Oh! I didn’t see you there! You gave me quite a fright.
I have made a temporary relocation from the kitchen floor, to the bathroom floor, for medical reasons. My HMO apparently doesn’t cover the removal of splinters in the buttocks region (and don’t ask me how I got splinters down there, or I shall have to plead the fifth.)
I really should have known better. My HMO doesn’t acknowledge emergency services, such as a simple trip to my local physician.
Since I have been living in the United States, I have been doing everything within my power to stay healthy and active. However, during the last couple of weeks, I have been feeling a little bit under the weather. Looking around now, at the bare basin, slightly dusty S-bend and chipped bathtub, I think I understand why.
Feng Shui is missing in my life.
It was during my recent (and fruitless) visit to the doctor, that I picked up a very interesting magazine called, “Your Life and Feng Shui” by the eminent Aunt Agga Woo (not to be confused with that funky 80s hit, “Agga Doo.”)
I had a vague idea about all of this. It was something to do with how placing your furniture in various positions could positively affect your life and overall well being. Either that, or a new and improved version of the Karma Sutra for the more dedicated and athletic types.
I was surprised to learn, as I turned the pages, that there is so much more to this than just making sure your toilet rolls are correctly aligned with the spirit of your bowels and smaller intestines.
Aunt Agga Woo tells us that you can use Feng Shui in other turbulent areas of your life. This really caught my interest, as I was close to kicking the clinic’s receptionist in the shins for asking me to fill out yet another form.
It was clear that Aunt Agga’s sagacious advice has worldwide popularity, considering that her “Ask Woo” column was overflowing with anxious people needing guidance in their screwed up lives.
Jason from Taiwan wrote:
Dear Aunt Agga,
I have been in the insurance line for more than 15 years; on hand, I have about 15 agents to work with. We used to be an active group, but lately, something has been going wrong. We are very listless, with no harmony amongst us. Can you advise me how we can overcome such a situation?
Dear Jason,
It is obvious that there is something wrong with the relationship luck in your southern regions.
There is, perhaps, a lack of fresh and sunny air within your personal space, and I would suggest moving your quarters closer to where there is water.
Now, I don’t know about you, but if you read between the lines here, this one is a no-brainer.
Jason obviously needs to keep his hands out of his pants, wear better deodorant, and make use of the restrooms more frequently, for that little bladder problem of his.
Wanda, from New Zealand, had a few different dilemmas, closer to home:
Dear Aunt Agga,
I am in a domestic quandary, please, please advise me.
a) Is it good to use a plastic curtain to cover the toilet?
b) Where’s the best place to hang a clock?
c) Can we have Fuk Luk Sau under the dining room table?
Dear Wanda,
a) No, it is better to use a piece of aromatic balsa wood for your toilet. A plastic curtain allows the foul air from the WC to filter easily into the rest of the house, and that can’t be good for your overall Chi. Moreover, plastic curtains tend to be noisy and crackly, and you should be keeping the toilet quiet. Do not activate it with noise or movement.
b) Clocks are never good symbols to highlight in the home. It is better to have natural clocks, rather than modern ones hanging on the wall.
c) The best place for the Fuk Luk Sau is facing the front door or in the hallway.
Well, I would think so too!
Not only would foul air from the toilet upset your Chi, I would think it probably would lose you a few dinner guests as well.
I, personally, try and keep ‘my’ toilet quiet and deactivated when I can (or, at least until I can’t keep my legs crossed any longer.) I also give it a daily dose of Xanax, for when it gets a little too hysterical.
What’s this about modern clocks not being good symbols for the home? What do you expect? A sundial?
As far as your Fuk Luk Sau is concerned Wanda, the best place for THAT is in the bedroom, my dear.
The last little gem I espied, before they threw me out of the doctor’s office and locked the door, was from an obviously distraught Randy, in Canada.
Dear Aunt Agga,
I have always been curious about what color a wallet should be. I always carry three coins in my wallet, but the money doesn’t stay. Maybe I need a different colored wallet. Can you tell me please?
Unfortunately, the response from the wise Aunt Agga had been mysteriously ripped from the page, but I think the answer was fairly obvious in this case.
Dear Randy,
Get a life! Who in their right mind carries just three coins in their wallet these days? Have you not heard of debit cards? The reason that your money doesn’t stay in there, is that you keep wasting it on crappy magazines like this, you MORON!
Maybe you ‘do’ need a different colored wallet, but I would suggest some intensive psychotherapy to start with.
I may not have been able to get these splinters out of my ass, but I did succeed in sneaking this highly perspicacious periodical out of the clinic. I managed this, by stuffing it down my shirt (in the hope that the Feng Shui power of Aunt Agga would align itself with the iron in my bra, thus encouraging my ‘unenlightened’ bustline to expand.)
When I returned home, I tried placing my laptop in various areas of the apartment to see whether I would feel more in tune with my inner ‘best-selling author’, but all I got was a strange look from the guy who came to turn off the gas.
