I'm in Bellingham now, visiting my dad who, unfortunately, lives with the evil stepmother. Cinderella only had to scrub floors. My dad has to watch his wife throw a temper tantrum when he won't eat her microwaved hotdog. I know, I know, I sound like some version of Drizella, myself.
My beloved sister Tanya encourages me to rise above the fray, but being a down and dirty kind of girl, I find such rising difficult. Her solution, when she sees the steam coming out of my ears is to cry out joyfully, "Oh wow, what could be more beautiful than Bellingham in August? Let's go for a walk!" Six and a half miles later, I'm feeling better and ready for the next round.
I never did like Bellingham when I lived here in the 60s. No sun for one thing. And nothing for a 13-year-old to do. I couldn't go downtown for two reasons. First, it smelled like vomit (paper mill). And second, it was such a small town, if I ventured to the shopping district, I was bound to run into someone I knew. A horrifying prospect.
But now the paper mill is gone. And when I wander the downtown and peer into the faces of the locals, I wonder if I went to school with any of them. Most surprising of all, I have discovered there are plenty of fun things to do in Bellingham, not least of which is making faces at the stepmother behind her back. I'm all grown up now, I guess.
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