I Have Become French

*** continued from previous post ***


Where was I?

Oh yeah, Mom returned with a suitable rock, and once in place I grabbed my collapsible cane off of the trunk. Whereupon, the spring-loaded demon that it is, once free of its constraining tie, quickly expanded and straightened with a loud 'shooook-CLANK' - - - and promptly thwapped me in the only place on my body that wasn't protected by leather or Kevlar or multiple layers of clothes.

Yes sir, smack-dab right in the boy-zone.

Mom watched me squirm and contort for a minute. "See, every time that happens, it just makes me a bit more thankful that I'm a woman."

That's nice," I squeaked in a gnome-on-helium voice.

”Looks like it hurts."

"Mmmmmmmmhummmmm," I manage.

"Yep, definitely looks very painful."

She shakes her head and gives a little click of her tongue for emphasis as she folded her arms across her chest.

I was able to suck in a partial breath. "Enjoying this, are we?"

Mom looks me up and down. Apparently she has a bit of buried resentment and is blaming me for this day. I have no idea why. It's obvious that she's irrational from fatigue.

"Why no", she says, "No, not at all."

I narrow my eyes and point my finger at her in a grand accusation. "LIAR!" I shout.

Only the 'boys' are still fox-holed and deeply entrenched, so in my exuberance it comes out much like the sound a squeaky-toy makes while being ravaged by a spiteful dog.

"Come on," she sighs, and gently tugs my arm, "let's get inside where it's warm and dry."

I start to protest - just for kicks - but then I fold and follow obediently. I have a small, resilient nugget of attitude deep inside, but that is all. No strength. I have no resistance left in me. I am all wiggly gelatin. I believe myself petulant, but in reality I'm just sad. You see where this is going of course. Yes, I - through the trials and tribulations of the day - have become French.

*** the journey continues ***