So, on that note, I shall leave you with a word of prudent advice, straight from the mouth of Aunt Agga Woo, rip-off merchant extraordinaire:
If, whilst trying to reset your sundial ’snooze-button’, and pacify your lavatory, you are overcome with a feeling of uncontrollable discomfort in your ’southern region’, it’s probably just splinters, so, get your trusty tweezers out- your HMO won’t want to know about it!
Kylie Evans
http://www.articlesbase.com/humor-articles/tales-from-the-kitchen-floor-part-ii-678853.html
March 5th, 2010 at 6:16 pm
WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT MY PROLOGUE?
THIS IS KIND OF LIKE A BACK GROUND KINDA THING. PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK.
There were things that everyone knew was strictly fiction, things that everyone in the world knew as fairy tales. None of this made any sense to me. My name is Cheyenne Reed. I was born to a house hold where my father would do nothing but drink and threaten my sister and I, and my mother would be oblivious to the world, worried about nothing but her next fix. My sister Josie has a different last name then I do, but we are blood sisters.
My father would be passed out in the old tore up recliner in the small living room of the house that we lived in, my mother would be arguing with me about stealing things from the old rag she carried around for her purse. I would argue back and then later at night where they couldn’t hear me, I would sneak into the kitchen and grab ice from the refrigerator to soak the bruises on my face where my dad would hit me. When my sister turned four, old enough to do the cleaning around the house, the regular beatings were introduced as a part of her life. She always depended on me as her protector.
Maybe a month after I turned 11 things changed; we were still a messed up family, but for some reason things felt off, even Josie could feel it. It was in the afternoon and my sister was in the living room and I was arguing with my mother in the kitchen. A little earlier I had been playing with my friend Maxx, and she was in trouble. So I told my mom and she said she didn’t care and I already knew it to be a helpless cause. I went to run back out the front door to drag her back myself when my father appeared in the door way, his round face red and angry.
“You been lying to the neighbors again haven’t you?” He asked, his voice contradicting his expression. I glanced at Josie on the other side of the room, cuddling up to the wall as far away from him as possible.
“I told no lie.” I replied, looking at him fiercely in the eye. He shoved me against the peeling walls and thundered passed into the hall leading to the bedrooms. I sunk to the cold floor watching Josie. She looked relieved that it was just a short fit this time and not something that would have killed us. But our relief was short lived when he came in carrying a tan wooden rifle. Josie’s eyes widened in fear as the gleam of the silver muzzle pointed toward her. He closed the distance between them with three big paces, reached down, and grabbed her by her shiny red hair that so much mimicked my mothers.
He still had his back to me when he was trying to aim his rifle at the squirming girl in his hands. My mother walked in from the kitchen when I jumped up and ran forward, my arms flailing in the air above my head and a rather comical battle screech escaping my throat as I flung myself onto his back. His rifle clanked to the floor followed by Josie who’s head thumped against the floor.
My father was going around in circles, trying desperately to claw me off. I dug my nails into his forehead, peeling away the ugly face that had pained me for so many years. He finally stopped turning and faced the way he had been, but this time he aimed for the wall behind him. He ran backwards into the wall, pressing my tiny body against the wall and his 234 pound bulk. I slid to the floor with a horrible headache and my vision blurred. But I could see enough to make out the blurred pattern of the rifles muzzle swinging around to take aim at me.
I noticed that he hesitated for only a half second, but that was all the time that I needed. I grabbed at one of my mothers old high heel shoes and pushed the rifles tip up toward the ceiling just as it went off. I took the heel and bashed my father over the head with it and watched as he crashed to the floor. I took the rifle and ran into the kitchen knowing that I had to get Josie and me out of this house before our father was comfortable on his feet. My mother was holding my sister by the hair, a knife tucked at her neck, mirroring a narrow stream of red going down her shirt.
“Cheyenne, put that down before you do something you’ll regret.” She hissed, staring at me with sober eyes for the first time in eleven years. I gripped the stock of the rifle even harder as Josie whimpered under the blade. I held the gun up and pointed it at my mother.
“Let go of Josie.” I muttered, flicking the safety off. Her eyes filled with terror and I guessed she saw something in my eyes that said I wasn’t fooling around and Josie slumped to the floor. Mother stood up from the old iron chair she was sitting in and placed the knife on the table and backed away, the muzzle of the rifle never leaving her for a moment. I wanted to scare her so I pulled the trigger.
The recoil of the rifle stung my fingers and wrist as the bullet collided with the pale yellow wall paper behind her. Her eyes widened in shock and fear and she turned and went around the corner, and I was satisfied when I heard the back door open and close and he
March 5th, 2010 at 11:18 pm
The story background sounds sort of cliche/trite. There’s nothing that really intrigues me about the story as it stands, maybe because I’ve read that approach/situation too often. Tons of stories, movies, and real-lives already include many chunks of what you wrote.
Not too bad, though. There was a nice balance of description and dialogue, and it flowed all right.
References :