Grandma, What Hairless Legs You Have

for those of you who don't know, i am short. as in, less than 5 feet short. in my immediate little family of 4, only my brother currently breaks the 5 foot mark (well done to you!) at one point both my mother and father could boast of this goal, but they have been afflicted with skeletal shrinkage due to old age. stack the three of us on top of each other and a single male giraffe would still look upon us with disdain. such is my family.

i have been helping my parents paint their house for the last few days, and with the exception of one day when i conned a long lanky friend into helping out, "painting the house" also means "scaling a three rung ladder repeatedly, developing excellent calf muscles." it's not that we have tall ceilings; we're just that short. though inconvenient, this was doable until...

THE STAIRWELL. yes. regular three-rung ladders don't work well on stairwells. my father's first suggestion, of course, was to basically construct scaffolding for the whole house---thank goodness my mother has some sense of reason. nono, i said, we can do it, we just have to find stuff to prop up under half the ladder so we don't send paint flying down the carpeted stairs. and so i did one side (story to come later) and my father did the other.

this is how i came to stare at my father's calves for minutes on end (stabilizing the ladder). and then i noticed: he doesn't have much hair. okay yes, he's bald, but i meant on his legs. he has some of course, but not tons. why does this matter?

well, my mother's legs are completely hairless. she doesn't shave, she doesn't Nair, nothing. her legs are the mexican hairless cats of the leg world. a natural phenomenon. my legs, on the other hand, if not subjected to frequent shaving, er....well, i'll spare you the description. if i lived au naturale, i would be hairier than my brother. i thought i inherited leg hair from my father; now i know i am wrong. as far as i know, i am the hairiest person in my entire family. just call me chewbacca.

now, the other half of THE STAIRWELL painting experience---my half. the half that is titled: Conversations With Death.

right. so, i'm climbing the ladder to tape the ceiling, no big deal, la-di-da, but the higher up THE STAIRWELL i get the more freaked out i become. i'm fighting this, of course, because i don't want my father to have to do too much---ah, nobility---but you know, my hands are sweating, my legs are shaking, my mouth is dry. all symptoms of paranoia, and then here's the kicker: i see Death.

i hate, loathe, abhor, detest, consider an abomination, would vomit at the sight of, would throw pygmy goats at, would wish a plague of boils upon, people who ask me "why are you afraid of heights?" hello! look at me! i spent 99.9725% of my life less than 5 feet above the ground! it's like throwing a pagan witch into the southern baptist convention and asking, "why are you uncomfortable?" or giving a rhinoceros snorkeling gear and freeing it in the great barrier reef. or releasing an ostrich on the tundra. ah, i see i have developed an "animals of the african savannah" theme here. you get the point. "oh, but humans adapt! that's how we have survived as a species: high adaptability!" yes, i'm sure. throw me on top of a 2000 foot high plateau that's about 7 feet in diameter and i'm sure the spawn that follows me will have grown suckers on their hands and feet and can run down cliff-sides face-first, like a squirrel. me, i will have perished from fright. or rolled off the edge in my sleep.

anywho, back to Death. he's there, far far below, like 12 feet below, about the size of an apple, going: hello! hello! would you fancy coming down here for a bit? we have fantastic billiards.
Me: what? oh, um, no thank you. not if you don't mind.
Death: but are you sure? it wouldn't be very difficult for you to come with me at all, you know, just a few inches to your right....
Me: yes, but then my tombstone would say, "here lies jo she died by rugburn." and not that it matters to you, but there are other ways i'd rather go.
Death: i think Death by Rugburn is a nice way to go! not to mention you'd die doing something NOBLE for your parents! i can't think of any more creative ways, can you?
Me: more creative? you can't be more creative? wait, i'm an experiment in creativity? what kind of morbid loser are you?
Death: well if you're going to get all testy, i might just have to come up there and nudge you a bit....
Me: alright alright. let's see...my mind could slowly deteriorate until i think i'm a hippo and that charter bus is my mate!
Death: mmmm.
Me: or i could be mistaken as a dwarf by a bigoted giant who smashes me to bits with a medieval club, oh wait that sounds painful.
Death: well if you're not coming up with anything better...
Me: wait wait! or i could be walking along a posh alley somewhere and a piano could come crashing on my head! but it'd have to be a steinway or busendorfer or yamaha or you know, something nice. no clavinovas, please.
Death: no, i like the clavinova idea. it's ironic! it's amusing! it's fitting, you know, really. *pauses* i think you've given me all the ideas i need for my next final destination movie.
Me: what, you're making ANOTHER one of those?
Death: well, it is one of my best roles, you know. i get to let loose my twisted side!
Me: you're a sick wanker, i hope you know. and now *hops off ladder* i'm done, so you lost your chance! BWAHAHAHHAHA!
Death: *poof!*