Lions "Rowr"
Sheep "Baa"
Survivors say "Thank you sir may I have another."
That's what my See 'N Say told me. Ok, don't run in the room and check yours, like most things, mine was special. It had been modified. Why? Because it needed to adapt. Survivors adapt.
Look at my sister's See 'N Say. It died. Of course if she hadn't played with it so much it wouldn't have been devoured by the scissor beast.
"Mommy, it's broken."
"What did you do with the string."
"Nothing."
"Well it's not here. Did you take the plastic ring off?"
"No."
"Well you must have, the string isn't here."
Pause, "It's broken."
"Yes it is, but we'll see if Daddy can fix it."
Sometimes survivors are wracked with guilt for not protecting the herd. Especially when they're the ones who turned a fellow survivor into prey. If there isn't guilt, then we call that survivor something else: "Self serving asshole." That was the last time I ever consciously played that role. Pain teaches survivors, while predators shrug it off, and prey, well it's just one step closer to lunch.
Ok, now I have to back up. I see some of you staring confused. You were born in an age when your See 'N Say had an arm not a string. It looked like a cross breed between a pinwheel and a slot machine. Don't think that was an accident. Mattel and Vegas conspire. Yes, I know I've just shattered your idealism. It'll only hurt for a bit, so long as you stop scratching it. Stop that!
When I was young, we had to watch TV by candle light. Sorry, my dad's joke. Survivors pay homage to those who pass before too. No, my See 'N Say had a string with a ring attached to keep the machine from eating it. The string was cooler. When you pulled the string, you could jerk it mid pull and change the message.
"The dog says," jerk, "moo."
It was busily confusing children and turning animals into survivors.
In the human world, the Survivor says "I can adapt to this."
What do those who can't adapt say?
"Would you like the large? It's only fifteen cents more."
I'm practicing just in case.
Like my writers' group. There are 2 girls who write poetry. I'm not a poet. On my best day I'm a essayist who writes poetry. That is, if you think Dr. Seuss was a poetic mastermind. Some of my stuff can sit on the same shelf. Beyond that, well it might as well be Greek. Wait. I know Greek. It might as well be English. There. That's better.
We used to have a poet in our group, but they're gone. Now I'm the girls' only hope at a reasonable critique. Sometimes surviving on another person's knowledge base isn't enough.
"Well no, I'm not lost, but you're saying that Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear. What kind? I'm not visualizing him. Yes, I know, you continue with the passage that he had no hair, but that doesn't give him identity. Fuzzy Wuzzy needs to be somebody. How can identify with a bald non-specific bear? Are you saying he's a utopian bear, living in a world without prejudice of race, creed, or religion? That's fantasy! If I can't identify, then how can Fuzy speak to me? Even Little Bo Peep had a conflict. Yeah, I saw your secret 'was't fuzzy' ending coming. It didn't really hold a surprise."
That's what I've got. They need help to adapt, so that they can grow. You can't learn from a teacher when you already know what they know. Seriously, neither girl writes fuzzy poetry. Actually one writes from a very disciplined, very structured approach, the other one writes with all passion, no discipline. If I could get them to work together I think that they could create something beautiful. So far that hasn't happened. Writers are a very standoffish lot.
Thank God I'm a writer. Standoffers are survivors.
After doing what I could to position my herd further from the predators, I returned to my den. As I'm leaving, this insidious cookie smell wafts over from the Starbucks corner of the store. They've got some bizarre chocolate chip potpourri laid out in front of an armada of cyclone fans. Customers are lined up at the counter bleating for any cookie shaped product under glass. It's all I can do to crawl out the door with my dignity. Ok, I grabbed somebody else's dignity, but the important thing is I made it outside to the parking lot without buying a cookie.
How? Easy, I promised myself I'd make me a batch when I got home. That's how survivors do it. They forage for their own food rather than wait for Zebrabucks to open a store down the block.
I made my cookies, and what's more while I waited I cleaned out the refrigerator. Survivors don't eat unknown growths on their leftover spaghetti. I don't think the fridge had been cleaned since we bought it. The shelves were gross, and there was cat hair in the freezer. Wait, before you call the ASPCA, I don't know how the hair got in there, but there was no cat meat. That's what's important. I'll ask Cosmo, my dog, later to be sure.
"You haven't been freezing your cats for later have you buddy?"
"Ruff."
"Ok well what have I told you about using Ziplock bags?"
Three hours, a hippo sized vat of cleanser, and a hazmat suit later, my refrigerator is clean, my cookies are baked, and I have survived another day.
"Thank you Sir may I have another."
***
Brief note of possible interest. If you watch the videos, look for a younger Daphne Zuniga and Virginia Madsen. This was a promo video for a movie that came out in 86 called Modern Girls.
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