These Things Come in Threes

The charming and fascinating Squirl tagged me with this one, so here you go:

Three names you go by:
Susan
Susie
Mrs. Fairchild

Three screen names you have had:
Susie
Mr. Rogers
Johnnie Cochran

Three physical things you like about yourself:
Eyes
Smile
Various concentrated nerve endings

Three parts of your heritage:
English
German
Scottish

Three things that scare you:
Thinking about my daughter going out into the world
When it turns out I’ve been very wrong in my perception of someone (rare)
That’s all I can think of; I don’t scare easily

Three things you’re wearing now:
pajama pants
a T-shirt
eyeglasses
(whew, good thing this isn’t “four things,” ’cause that’s it!)

Three of your favorite bands or musical artist:
Neville Brothers
Smokey Robinson
Ben Harper
(VERY tough to limit; I like SO many, even some white people!)

Three of your favorite songs:
Be Thou My Vision
In Your Eyes
Higher Love

Three things you want in a relationship:
(I’m answering with a love relationship in mind, rather than a friendship, business relationship, etc.)
Kindness
Faithfulness (in all areas)
Great sex

Two truths and a lie (which one is a lie?)
I used to be a cheerleader
I was once charged with vandalism
I have written a novel
(No, you have to GUESS the lie!)

Three physical things about the preferred sex that appeal to you:
Eyes
Biceps (shout out to Aaron N.!)
Kind smile
(“Preferred” gives me pause; I am answering re: males, to whom I am more physically attracted; I prefer different folk for different functions 🙂

Three of your favorite hobbies:
Blogging
Photography
Cooking

Three things you want to do badly right now:
Have a 100% clean house
Have all my spring planting done
Really like exercising (I don’t yet, but I want to)
(These things would seem to suggest that I should get my butt out of my blogging chair and git bizzy!)

Three careers you’re considering:
(These are things I’ve daydreamed of. Not planning to pursue.)
Stand-up comic
Judge
Interior designer

Three places you want to go on vacation:
Asheville, NC (this one is already planned)
Greece
Montana (again)

Three kids’ names you like:
Annabelle
Corinne
Caroline

Three things you want to do before you die:
See my daughter grown, happy and healthy
Stick around long enough for my grandchildren to remember how much I loved them
Master some areas of my temperament that still displease me

Three ways that you are stereotypically a girl:
Rarely leave home without lip gloss
LOVE me some shoes and purses
Go nuts for little babies

Three celebrity crushes:
Aaron Neville
Johnny Depp
Tom Jones (from waaaaaay back)

I’m not going to officially tag anyone, but whomever reads and is interested, please go right ahead and tag yourownself. This one’s actually kind of fun.

And now, to matters of a more controversial nature . . .

WHAT WOULD YOU DO . . .

If you entered a contest that required you to think carefully, to write something, to use wit and skill and intuition . . . and if you WON that contest, fair and square . . . and if the advertised major awards for winning that contest included a photograph of a certain famous blogger, in certain signature attire pertaining to said blogger AND a certain simple carb concoction known as “the San Francisco treat” . . . and if once it had been publicly announced that you were the winner of that contest, said famous blogger who originated, promoted, and judged said contest emailed your winning ass and said, “the Rice-a-Roni offer was a total scam . . . I must confess to complete fibbery regarding the San Francisco Treat.”

This, dear readers, is the unfortunate situation in which I find myself today. I planned my menu, as well as my grocery budget, around the fact that I would be receiving somewhere between one box and a year’s supply (a girl can dream!) of the SFT. But no. I was scammed. Now I ask you,

WHAT WOULD YOU DO?

UPDATE: Sunday morning. The scammer in question has cried “uncle.” She has been given a suggestion of a way to atone for her offenses. We shall await her response as to whether she is willing to take her punishment like a LADY.

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Biscuit Friday ~ Now with Eyeholes

Before
“Are you lookin’ at me?”

After
“I am SO not lookin’ at you.”

