Cosmetically Yours

Perhaps it was because, The Grownups Wanted Us Dead, that my cousin Rumble and I behaved the way we did. We were emulating our elders and rehearsing for the day we would be grownups ourselves. Rumble and I practiced the art of torture through the innovative use of many common, ordinary weapons things — like eyeshadow.

Rumble loved his car. I don’t know why. It was a banged up beater. A Dodge Dart well past the age of darting anywhere. Still, he washed it, petted it, polished it and praised it. Most days — since my car was really Gram’s car — Rumble drove me to college. He sometimes took my friends Carla and Susan as well. He provided me with a key to the trunk of his car so I could switch out books between classes, but he refused to supply me with a key to the door. He said he didn’t trust me — bad mistake. By not trusting me, he gave me permission to be untrustworthy. I mean, it wasn’t like I was going to disappoint him, right?

The complete Rumble Stories:

The P.B. & J. Sandwich (part 1)

Bright, Shiny Red (part 2)

Tea Time (part 3)

Cosmetically Yours (part 4)

Tea Time

The world is a lot different now then it was when I was a kid. We certainly weren’t as coddled then as children are today. In fact, when I was growing up I was pretty well certain that The Grownups Wanted Us Dead. And when they weren’t trying to kill us, we were trying to kill each other. Pretty much anything could be pressed into service as a weapon, and the more ordinary and routine it was — like Tea Time — the better it’s potential for mayhem.

Our tea drinking during the news had come to be a ritual. Rumble and I took turns brewing and serving. Sometimes one or the other of us would add a special treat ….

The complete Rumble Stories:

The P.B. & J. Sandwich (part 1)

Bright, Shiny Red (part 2)

Tea Time (part 3)

Shiny, Bright Red

Now appearing at, The Grownups Wanted Us DeadShiny, Bright Red, part two in the saga of Quilly and Rumble,  cousins with cause to kill.

Every evening before dinner, Rumble would stretch out on the living-room floor and take a nap. Often, to use as little floor space as possible, he put his feet next to me on my chair. A couple of nights after the peanut butter and jelly incident, Rumble stretched out on his back, put his feet near my thigh, and went out like a light.

I finished painting my fingernails a lovely pearl pink, then I capped the polish bottle and put it away. As soon as my nails were dry I reached back into my cosmetic case, and took out a bottle of fire engine red fingernail polish.

Click here for part one: The P.B. & J. Sandwich

The P. B. & J. Sandwich

Special Announcement:

OC and I were the guest readers this weekend at Waking Ambrose. Pop on over to Doug’s place and listen to Episode 11 of The Meditations of Diogenes The Cynic.

You may now proceed to today’s post:

Sometimes not only the The Grownups Wanted Us Dead. On occasion we were quite content to kill each other.

I settled into bed wearing my customary night gown — one of my dad’s old t-shirts — and opened my psych book for a little studying. Gram was still in the living-room. She only had a few pages left of her novel, and wanted to finish it. We heard thunder on the stairs. I smirked, certain Rumble had found his P.B. & J. sandwich. I wasn’t worried. There was no way Gram would let him into my bedroom. I was safe . . . .