When I first started writing on WordPress, I printed out every story I wrote along with its accompanying graphic.
I filled five of the largest 3-ring binders I could find at Staples.
I was so enthralled with the fact that I was actually a “published author”! I felt my work needed to be immortalized in plastic.
For what? My 15 minutes of fame? To prove I existed and to share my brilliant thoughts with the world? To have something to pass on to my children and their children’s children?
Who the hell do I think I am?
Then the stark reality hit me: who cares? No child of mine is going to want these tomes cluttering their shelves; besides, they’ll never find the time to sit down and read them. They’ll get tossed in a basket next to the recliner, with all the other good intentions. Soon they’ll be relegated to the basement or worse, the attic …. the black hole in every home.
I know what you’re thinking: “Why not self-publish on Amazon, Nancy, and have pretty books to keep on your shelf (or in a box) instead of unwieldy, unattractive 3-ring binders?” Honestly, I know me and it won’t get done. I just don’t give a rat’s ass and those pretty books will end up as kindling or more ‘stuff’ to be disposed of when I croak.
I suppose I can have them buried with me so I’ll have something to read as I become one with the earth. That’s a thought.
And so I made the call. Sometime during the summer of 2023 I stopped printing out my stories. I now have a little more free time not to mention plenty of ink for my printer.
Anyone interested in five 3-ring binders of my stories? They’re going cheap.
It’s a fiver today, including prompt words from FOWC with Fandango and Weekly Prompts Wednesday.
“Debonair, sophisticated and charming” sighed Alice Carter. “I just love that movie. Cary Grant is so good-looking and classy. They don’t make movies like that anymore, you know?”
“And that Ingrid Bergman is some beauty, too” replied Alice’s husband Ralph. “Those smoldering eyes, high cheekbones, graceful neck – a real looker, that one.”
“And so chic, too, Ralph. You always knew a real lady when you saw one. Well, I better start dinner. I’m making your favorite – sausage and potato casserole.”
“I hope you made a lemon meringue pie for dessert.”
“Of course! Have we ever celebrated your birthday without your favorite pie? I know what you like, Ralph.”
“No, we have not, Alice. The kitchen is your milieu and no one makes a lemon meringue pie like you, my little chickadee!” Alice blushed with delight; Ralph’s compliments were rare these days.
Returning to the den after starting dinner, Alice found Ralph was watching the weatherchannel. “My goodness! That weather girl’s pants are awfully tight! They’re a bit unseemly for TV, I think. Don’t you agree, Ralph?“
“Oh, I don’t think so at all, Alice. She’s got a lovely figure; she probably works out every day. I’m sure her parents instilled in her an excellent work ethic. You know, I remember reading in some countries the TV weather girls are topless.”
“Topless? Why, I never” Alice declared indignantly; Ralph switched the channel to the news.
Alice clucked her tongue. “Why aren’t there more delightful men on the news, men like that handsome Peter Jennings?”
“Because he’s dead” replied Ralph.
“How about Mike Wallace? He’s so dapper.”
“Also dead” Ralph reminded Alice.
“Look at that clown, Glenn Beck, wearing jeans and sneakers on a TV news show! Give him a beanie and he’d look just like one of those little rascal kids. What ever happened to that nice Matt Lauer?”
“Fired for overt misconduct and sexual harassment” replied Ralph.
“Good Lord! I don’t believe it! Well, what about Bill O’Reilly, Eric Bolling and Charlie Rose?”
“Fired, fired and, oh yeah .… fired. Alice, can I please have a moment of peace and quiet to watch the news?”
“Well, pardon me for living! No need to be rude, Ralph” she sniffed. “I’m going to check on the sausage casserole.”
When she returned Alice stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh my God, Ralph! What on earth are you watching now?”
“It’s still the news, Alice. In fact, it’s called ‘The News Channel’. News all day, every day.”
“The ‘X Rated News Channel’, you mean! No wonder those poor men got fired. What red-blooded guy could resist floozies like that showing off their goods on national TV? They look like hookers! And look at you sitting there in your underwear all bug-eyed. Disgusting!” Alice harrumphed.
“Put a lid on it, Alice! You don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about. These women are professionals. They’re lawyers, professors and judges, not some bimbos with sketchy qualifications who just walked in off the street.”