Stuff Portrait Friday

My Medicine Cabinet
This is probably un-American, and I’d never thought about it before, but I don’t have a medicine cabinet. One bathroom has a mirror that covers the whole wall. Others have mirrors that hang on the wall, don’t open up. So we have a medicine basket in the pantry. Here it is. Hmmm. This is the medicine for three humans and one dog. This picture makes me feel thankful. We’re pretty healthy.

Medicine basket

My Relaxing Place

Comfy cozy

This is “my” chair. It is welcoming and I love the fabric. It is in a corner of the family room, next to a window. It doesn’t face the TV. It faces all the other seats in the room, and the kitchen. I read here. Oh, it has an ottoman, too. One time when I felt like I was “losing it,” and wondered aloud to Jif what would happen if I had to go into the loony bin, he said he’d never let them take me away. He said even if I had to be in a strait jacket, he’d put me in my chair with a stack of good books, when he had to go to work. I told him if I were in a strait jacket, I wouldn’t be able to turn the pages of the good books. He said he’d hire me a page turner. I love him for that. I felt a lot better, knowing we had a workable plan 😉

Souvenir from a Great Trip
When I thought about this part of today’s assignment, I realized that I’m not a big souvenir person. The occasional rock or T-shirt, maybe, but mostly my souvenirs are photographs. Then I thought about the most recent “trip” that I took. Last night I took a little trip down the road to meet up with mrtl. This was my first time ever meeting someone from the internet, and if that ain’t a trip, I don’t know what is. We had a lovely time, and I brought home this souvenir:

Souvenir: Peanut Butter Pie

Look, mrtl, I still have mine. (mrtl already ate her souvenir.) I shall enjoy my souvenir with lunch, I think. And I really am unable to say, think, or write the word “souvenir” without hearing a little John Prine:

Memories, they can’t be boughten
They can’t be won at carnivals for free
Well, it took me years
To get those souvenirs
And I don’t know how
They slipped away from me.

Oh, speaking of a “trip,” I also travelled to the Cotillion yesterday, where I won FIRST PRIZE in the “Name that Bucky” contest. Bucky will turn forty here in a minute or two, and you can’t turn 40 without having a middle name. So she held a contest to determine what her middle name will be, and I offered the winning suggestion! I won a photograph of Bucky (autographed, I hope), in her, um, chaps, and some Rice-A-Roni. Go read all about it.

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In Which I Go On and On About How I Have No Time to Go On and On

My goodness, I’m busy this week. Homestuff, family stuff, workstuff, all desperately needing to get done. I am cramming in some continuing education this week, to avoid facing the predicament I faced a couple of years ago when it was time to renew my head shrinker’s license. I need so many hours of continuing ed every year, in order to remain “legal” in my profession. I have always had waaaaay more than the number I need, so have never paid too much attention to counting my hours. Two years ago, we moved (our home) and I moved (my office), and there were health issues and work issues and yaddayaddayadda, and it got to be the end of the year, time to send in my license renewal info and I had a HOLY CRAP moment when I realized that I needed four more hours! To shorten the story, fast forward to me sitting in a crappy hotel conference room in a D.C. suburb, listening to a topic that I don’t quite remember at the moment, except that the presenter made a rather compelling case for diagnosing both Bill and Hillary Clinton with Narcissistic Personality Disorder, and she told a kickass story of “Mr. Johnson,” a client who showed up in her office in running shorts that exposed his, um, little Mr. Johnson. Oh, and did I mention that this was on December 20th?! Everyone in the room, including the presenter, knew that the ONLY reason anybody was sitting there was because we had F’ed up on counting our CE hours. The presenter, God bless her, would have been quite interesting, I suspect, except that no one was really listening, because we were all making last minute gift lists, and grocery lists, and writing out Christmas cards, and napping . . .

All that storytelling to tell you why I have no time to tell you a story! So I lifted this actual email from my personal email box, which I had already lifted to put in my little journal, where I had already added the “UPDATE.” (I sure hope you all are making more sense than I am today.)

