TUESDAY, JUNE 17, 2008
It’s been a weird week. Not that it isn’t ALWAYS a weird week for me, but this one is really strange. First of all, I have this plant from outer space in my yard. It’s sooooooo Little Shop of Horrors. I have no idea what in the hell it is. The leaves are super velvety and there’s the beginnings of yellow flowers emerging on top. I’m standing next to it because you have to see how freaking tall it is. I’m about 5’9.”
All summer we’ve watched it grow up through the rocks in the swail (another story for another time) but couldn’t bring ourselves to take it down. “Let’s see what it turns out to be…” my husband and I find ourselves saying to each other for some reason. I can’t help but wonder how many sci-fi horror flicks began with that simple premise. As far as I know, it hasn’t devoured any of the neighborhood children. There are a few less squirrels around, but maybe there’s a rodent bubonic plague going around, or perhaps they are on vacation in the Hamptons.
I’ve named the plant “Al.” Why? Because the cactus is named “Bob,” of course.
The kids had friends over the other day while I was writing. Conor said, “Hey, let’s set up our own business!” I thought that was kind of cute and went back to being deep in thought about my book…something to do with killing a guy with a pair of tweezers and an apricot. Anyway, a few minutes…or maybe hours…later, Ian (you know him as Louis Bombay) came down to tell me it was time for me to visit the businesses upstairs.
In Jack’s bedroom, Conor and Jack had a gun store. The guns were pretty reasonable – a mere quarter bought me a lovely faux pearl-handled .38. And they’d even opened Jack’s window to give me the chance to practice “shooting” bunnies and squirrels, something I don’t even do in fiction. Conor insisted on seeing my FOID card (Illinois’ firearms owners identification card) and I thought that was very responsible of him.
I took my pistol (unloaded, of course) and went next door, where Margaret and Ian were running a spa specializing in massage. Ian did this thing to my back with his elbows that would make any masochist proud. Enpurpled and armed, I went back to my book.
Then it hit me. For businesses, my kids were running an underground arms operation and a massage parlour. Instead of lemonade stands or factories that made widgets, my kids had a genuine red-light district worthy of Deadwood. Junior Achievement would be so proud…
And then, I’ve been delving into the family history this week and came across a name in the Quincy, Illinois newspaper from the 1890’s: Otto Hellwagon. Sigh. Isn’t that wonderful? If you saw that in a novel, you’d say “what a ridiculous name! They can’t possibly expect the reader to believe it!” They don’t make names like that anymore. It’s a shame, really. Otto Hellwagon. Go ahead, say it. It just trips poetically off the tongue.
So that’s a normal week, right? I’m sure it has nothing to do with the plant. And once I get past these weird dreams I’m having where “Al” asks me to feed him Pizza Rolls and teacup Chihuahuas, I’m sure everything will be just fine. Right?