.
The paper’s stamped and very clear,
I’ve had it nearly half a year
it took a while to tell you this
they say that ignorance is bliss
but you should know the mess I’m in
I’m headed for the loony bin—
the dishes in the sink need washed,
the laundry’s done, but someone’s lost
the stack of bills (all overdue)
that I had organized for you.
My schedule’s posted in the hall,
the bathroom leaks, the school just called,
we’re out of diapers, call the vet
the dog is sick… and your upset…
I’m sorry, but you understand
the situation’s out of hand
and I belong in Nutleyville
the state will surely foot the bill
’cause papers don’t come every day
that plainly state that you should stay
within a padded quiet room
away from worldly thoughts of doom.
Virginia Institute of Health
Department of the Commonwealth—
I’ve got it here, you see this line?
“This Institute does hereby find
that after testing we declare
your mental state beyond compare.”
The rest, you ask? If you must know,
I haven’t really read it, so…
ummm… “Please come back so we can test
the status of your… genius?

Wait—

The Factory

Welcome to Putman House

Makers of beautiful babies since 1994

While we specialize in little boys, we have also been known to make an occasional girl. All children come with a limited warranty and are guaranteed to cost more than you will ever make. Presently, we are out of every color of eyes except blue-grey. Hair colors will vary according to age, but will eventually darken/lighten to a solid brown. Infants come with heads comparable to watermelons in only two sizes: medium and large. All babies over 9 1/2 lbs. will be refused. There is a nine month waiting list on all deliveries and an extra 2-3 weeks baking time for lazy and stubborn children. Please note: all deliveries are final. There are no exchanges or refunds.

We pride ourselves in producing children whose IQ levels exceed that of their parents, to constantly confound and amaze their teachers and keep everyone on their toes. Our inquisitive little angels will defy every lock, reach every cookie, and never stop asking for more, become a joy to your life while simultaneously making you feel like a crap parent at least once a week. They will expertly find your last nerve and constantly test its working condition, run you ragged with necessary activities and appointments, and bore you to tears with mindless games and videos. You will laugh, cry, and wish for the ease of blue-collar work. Undoubtedly, you will be loved, hated, and abused. You will be spit on, drooled on, puked on, bit, pinched, hit, peed and pooped on. Do not despair, these things are normal and do not constitute defects.

Predictable flaws: One in six of our children will require glasses, but all will need braces. Be sure to take your child to the dentist regularly for about one half of them will inherit weak teeth and need extensive dental work. They are generally healthy, but check your insurance. Whatever is not covered is sure to be what ails them. In homes with multiple angels, they will either get sick one at a time, or all together (whichever is least convenient to you). Behavioral problems will require a professional. Always know where the gas and water shut-off valves are located and keep fire extinguishers in handy locations on EVERY level of your home. Should a situation arise for which you are unprepared to handle alone, have local emergency numbers programmed into your phone and get to know God. (Knee pads are highly recommended.)

Special note: Despite the guaranteed brilliance of all our children, we cannot promise that he/she won't become another 'gifted under-achiever'. --it's in the genes.

We're sorry, due to failing economic times, and for reasons of sanity,

Putman House baby factory is

CLOSED.

A slice of Time

Ah, time. A concept created by those who are obsessed with it. With the turning of those vindictive hands, our lives are run by the unseeing face of a clock. It is something we all have and never appreciate, never stop complaining about... too much, too little, too fast, too slow. Time is money, yet no amount of money will buy more of it. It doesn't keep, save, rollover, or wait. The river of time is flowing, ever flowing, and where do we fit in? I'd like to imagine myself leisurly floating along on my solitary innertube (yes, it's summer in the vision), but reality has me in an over-loaded life raft watching the fast approaching falls. Ha ha, women and children first, you say. But where else would I be if not in the churning pit of turmoil?

Sitting on the bank, watching, does not appeal. I can't even enjoy watching sports. Itchy fingers must work, must do!!! Call me ADD if you like, but I'm weird like that. My days are defined by my accomplishments, and even those are hard to recall by the time my head is hitting the hay. Gah! the first sign of aging! What next?

Because I have more than a ticking crocodile chasing after me and (consequently) my time, I'll leave off with a poem I wrote a while back. It fits the subject.



Tick, tock, clock; the rhythm of life never stops.
The journey unceasing, the hands
ever reaching,
the circular motions, likes waves of
the ocean,
are going around till the chime
finally sounds.

Tick, tock, clock; like water that’s spilling,
the hourglass filling,
the cup’s never brimming,
the tired hands spinning,
‘round a face full of wrinkles
and I s with a twinkle.

Tick, tock, clock; the whirling and winding
and spinning is blinding.
The gears are all rusting,
the springs are near busting,
you wind it too tight
and it doesn’t work right.

Tick… tock… stop. A tired antique finally makes
a retreat.
The hands at last quit, the clock
isn’t fit
to give one more chime. It’s all out
of time.



Hope you've enjoyed... Like the white rabbit, I've no time, no time at all.

The ONE the ONLY!!

ME!

My name is Michal, resurrected from the biblical text (second daughter of Saul, wife of David) so I guess that makes me royal. [ahem] Quiet from the peanut galleries! Anyway, I'm an aspiring writer of young-adult novels, mother, artist, and all-purpose slave. I cook, I clean, I sew, I taxi--but only when I'm not writing, and only when I'm forced. Gardens excite me, shopping's a thrill, but playing God trumps them all. My literary worlds are without end: romance, action, adventure and mystery, fantasy upon fantasy, and plot bunnies multiplying under the bed.

I have two novels under my belt, a half-dozen beginnings to more, and an insistent sequel riding my thoughts. In between my dreams of reality and the nightmare that is, I decide who lives or dies and, let me assure any of my worried fans, none of my children (imagined or otherwise) is being needlessly neglected. All are fed and watered and given their necessary supplements, medications, sedatives, etc... The sequel is being written, the re-writes are on schedule, and dinner, um... I'll have to get back to you on that.

Until later,
MAP