From: whatwasit@comcast.net [Add to Address Book] [View Source]
To: lulu@netzero.net
Subject: wardrobe malfunction
Date: Thu, 13 Jan 2005 21:04:32 +0000

Lulu. Please help me. You are the only girlfriend who is available at this moment. (You might not be available either, but I can pretend you are.) This is what I did: I got ready for work this morning. I was going to wear a black sweater. I put on a black bra. So far, so good. Then I changed my mind. I decided on a pale pink cashmere sweater. Nice. And I forgot about the black bra. I went to work. I went to the grocery store. A lot of people in the grocery store looked at me. I thought they were lovin’ my pink cashmere. No. They were shocked and horrified at my BLACK BRA screaming out from under my PALE PINK sweater. Did anyone tell me? No. I didn’t know until I got home and for some reason finally heard, with my own ears, the SCREAMING of the black bra under the pale pink sweater. Oh, Lulu. Oh, oh, oh. Did you ever have one of those days? I’m going to bed now.

UPDATE: Lulu CALLED long distance (cell phone, but still . . .) to help me through the undergarment incident. She offered that I probably started a trend. I kinda thought the whole whitetrashion thing was Britney’s domain. But don’t you know, the next time I was in Foodtown, EVERY daggone frazzled, forty-something chick in the place was wearing a SCREAMIN’ dark bra under a fluffy pastel sweater. I am SO all that. Whitetrashion ROCKS!

***

Certain names were changed to protect the guilty. In my reply to Lois Lane’s comment yesterday, I explained how blogging had grown from my overemailing friends my little stories. This is a small example. I think my friends are so grateful that I have my new blogfriends on which to inflict my tales 🙂 You can read more about Lulu and me in the Archives, March 9th and 11th (one of my very favorite posts). Oh, if you read them, read in date order.

And speaking of my friends, one who reads my little blog emailed me this photo this morning, in response to the Spritz story:

Moose and Fluffy, photo by a friend’s friend’s friend, somewhere in Canada

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Fine Dining with Spritz

I have already committed the cardinal sin of blogging, which is to say, I’ve told a lot of friends and family about my blog. If you have not started blogging yet (you know you want to), or if you are a blogger who is debating whether or not to reveal your blog to people you know and love, DON’T DO IT. There are many reasons not to do so, but first and foremost is that having those close to you reading your blog dramatically decreases the number of stories you can tell and the ways in which you can tell them. The following is told with reluctant permission from one, and enthusiastic encouragement from others.

Saturday night, we went to Roy’s, to celebrate the 75th birthdays of both Nana and Pop Pop (Jif’s parents). I had never been to Roy’s before. Jif and I don’t get out much anymore, and when Shiraz McConaughey, Jif’s little sis, suggested we take the parents there for their birthdays, I was thinking, “Roy Rogers?! We can do better than that . . .” Like I say, I don’t get out much. We were seated at a table for 10, with Nana at one end, beside me, and Pop Pop at the other end. At Nana’s other side, across from me, sat Shiraz. Next to Shiraz sat her handsome husband, “Spritz.” (That wasn’t his name until Jif christened him that during the drive home . . . you’ll see why . . . ) And across from Spritz, beside me, sat my love, Jif. Our end of the table was having a high old time, and I expect the other end was, as well. We enjoyed calamari, wine, Maui Wowie salads, wine, sashimi, macadamia-encrusted Mahi Mahi, wine, and finally, for dessert, WINE. No, just kidding. For dessert, those at our end of the table enjoyed Roy’s famous chocolate souffle. This is like a tiny, personal chocolate cake, that is still liquid batter in the middle. HOT batter.

As Spritz took his first too-big bite of this heavenly confection, and attempted to swallow, the hot batter burned his tonsillicular area so badly that he coughed/spit/spritzed the big chocolate bite right out of his mouth and across the freakin’ table right into Jif’s face. His forehead region, to be exact. So that Jif had chunks o’ chocolate from eyebrows to slightly recessed hairline. Imagine if you were standing by a large mud puddle when a Humvee rolled through it, splattering wet, brown globs onto your face. I swabbed Jif up with my napkin while Spritz tried to explain his shocking behavior, something about, “It was HOT!“

Jif, being a glass-half-full kind of guy, allowed, “Well, Spritz, if you had to spit something in my face, at least it was something tasty.”

