I have one sister to grow plants and one to do crafts. It’s not that I’m a Diva, I just don’t see a way around that “Police Line - Do Not Cross” tape on my craft box. I don’t know my fertilizer from my fescue or my Popsicle sticks from my pipe cleaners. I’m not allowed to use a soaker hose or a glue gun without an OSHA representative present. I have a criminal past when it comes to construction paper.
But sometimes, when the women’s magazines bordering the grocery checkout like sunflowers beckon to me, I push aside that little voice that reminds me of the soccer banner incident.
“Ouch. No need to shove.” The Captain grabbed a Mars bar off the rack as he regained balance.
“You’re the one who brought it up.”
“Well, there aren’t many women who prance around with a soccer banner attached to their crotch.”
“I wasn’t prancing. I was trying to shake it loose.”
“I thought you were angling for a tip.”
“It was attached to my pants.”
“Who could tell? You were all Soccer Banner through Interpretive Dance.”
“I had a little trouble with the needle and thread.”
“What did it do? Misfire and sew the banner to your shorts?”
“Well at least I’m not the Poster Child for plumbing disasters.”
“Look. ANYBODY can have a toilet where the water goes down.”
“Now I’m afraid of what’s going to come up. That gives a whole new meaning to the words Interpretive Dance.”
“I made one little mistake. You killed a Peace Plant. That started an International Incident that resulted in your mug shot hanging in garden stores around the world.”
“Those things are so needy. You’d think they could go a few days without water.”
“It was six months.”
“I think those Peace Plants are named wrong. I’m pretty sure that thing growled at me when I took it out of the trunk.”
The Captain paid the cashier and tore into the candy bar. “By the way, you’re still famous around the soccer fields. You’re not allowed in without supervision of a responsible child under the age of 17.”
“Cool! I have an R-17 rating? I guess gardening and sewing are a lot like plumbing. Nobody notices unless you get it wrong.”
Bio: Amy Mullis lives in upstate South Carolina where she hoards glue sticks and bits of ribbon, and leafs through craft magazines planning for the future. Her husband, sons, dogs, and cats feel secure knowing that she’ll never find where the pinking shears and glue gun are buried. Join her for more “Don’t Let This Happen to Me” moments at Mind Over Mullis. She sends her thanks and love to Stacey Graham, Angie Mansfield and all the Ermas for making life a little bit more exciting for the past two and a half years.
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