This is my first post under the category Adventures In La-La Land. :smokin:

It’s a place I visit frequently. Partly because I go to work regularly.
But most of the time, La-La Land comes to visit me. It’s an unusual, exciting place, where strange things happen to strange people, and all of Newton’s physical laws are suspended as Murphy’s take over.
And best of all—-IT’S ALL TRUE!! :razz: :razz: :razz: :razz: :razz:

So, I’ve been working long, working hard. I’m on the last chapter of this manuscript. I get up & stretch–it’s time for a break. Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door…

There’s a young man there. Maybe 23-24, kinda short, bandy-legged white guy. Hair slicked across his head, wearing shorts, tank-top teeshirt. And carrying two apples from my tree in back in his hand.
“How ya doin’, ma’am?” I detect something like a West Virginia twang. “Was wonderin’ if you were lookin’ for someone to do some grass cutting for ya.”
Does my yard look that bad? Yes.
That’s because I HAVE TO FINISH THIS LAST BLOODY CHAPTER!! So it’ll have to stay that way until the novella is finished.
“No, thank you”, I say pleasantly, silently making sure the screen door between us is locked. “I’ve got it covered.”
“Oh, okay then…need your bushes trimmed?”
I’m getting that little prickly feeling at the nape of my neck that I write so often into my characters. Was there a hint of sexual innuendo there?

Do my bushes need trimming?
Yes. But it’ll have to wait until the novella is finished. :???:

“Um, no, not today,” I murmur. “Thanks.”
He’s still standing there, holding tightly onto MY apples. He nods, gives a little smile. “Okay, I understand. How about a massage?”

I blink. And blink again. For some reason I look behind me, like I’m looking to see if anybody else heard the same thing I did. My cat’s not reacting, so I must’ve heard wrong. “Excuse me?” :shock:
“Would you like a massage? See, I just moved here, & I’m trying to help my Grandmother by earning a buck or two. And I really was almost certified for massage therapy, but I missed the last couple of classes and the final exam. But I AM qualified, really I am.”
Missed the last two classes, eh? Those must’ve been the ones that explained that professional masseurs don’t go door-to-door drumming up business.

I’m feeling rather stunned about this whole thing. My witty response is something like, “uhhh…”
“I’m really good at it. I promise.” Another smile. “Maybe ten, fifteen dollars?”

I know it’s been an eternity–but do I really LOOK like it’s been that long since I got layed??!
Yes. But it’ll have to wait until the novella is finished. :humping:

I’m thinking fast. The gun’s in the bedroom, butcher knife in the kitchen. One hard yank, & he could probably force my cheap-assed screen door open. I smile sweetly. “Thanks anyway, but I don’t need a massage. My bushes could use trimming, but it’ll have to wait until my novella’s finished.”

He looks truly disappointed. “Okay,” he murmurs, and, palming my ripe, golden apples, he quietly leaves.
I know he left. I made a point of watching out the window. :poof:

Geez…I remember when young people sold magazine subscriptions…