Spritz, also an optimistic kind of guy, quickly grabbed the olive branch that Jif extended, agreeing, “Yea, it’s not like I spit raw tuna at you.” And the two brothers-in-law shook hands across the table. Ah, sweet reconciliation. However, although chocolate was wiped (from forehead, then later from eyeglasses, and eyelids, and cheeks), and hands were shaken, Spritz knew that in this family, as in many others, once you act like a hyena, intentionally or otherwise, stories will be told. Forever. And they might even be embellished. And now, thanks to the miracle of modern technology, even blogged.

As entertaining as the flying choco-bits were, they jogged Shiraz’s memory of an even better “Spritz goes out to eat” story. This was some 10 years ago. Shiraz and Spritz had just become engaged, and Jif and I had just learned that we were expecting LG. A lot to celebrate, so Jif and I invited Shiraz and Spritz out to a lovely, elegant old inn on the Chesapeake Bay. Spritz, then in his early 20s and not yet the world-class salesman, executive type that he is today, was a little less than sophisticated when it came to ordering haute cuisine. I think Jif and I must have been somewhat impressed, maybe even a little intimidated when the young, newly betrothed Spritz ordered the Salmon Mousse.

We were toasting, talking, laughing, just generally having a delightful evening, when the waitress came to deliver our culinary delights. We three oohed and ahhed at the plates placed before us. But not Spritz. He politely but assertively called the waitress back to the table.

“This is not what I ordered,” he informed her.

She flipped open her chic leatherette pad. “I have the ‘Salmon Mousse’ for you, sir,” she said with professionalism.

OK, this is where the dialogue gets a little fuzzy for me, because it’s been ten years and dozens of Spritz stories, and lots of laughter and a bit of wine. But here’s what went wrong:

Spritz was waiting for a Surf and Turf sort of entree. He wanted some salmon. And he wanted some moose. With big ol’ antlers. The boy wanted a piece of fish and a Bullwinkle steak!

Shiraz said Spritz was dejected for days after that incident. “I was really looking forward to trying that moose. I never had moose before . . . “

***

You know I love you, Spritz 😉

Do you have an embarrassing restaurant story? OR, would you like to take Spritz out to eat?

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Sunday Post ~ ". . . see the goodness of the Lor…

Sunday Post ~ “. . . see the goodness of the Lord . . . be strong and
take heart . . . “

Psalm 27:7-14

file under: &Sunday Post

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Biscuit Friday ~ Paper Shredder

In addition to makin’ copies, Biscuit is an excellent paper shredder. He shreds napkins, paper towels, tissues and the like. Lucky for him that he’s cute.

As seen on America’s Most Wanted

He has no eyeholes at the moment. He is scheduled to get some new eyeholes next Tuesday at 4 p.m., at the Dog Wash.

And today is also

Stuff Portrait Friday

Kristine gave me some credit for the idea, but it was really hers. I just rambled on about what a fun idea it was until she put my name in her post about it.

Today’s stuff:

The ugliest thing hanging on my walls:

We haven’t lived in our house very long, so most of the things hanging in here are things we like. We are very slowly redoing one room at a time. We have not yet made it to the living room which is where you’ll find these babies. Pink draperies, hanging against a wall that is “I’m-so-blue-I-don’t-know-what-to-do Blue.” The next time you see my living room, it won’t look like this. (I don’t know when that will be.)

My hair care products:

I do not feel up to assembling and art-directing a photo shoot of my many and seldom-used products (for reasons that will become clear when you meet my two best friends, below), but I did want to play this game today, so I have chosen my two most amusing products. Ladies and gentlemen, Meet the Flockers:

The authentic Flocker, and the BIG SEXY HAIR Root Pump, which proclaims on the back, “It’s always BETTER when it’s BIGGER!” (That’s not me, that’s the Root Pump talkin’.)

And then our last “stuff” category. My most prized material possession. This was a tough one. A piece of jewelry that Jif gave me? An objet d’art? Something handmade by LG? An heirloom from my family or Jif’s? A Bible? An old photograph? All of these things I considered last night before I went to sleep. Then I woke up this morning with a monster headache, that is, at this very moment, threatening to become a migraine. And my perspective on what’s important in life shifted instantly. My most prized possessions, and indeed, my new best friends:

Trust me, they’re blurry in real life, too.

