A Pirate’s Life For Me!

Not long ago, I was corrected by my four-year-old great-nephew for incorrectly imitating pirate-speak.

I insisted that a pirate’s go-to expression for everything from rage, joy, happiness, surprise and outrage was “Arrggggh!” followed by the obligatory “shiver me timbers…” or “where the hell’s my parrot?”… “polish my hook, ship wench” or “pass me an orange, I’m gettin’ the scurvy”.  You know, silly things pirates say?

I was wrong, he informed me.

Pirates say “Arrrrrrrr.”  Not, “Arrrghhh”.

Rather than argue with him, I let it go.  Truth be told, I secretly harbored resentment because I knew deep down in my aging heart that I was right and he was wrong.  I mean, I’m the adult.  By all rights, I should be smarter.

Then I read Fifty Shades of Gray [which, I admit,  automatically dumbed me down] and, to my horror, discovered that the author used the word “arrrghhh” when describing the pain of virginal sex.

So, chalk one up for the four-year-old.

But that’s not what this is about.

This is about the joy of being surprised.

As in finding pirate-worthy booty in my mailbox.

Generally, the only things I find in my standard issue please-not-another-Spanx-catalog- metal-box-on-a-pole are highway-robbery utility bills, stalker letters from AARP and a cozy little nest of spiders that I don’t have the heart to evict.

Until yesterday when it all changed.

What’s when my otherwise mundane mail receptacle contained a beautiful surprise!  A tiny packaged wrapped neatly in a bubble-protected envelope.

Even the spiders watched in deference as I gazed upon this unexpected curiosity.

I plucked it ever so gently from the box, scurried inside and drew the blinds. I carefully sliced one end of the envelope and let the contents slip out. Ahhhhh!  A stunning, gossamer bag with a satin ribbon.

And inside?

Golden earrings befitting a plundered galleon!

“I have laid eyes on the likes of these magnificent baubles before”, I whisper to myself. “On the delicate lobes of a beloved.”

Thank you, my friend, for reminding me that no matter how old I get, the child in me is still alive and well!

 

 

When Blogs Go Dark

Like this one has.

The reasons are too numerous to mention why this blogger has taken a powder so I’ll spare you the details even though I really, really want to whine and feel sorry for myself and gnash my teeth and maybe even cry but what’s the point?  Sometimes life just kicks your ass for shits and grins and leaves you wondering why being a human is so darn hard.  Then, somebody really wise reminds me in a gentle way to just shut my fucking pie hole and cut the irritating girlie shit and grow some balls.  That person must do a lot of yoga, huh?

Then again, I could just say I had blogger’s block….which is a really lame excuse.  I mean, one  can actually use  blogger’s block as fodder for a blog post.  In fact, I think I may have already used my “get outta blogger jail  free card” by writing about blogger’s block in a previous post.   If not, I hereby reserve the right to use it at a later time.  It has no expiration date and won’t go all green and fuzzy like the fruit in my fridge that I buy out of nutritional guilt and allow to slowly rot away  in specially designed  bins  that are supposed to keep  fruit from rotting away.  Guess I forgot to read the manual.  I need to just ‘fess up that I’m not a big fruit eater.  All I can say to that is, I hope I don’t get scurvy like those unfortunate pirates and sailors of old.   Well, the pirates probably deserved it so I don’t feel bad about them.  The sailors, on the other hand, may deserve some sympathy, I supposed.  Unless, of course, they were part of some  expedition hell-bent on discovering new lands and exterminating indigenous people in the name of the Catholic church.  

Back to the subject of my fridge….I think it has actually become some sort of portal into the future.  It’s subtle. I can’t quite put my finger on it.   I’m discovering things I can’t remember purchasing.  Like products that claim “extra fiber” or “added calcium”.    Hmmm. 

Am I overreacting?  Becuase, I often overreact.

It’s just that I don’t want irregularity or osteoporosis and I think my fridge is trying to tell me something. 

To be on the safe side, I think I’ll listen.  I’m going to choke down that English muffin with extra fiber if it kills me.  Although I’ll probably slather on a giant slab of butter to make it go down easier but that shouldn’t affect me one way or another, right?

I must sigh off.   I just got an inexplicable  hankerin’ for a tall, frosty glass of prune juice.   Ahhhhhh!