Forbidden Furbaby

Head back, propped on my chair hammock, I gently swing as a large plane cuts through the sky. A mile or more away, a muffled house party’s musical beat hits my ear. Much closer the frog’s belt their song while my finger’s type.

Sometimes I want to throw caution to the wind, stay up all night, and party like Cinderella despite my nine-client load tomorrow. It’s a beautiful evening where the light is ample, the warmth of the day remains, and the chill of the night is inviting.

I remember a particular night, similar to this, when my Dad set up sleeping bags for he and I (did he put out an air mattress, too?) in the grass in our backyard. To catch a glimpse of a shooting star was otherworldly, and felt to me like blasting off with Neil Armstrong himself on the way to touch one.

But as kids do, I fell asleep, And even though my wildest dream went unrealized, sleeping unknowingly under the stars, and next to my Dad was magical enough.

It’s all over, the fat lady has sung, but the curtain won’t close. That means I’m at the tickley-cough end of the flu. If all goes well, I’ll wake in the morning with a clean bill of health, so I can sashay into the day and into Friday’s 80’s prom concert night with my big hair and puffy purple dress.

I want to revisit and add to the cringe-worthy word list Dave, and I started last night. For a refresher, we have legit, kiddos and littles. And thanks to a submittal by a long-time “Going On 40” reader, we have added “fur-baby.”

If you, too, want to test a word’s squirm deservingness, we’re all ears!

Take care. Love, Jaclynn

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