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If I Had a Hammer . . .

Greenie tagged me, with this “Yes, I would, if I only could…” meme tag thing. From this list of possible vocations, I must choose 5 and complete the thought, “If I could be . . .”

Then I must tag 3 other people who don’t know what they want to be when they grow up.

Here goes:

If I could be an INNKEEPER, I would keep a magic inn, where each guest would feel at home when they stayed with us. The home of their best fantasies, whether or not they’ve ever felt that “at home” anywhere before.

If I could be a LIBRARIAN, I would be a national champion Captain of the Book Cart Precision Drill Team Olympics. Roll with it, baby . . .

If I could be a MISSIONARY, I would be “Christian Bitch,” the rock star of missionaries. And I would officially adopt a new position.

“Christian Bitch,” Rock Star Missionary

If I could be a WRITER, I would write a book that would make people smile, and think, and want to do better. And my great-grandchildren would treasure my book so much that they would fight over it. But then they would JUST STOP THAT RIGHT THIS MINUTE! Because Great-Grandma Susie didn’t like fighting.

If I could be a bonnie PIRATE, I would sail the Seven Seas in the company of Johnny Depp as Jack, and confirm his “status” once and for all. Together we would embark on a worldwide booty quest (we already have the worldwide booty).

These are the other career possibilities from which to choose:

If I could be a scientist
If I could be a farmer
If I could be a musician
If I could be a doctor
If I could be a painter
If I could be a gardener
If I could be a chef
If I could be an architect
If I could be a linguist
If I could be a psychologist
If I could be an athlete
If I could be a lawyer
If I could be a professor
If I could be a llama-rider
If I could be an astronaut
If I could be a world famous blogger
If I could be a justice on any one court in the world
If I could be married to any current famous political figure

OK, I will pass this fascinating exercise on to:

Circus Kelli, Nic, and Kranki, because they are brilliant and stunningly beautiful, and can surely be anydarnthing they wanna be (how they gonna say “no” after that?)

file under: &Memes

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What I Was Thinking

Rated: LURB (for Language Unbecoming a Respectable Blog)

Many years ago, when I was much too young to have done so, I read Judy Blume’s “Wifey.” I loved the style of that book. As I recall, what the main character, Sandy, said was written in normal font, while what she was thinking was written in italics. That made a big impression on me; it is so practical. I think it is how I go through life ~ there’s what I say, which is often kind and right and good, and fairly intelligent; and then there’s the italicized part ~ my thoughts, which are often downright freaky! I daydream of someday writing a novel, using Judy Blume’s “unspoken thoughts in italics” device, with a psychotherapist as the main character. There’s what the shrink says, and then there’s what the shrink thinks.

A few years ago, shortly after what was by far the single worst episode of my professional life, I answered the telephone at my office. I was in no mood to take no crap from nobody. (Yes, I’m aware of the triple negative; it was THAT bad of a time.) I was in a place of being very careful, very selective, in screening new clients; for my own well-being and for that of my clients.

There’s a man on the phone. We’ll call him Michael. He sounds poised and confident. My intuition picks up what my ears don’t.

M: I am having a really tough time. I want to get back together with my wife. I wish I hadn’t left her.

S: How did you decide to leave?

M: Our son is severely disabled, and it was really hard on me.

S: That does sound difficult; so you’ve been the primary caretaker for your son?

M: No, I hardly do anything with him. My wife does it all.

S: But it was really hard on YOU? Does your wife know you want to go back home?

M: Yes, but she won’t take me back. Her whole family is against me.

S: Against you?

M: Yes, they’ve told her if she takes me back, they’ll disown her.

S: They’ll disown her if she takes her husband back? What the hell did you do? That sounds kind of extreme. Why do you think they’re so against you?

M: It’s because she and I have serious communication problems.

Pause.

S: Her parents will disown her if she tries to repair the “communication problems” in her marriage? Sure, buddy. What did you do?

M: Yea, pretty much. They hate me.

