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Lynna Clark: Libe is goob

I’m hoping to grow into my lips soon. If you just imagined Sophia Loren with that beautiful come hither pouty, I’m terribly sorry. The image should be more akin to an old Steven Tyler. It’s not pretty. I’m apparently allergic to some unknown substance which turned my mouth a little wrong side outwards. Now all my shirts have a coffee dribble right down the center. Remember that Saturday morning cartoon with Fat Albert and the kid with the big lips? Remember how he mumbled out the words and used a lot of B’s? NOW you’re getting the picture.

“Cub to beckbass Dabid. I fwibe bakun.”

My beloved looked at me curiously, “Whaaat…” Though he was happy to discover bacon for breakfast he wondered silently if there was any coffee left. It seemed there had been a mishap upon my lovely morning attire.

“Whab bue doobin tobay?” I asked as I tried again to consume the sweet nectar of life from my favorite mug. It assured me that “Life is Good.” I began to question the validity of that statement.

He listed the things he hoped to accomplish then asked if I needed anything. “Want me to stop and get you some drinking straws… or a bib or something?” He glanced at my shirt.

“Nobe. Ibe fibe.”

He wondered aloud, “Want to go with me to visit Mrs. So-and-So at the hospital? I could pick you up on my way home from work.”


He tipped his head to gaze at my loveliness. “Sooo… no?”

I was ashamed and cleaned up my answer, “Nobe tanktube.”

He kissed my cheek trying to stay out of the way of my lips. I looked at him and consoled myself with the fact that his mom says he has a big head. Not as-in filled with pride… more like that of a German shepherd. For years she has warned, “Don’t get your hair cut too short son. You’ve got your Grandpa Peele’s head and you need a lot of hair to cover all that up.”

Once he left I checked the mirror again. I changed my mind and hoped that I DON’T grow into my lips. That would make the rest of me quite hefty.

Hefty Lynna would be even less pleasant than Large Lip Lynna. That reminded me that my namesake turned twenty five this week. When she was born my sister named her Lynna and I was thrilled… until everyone started calling her Little Lynna. So what did that make me?

Big Lynna was not pleasant either. For a while the family obliged and called me Tall Lynna. That stopped making sense when she hit fourth grade and began towering over me. Come to think of it… that never made sense.

A knock at the door sent me scrambling for a clean shirt and a hockey mask. It was our youngest daughter. She’d just been to get new contacts. They had to order them special because she has large eyeballs. She laughed, “Yep, me and the minions!”

I laughed too. It sounded like habhablahablablabbb…

We sat at the kitchen table and enjoyed another cup of coffee… her with her big eyeballs and me with my fat lips. Her three year old twins jumped on a bed and fished for sharks with yardsticks. We worried that they might poke someone’s eye out… but not enough to get up and check on them. Another clean shirt was soiled because she made me laugh.

When her daddy gets home I shall kiss his big head with my fat lips… because my coffee cup was right.

Our big ol’ fat happy life really is good! Besides, if you can’t trust your favorite coffee mug, who CAN you trust?


Lynna Clark lives and writes in Salisbury.

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