Uncle Fun and Sparky Land

     Well, that’s just too absolutely cute for words, so I won’t bother using any. I’ll save my breath, or ink, or pixels, or whatever it is you save when you’re in the blogosphere, to reintroduce myself--the name’s Milady Madeira M’Dear, sorceress-at-large, and everything else at extra-large, and proud of it.

     So now the Emily Post part of this post is out of the way, I’ll get down to the nitty-gritty of it. As if I didn’t have enough to do right at the moment, I’ve been army-volunteered into giving all of you out there (are there really three of you now?) some sort of Valentine’s Day pep talk or Cupid coaching or whatever-all it is I’m supposed to do. I’m not really in the mood, but Uncle Fun sweet-talked me by whipping up one of his usual cotton-candy spiels about how if there was ever an expert anywhere in affairs of the heart, it was me. That fact it’s true didn’t hurt, either...the “heart” bit’s optional, but anything for an old friend. (Seriously--anything. Don’t ask me any more questions you don’t want to hear the answers to.)

     If I sound a little brusque and tired, it’s because I’ve been run off my feet these past few days. What with Mardi Gras falling on the same day as Ray Manzarek’s Birthday this year, things got a little more celebratory here in Funsville than even I can handle. Ordinarily, I’m all in for the “what happens this day, stays on this day” atmosphere of both occasions, but the two at once is about half a hair short of being a bit beyond too much.

     It doesn’t help that I’m Funsville’s semi-official unofficial permanent Queen of the Mardi Gras and all-purpose Shrove Tuesday Hostess of No Fixed Abode. The perks of the office are well and fine, but I never miss having to give the duties up for Lent--especially this year. Even with the help of magic, making stack after stack of pancakes shaped like Ray Manzarek is not the easiest thing in the world, I can tell you. (It's his glasses that makes the job nigh-on impossible for me...are they square with rounded corners, or round with squared-off corners? Aw, who cares?) If I had one more skillet and spatula pointed in my general direction, the joker responsible was going to have to put down a month’s rent on a kissing booth with a “for princes and/or princesses only” sign on it if they wanted to break the spell I had in store for them. My disposition wasn’t made any better by all the “moral support” I got from Ray Manzarek’s Day revellers wearing “WWJD” bracelets. (In this case, “WWJD” stands for “What Would Jim Drink?”, the answer to which turns out to be “you name it”.) I’m glad something like this doesn’t happen again for a while...I’m all for a feast, but the moveable kind can ruin your appetite from chasing them around.

     Meanwhile and more to the point, this whole foofaraw has put a serious crimp in my schedule, at one of my busiest times of the year. Like countless witches the world round, I count on Valentine’s to help me start putting a dent in my Christmas debts by selling an old family recipe for a potent but largely non-toxic love potion.

 

     I’ve been distributing it under the name “Amour Propre”, which I thought was French for “love between discreet acquaintances” or something along those general ooh-la-la lines. Now Uncle Fun tells me that it really means something closer to hard-core egotism. (Where were you when I needed you, Funsie? Oh well, it’s still French enough to sound all classy and je-ne-sais-quoi.)

     Anyway, I was going to say something else, but I forget what it was. In addition to having a Mardi Gras hangover so bad I wish Easter was here already so someone would roll the rock away from my head, I’ve got a Love Boat-load of potion back orders to get out -- and neither me nor my finance company is keen on giving refunds. (Why can’t I just magic up the wherewithal, like by spinning straw into gold or other negotiables, you ask me, Smarty-Pants? Yeah -- if that old gag ever came off the way it was supposed to, you think Wall Street would look like such a shambles, huh?)

     Sorry -- I’m supposed to be giving you love advice or something. How’s this: always do a background check, but don’t snoop so much you forget to have a good time.

     I guess that’s not the greatest Valentine’s message. Oh well, it’s at least as good as the one the silly Cousins boy had Sparky make for him to give to his wife:

     I couldn’t say it any better myself…mostly ‘cause I don’t have the first clue what he’s saying. Even if I did, I wouldn’t have time to tell you what it was. All those bottles of potion aren’t gonna ship themselves by magic. Well, actually, they are, but I’m the one who’s got to get that started, so I’d better get at ‘er. And with that, it’s back to the old cauldron for me, and Happy Valentine’s to you. Don’t take any wooden heart-shaped bon-bons...unlessthat's what turns your crank.

Hugs, kisses, and apologies for going through the motions,

Milady M. M’Dear

P.S. That last part wasn’t for you folks -- it was for Uncle Fun. (Seriously, honey-bunch...I owe ya one when this is all over.)