S: Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s raining. Do I care if this person hangs up on me? Would I really mind pissing him off and having him say nasty things about me? Not. one. bit. Look, Mike. Your in-laws aren’t going to disown their daughter because you and she had some communication problems. How about you tell me what they would tell me if I asked them why they hate you?

M: Well, there was an occasion . . .

S: What occasion was that, Mike? This guy is creeping me out; he’s not for me and I’m not for him…

M: I had started to think that my wife didn’t find me sexually attractive . . .

S: silence

M: And I wanted the best for her . . . I wanted her to be with someone that she found attractive . . .

S: silence

M: So I talked her into having sex with this guy that we know, after I got her to admit that she thought he was attractive . . .

S: You talked your wife into having sex with another man.

M: Yea, she didn’t want to do it. It took me months, but finally she agreed.

S: silence

M: Oh, and they let me watch. Well, that was my idea, too.

S: silence

M: Then it was like my wife hated me . . . and she told her family, and they all hate me, too . . .

S: Ya think? Mike, in my opinion, from what you’ve told me, you have some work to do on your own before you can turn your attention to repairing your marriage . . .

M: See, this is what I need. I need a woman who will stand up to me and tell me how it is . . . I need someone like you . . .

S: You have no idea how much I’d like to tell you how it is . . . Actually, Mike, in my opinion, you would do better at this point with a male therapist . . .

M: Oh no, I want you. I really want to understand women. You are intelligent and insightful, and I really want to dig deep into the darkest parts of your psyche, so I can understand women better.

S: 1) Ain’t no way you’re digging deep into ANY part of me, and B) You want to dig, allow me to refer you to Home Depot, where you can get yourself a freakin’ shovel . . . I’m going to be very direct with you, Mike. If you think I am sharp, then you might choose to listen to me. You are not ready to understand women. You need to understand Mike. If you’re going to go “digging deeply” anywhere, it should be inside yourself. I believe it will be less distracting for you to do that kind of work with a male therapist. I don’t want to work with you, and if you think I’m going to inflict you on another woman, you’re even crazier than you appear.

M: After I see a male therapist for a while, then could I maybe see you?

S: If you see pigs flying around outside my office, you come on in. You and your therapist can decide if and when you’re ready to work with a female therapist. You may call me when that time comes, and if I’m not available to see you, I’ll try to help you find someone who can. Now, here are some male therapists that I think could be of some help to you . . .

***

Then, more recently, another gentleman caller, Tony:

T: I’m not sure I really need counseling.

S: Dude, you called me. I didn’t go out recruiting. You’re not sure you need to be talking to me?

T: Well, I guess it would be a good idea. But it’s not like I really need it.

S: It’s not like I really need this, Tony. Shit or get off the pot. Sounds like you might want to think about it some more, Tony. You’re welcome to give me a call again when you decide…

T: Do you do “Anger Management” counseling?

S: OK, here’ s my out; the last thing I want to do is “anger management” with someone who is not sure he wants to manage his anger. Tony, there are people who are specifically trained in that field, who specialize in that. If that is what you expect will be the focus of your therapy, I’d like to refer you to someone who is very skilled in that field . . .

T: You don’t work with anger? How can you be a therapist who doesn’t work with anger?!

S: Tony, right now I’m just a therapist who doesn’t work with YOU. Oh, I’m sorry; I wasn’t being clear. I work with whatever emotions my clients bring with them; however, since you are specifically looking for Anger Management, I think you’d be better served by someone who specializes in that field. I have some colleagues who specialize . . .

T: I DON’T NEED ANY GODDAMN ANGER MANAGEMENT THERAPY!

S: Shyeah, right. I misunderstood you, Tony. I thought that was exactly what you asked me for. . .

T: The fucking judge said I need it. I say I don’t! But I can’t see my kids again until I get a piece of paper signed, saying that I’ve had ANGER MANAGEMENT THERAPY! Are you going to HELP ME OR NOT?!

S: Heh. Eh heh heh. That would be a “not.” I want to make sure I’m understanding you correctly. You have been court ordered to get anger management therapy, in order to be allowed unsupervised visits with your children. Is that right?

T: Yes! Finally, you fucking listened to what I’m saying!

