“What is this?” She stopped and stared at an assemblage of random art supplies on the kitchen table. “You’ve been using the craft herpes again, haven’t you?”
“I made homemade Christmas cards this year.” I slid the glitter glue out of sight behind an elaborate ceramic chicken sculpture that served as a center piece on my parent’s kitchen table. “Mom has lots of art supplies left over from preschool projects.”
“You. You and your pompomed, craft-herpied homemade goodness.” She pointed an accusing finger at me. “If I get glitter in my eye, I’m blaming you.”
“I’m thinking,” I paused to find my house key. “You should probably lay blame at your mom’s door first. Considering the glitter body spray incident of not-so-long-ago.”
“Just because I’m going to run away and join the circus–”
“Of displaced strippers?” I finished.
“Or angry gingers with glitter in their eye.”
“And perpetually messed up hair, even when it’s styled.”
“It’s the ginger magic. Don’t question it.” She ordered.
“Is that the same magic that allows y’all to wear eighteen layers of petticoats and yet appear almost entirely unclothed?”
“No, it’s the meanness of ‘You shut up. I’ll beat you and you’ll like it.’ It’s that magic.”
“Oh, I can see how I would have confused the two.”
“‘Cause I’m a Blonde, B-L-I-N-D.’”
“Your craft herpes are limp and hard to manage.”
“Generally speaking, yes. It’s how they get in your eye.”