Here I was thinking I was the only one who could write a piece about squirrels and skirts. Apparently not very well either since Jen in Michigan didn't understand that I was misunderstanding my daughter's request that I twirl in my skirt. I was hearing her say squirrel. Clearly an example of how my writing isn't all that great. Sorry Jen.
So who could also write a piece about skirts and squirrels? Teri of The Road Lester Traveled. This was her reply to my post:
I have kids I don't even know stop me and ask me to twirl my skirt! (And since I never wear pencil skirts, they are rarely disappointed.)
My son found a baby squirrel in a parking lot while out Home Depot shopping with his dad once. This was when he was about two. He came home and said, "MOM! We found a squirrel in the parking lock!" (Yeah, he said "parking lock" with such conviction.) They had brought the baby home in one of his father's boots that had been in the truck. His little eyes were still shut. We raised that little guy (whose eyes never opened, so we named him Mr. Magoo) and although he had a cage, we never kept him in it. He just ran around the house. (And no, we weren't on a farm.) At one point, daddy got tired of having a squirrel in the house, so he banned him to the garage. It got too cold, and he wasn't accustomed to it, so he was dead in the morning. (The squirrel, not the dad.) At least that's my theory.
Oh how I dreaded telling my son that his squirrel was dead. He got up, and I knelt down and said, "Honey... I have some bad news." He just looked at me with those wide blue eyes. I said, "Your squirrel died in the night." He stood there and thought for a minute and then said, "Now we have to go get another squirrel who is NOT dead!"
That's my squirrel story.
And that only proves why I adore Teri. Please join me in worshipping that skirt-twirling-blind-squirrel-loving gal.
My life is better having her around.