S: Indeed. Now you fucking listen to what I’m saying. And you disagree with the judge’s recommendation. You are really not interested in getting help with managing your anger, because you don’t believe you have a problem. What you really hope to find is a therapist who will sign a form saying that you’ve completed a course of therapy that, in fact, you haven’t completed. You really just want that paper. Am I with you, now?

T: Yes! Will you help me or not?

S: The best help I can offer you is to give you an appropriate referral . . .

T: Someone told me you were a Christian! Hah! Some Christian you are, when your fellow man needs help, and you won’t even reach out to a man in need! And you call yourself a Christian?

S: Oh, cheez whiz, here we go. The universal response to the professing Christian who’s telling you something you don’t want to hear… “AND YOU CALL YOURSELF A CHRISTIAN?!”
Tony, my faith is not relevant here, except that my faith, combined with my ethics, absolutely prevents me from accepting you as a client when I am strongly convinced that a referral would be more appropriate to your needs; and the same things also absolutely prevent me from signing a form claiming that you’ve received something that you have not received. I do not have what you’re looking for, Tony.

T: Bitch! Christian bitch!

S: I’m so glad you don’t need anger management therapy, Tony. You’re welcome to call me again to get those referrals, when you’re ready, Tony. I wish you well. Click. Wonder how much dog groomers make . . .

***

When do you have that big chasm between what you think and what you say?

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An Apology, Long Overdue

I am six years old, sitting on the back porch of our house in Delaware with my Mom, while she shells the peas that we’ve picked from our garden. This is the best porch in the neighborhood. Big, with a gray painted cement floor and a green-and-white striped metal awning that shields us from sun and rain. We have a Frigidaire right there on the porch, where there is always “pop” and beer. From the porch we see our neighbors’ backyards to the left and the right. My father owns the houses that we can see in either direction. I don’t know why I don’t say “my parents” own; it is my father who moved the houses there, maintains them, rents them out to people. Straight back from the porch is our sprawling, perfectly-tended garden; behind that, a large soybean field; behind that, the woods. Where I spend hours, where there is a “clubhouse,” where my friends and I can disappear all day without anyone even once fearing that we have been abducted by a predator. That doesn’t happen in the 1960s; or at least no one I know has ever heard of it happening.

We’re on the porch, and here comes Delma, the lady who, with her husband, “Alabama,” and their little baby, Bonnie, rents the house three to the left from our back porch. Delma is carrying a basket of ironing that she has done for my mother. My mother feels sorry for Delma, whose husband, “Alabama,” apparently “shoots pool for a living,” so she hires Delma to do jobs that Mom does better herself. Indeed, “Delma can’t iron worth a damn,” and often my Mom re-irons Delma’s work. But it is a way for my Mom to help Delma earn a little spending money.

I am fascinated by Delma. She sits down to chat, in one of the green and white folding lawn chairs, and I get very close and stare at her face. I tell her, “Your one eye is real pretty, Miss Delma.” She smiles, and she looks a little like Carly Simon (although I don’t know that at the time). Big, luxurious mouth. One tooth is very yellow.

She says, “Which one, honey?” And I lean across the arm of the lawn chair to point to the pretty one, but I lose my balance and I poke her in it. She’s real nice about it, though. Until that moment, my mother has not looked closely at Delma. Now she does, to make sure Delma’s eye is alright.

Then my mother says, “Delma, honey, you just fixed one eye.” So that’s why the one is so pretty. It’s been fixed. Delma has taken time from her ironing job, and her toddler chasing, and her fighting with Alabama, to put on some eye makeup. But she has only taken enough time to do the one eye. With black eyeliner, top and bottom. And shimmery blue eyeshadow, even on that narrow inside ledge of her lower eyelid. And lots of black mascara, to look like spider legs. It is a pretty eye. Two of them might be too much of a good thing. I think it is just fine that she has only fixed the one.

And I had to go and poke her in it. I wish I didn’t do that.

Sorry, Miss Delma.

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Sunday Post ~ "For this is what the Lord says: . …

Sunday Post ~ “For this is what the Lord says: . . . As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you . . .”

Isaiah 66:12-13

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