“Yeah, they’re highly qualified alright …. as adult entertainers!” Alice snapped. “Take that one on the end with the dyed blonde hair and skirt so short I can practically see Niagara Falls! What happened …. did they run out of fabric? And the other one with the dark hair. Who is she …. one of the Kardashians? With those spike heels and implants, I’m sure she can get a job as a pole dancer!”
“Woah, woah, woah! That’s enough, Alice! Look, this here is Megyn Kelly. She has a law degree, is a journalist, an author and a world-famous political commentator as well as a news anchor. The dark-haired one is Kimberly Guilfoyle. She’s a political analyst, an attorney and former First Lady of San Francisco. Now she’s engaged to Donald Trump, Jr.”
“Well, big whoop!! If you think I’m impressed, Ralph, you’ve got another thing comin’. You’re delusional!”
“I don’t care what you think, Alice. I’m sure their families are very proud of them. Besides being absolutely stunning, they are brilliant. Now why don’t you just run back into the kitchen and let me enjoy my one indulgence.”
“Indulgence??” Alice countered. “So you admit it’s all about cheap thrills and nothing to do with the news. You’re such a pig, Ralph!”
“Alice, your ignorance is showing. Can we please stop talking about this? How’s that sausage coming, anyway? I’m starving!”
Alice saw red. “Here’s an idea for you, Ralph. Get Kimberly what’s-her-name to see to your sausage. I’m sure she’s highly qualified! And one more thing …. Happy Effin’ Birthday!”
It’s been dreadfully cold lately; I seem to get a chill much easier now that I’m older. Maybe my “Senile Under-Skin Bleeding” is a direct result.
I spoke to my dermatologist about the thinning, drying and bruising skin on my lower legs; she suggested sauna bathing. The benefits include detoxification, increased metabolism, weight loss, increased blood circulation, pain reduction, anti-aging, skin rejuvenation, improved cardiovascular function, improved sleep, stress management and relaxation.
What could possibly go wrong?
I located a spa with a sauna. My glasses steamed up, I tripped and bumped into the frozen water bucket.
✦ Authors Note: “Senile Under-Skin Bleeding”, also known as “Senile Purpura”, occurs when the skin and blood vessels become more fragile as people age, making it easier for the skin to bruise from minor trauma. While it is mostly associated with older people, it is a common problem among those in their 30s and 40s. This frustrating and painful skin issue with a very ugly name can be improved slowly following a dedicated regimen of gentle exfoliation, daily Vitamin D and a skin lotion rich in Vitamin C. Staying out of the sun and wearing sunscreen, keeping hydrated and eating fruits and leafy greens are also extremely important and helpful.
Sammi at Weekend Writing Prompt has challenged us to write a piece of exactly 87 words, making sure to include the prompt “appointment”. This is my response to that challenge.
Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge is challenging us to write a Six Sentence Story using the word “kick”. I threw in 8 other prompts I had in my back pocket; this is my response.
Last week I had my bi-weekly (every two weeks) session with my pain management doctor; I always get a perverse kick out of the term ‘pain management’ and feel like I need to say something witty and clever (sarcastic) about it to the insentient people who work there, hereafter referred to as ‘the staff’.
“You know, the term ‘pain management‘ is all well and good however I’m really here in search of ‘pain termination‘”, I mention to the front desk receptionist who is characteristically unresponsive; my darling, unceasingly patient husband stands to the side with a sheepish yet accepting half-smile on his face (sometimes accompanied by a masterful eye-roll) knowing all to well there are times I cannot or simply will not control my Sicilian forked tongue, being the perspicacious and savvy sort that I am.
My doctor’s office is in a building with other doctors so there’s always a soft parade of wheelchairs and people with canes, crutches, walkers or other means of physical assistance going into the various offices; many have spouses/friends/caregivers accompanying them with dogeared paperbacks, sudoku puzzles or endlessly-beeping cell phones except for my husband and me who both have appointments with the same doctor for ‘management’ of our pain, he at 11:00 and me at 11:20, and so we accompany and entertain each other.
