Sunday Sermon

Laying in the bathtub, like I do nearly every sunday morning, after reading some poetry and killing a spider with said poetry, I began a sock puppet show (sans socks) based on the shuffle feature in iTunes.  While my right hand sang lead, my left hand tried to keep up the back up.

There was a lively rendition of PYT, followed by a head(hand)-banging punk rock compilation. All the while, I was noticing the toilet looming from the corner.  It's not very often that one finds herself staring UP at the toilet, and from that angle, it looks like a misshapen, winking hippopotamus.  But from that angle, the edges 

of my skin are distorted where they hit the water, like a pencil in a glass, making the backdrop for my puppet show appear plumper than it actually is (and I oddly weighed in 5 lbs. lighter than usual this morning after a weekend of eating little more than my own weight in junk food).

A song from Moulin Rouge came on, and my lead hand serenaded the silent one (it was a solo), who inched steadily closer to the other and did that little squinchy face thing that Kermit does every once in a while.  As the song ended, they embraced and slowly sank down as the camera panned up to a shot of the chrome faucet shining in the sky behind them.

Ah, young love!