in creative writing journal

How I knew I was home from vacation

There were whiskers on the sink, on the back part for a rinse cup or soap. Five minutes before guests arrived on Christmas Eve, I trimmed my fledgling moustache—a thing I’m growing specifically so I don’t resemble Steve Bannon, the alt-right jackass—and I leaned over the sink to see into the mirror better.  I usually don’t leave whiskers that part of the sink. Now I do, all because of Donald Trump.

I would have cleaned the sink the next day, but it was Christmas, and once we cleaned downstairs, we went over to the in-laws. The 26th was a Boxing Day party and finally seeing Rogue One; the 27th the day to pack; the 28th time to fly.

Don’t get me wrong. Being greeted at the door by a Tilt-a-Whirl of dogs and seeing my step sons made me glad, but I would have been happy to see them anywhere. Especially with a Go-Cup in hand.

Here is the only place, however, I’d be happy not to have maid service. Mild slobbery is my thumbprint. Figuratively. Literally.

And yes, it took like two whole seconds to wipe the sink.

Photo: Ignatius J. Reilly statue on Canal Street, New Orleans, LA.

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