Akey is needed to unlock the door to the ‘Guest Restrooms’ which are located near the elevators; this is a majorinconvenience and I have issues with this arrangement since there’s not one but two ‘Staff Only’ restrooms in the doctor’s office which screams HYPOCRISY considering the patients are the ones who would benefit from having a restroom nearby and because the ‘staff’ sometimes uses the ‘guest’ restroom when they have their own damn restrooms (but we can’t use theirs), and since no one is actually resting in the ‘restroom’, let’s drop the euphemism and call it what it is – a toilet, FFS!
I persevere and consider the walk to the ‘Guest Restroom’ part of my daily exercise but rest assured – I am seething inside and secretly hope there’s a member of the ‘staff’ in the ‘Guest Restroom’ who might accidentally trip over someone’s cane; there are a lot of canes at ‘pain management’.
Speaking of canes, I bring along my boldnew walking stick; I don’t always need it but I think it makes me look erudite, sophisticated and elegant in a nonchalant sort of way, even though my knees are barking like angry junkyard dogs; looking good is half the battle.
In previous years at this time we’d be covered in a blanket of snow. With that in mind, here’s a story from January 14, 2023 ~ my response to Linda G. Hill’s Just Jot it January 2024 prompt word: “toast”.
A couple of years ago, New York was hit by a major snowstorm. Wearing thick-padded booties, the snow silently tiptoed in while we slept and when we awoke there was a three-foot-deep crystalline blanket everywhere we looked. It was coming down pretty heavy and we could barely see anything in the backyard as we looked out our bedroom window … almost as if someone was standing on our roof shaking out a king size comforter full of feathers. Bill and I stood there for a while taking in the silent beauty of it all, then shuffled into the kitchen to prepare a pot of coffee and a few slices of my homemade banana bread.
The instant we were done making breakfast, the lights went out. There was no point in trekking down to the basement to check the circuit breakers; we knew the area had experienced a power outage. We sat in the kitchen by the still-hot radiator enjoying our coffee and warm toasty bread, a pale white glow from the snow enveloping every room in the house. Before retreating to the living room, I poured our pot of coffee into a thermos to stay hot for a few hours.
I went to the closet and brought down Bill’s emergency hand-crank radio with LED flashlight, AM/FM stations including the NOAH weather channel, a power bank of phone chargers and USB ports. This baby would serve us just fine until the power was restored. In the meantime Bill ventured out to the frozen tundra of the screened-in porch to retrieve some logs for the fireplace.
Bill got a nice fire going while I set up the radio on the table between our recliners. The phone chargers and USB ports were lifesavers; we were able to keep our cell batteries from dying and my laptop going so I could work on my stories. I was even able to plug in my new electric blanket which used a handy dandy USB port. Bill marveled at the technology of the little red radio and only bemoaned one design flaw – there was no TV.
We were happily ensconced in our recliners enjoying our little haven. All was silent outside except for an occasional gust of wind and every so often we’d spot a blue jay out our front window picking berries off the holly bush. I think we must have dozed off for a bit when we were roused by the harsh sound of steady scraping. We listened for a few seconds, then realized someone was outside shoveling the snow. We peered out the window to see our two little neighbors, six-year-old twins Jackson and Connor, shoveling our front path. At least that’s who we figured they were; it was impossible to tell by the way they were bundled up.
We sat back in our chairs, sipping our coffee and listening to the steady scrape-scraping of the boys’ shovels. Closer and closer the sound came; now they were clearing the steps leading to our front door. The adagio of their shovels was replaced by a sharp staccato knocking on our front door. I sank deeper into my blanket while Bill went to get some money to pay the enterprising kids, delighted that he didn’t have to shovel our front path himself. He opened the heavy wooden door and stood just inside the glass storm door to settle up accounts. Jackson and Connor stood on the front porch leaning on their shovels; toothless grins, cherry-red faces and sparkling blue eyes glistened in the still-rapidly falling snow which clung to their long blonde eyelashes.
“We cleared your path for you, Mr. Richy!” they proudly declared in unison, looking over their shoulders to admire their handiwork which was now covered by a fresh ½” of new snow. They looked back at Bill, staring up at him for his approval, their faces sporting the goofiest, most irresistible smiles imaginable.
“I see that, boys, and a fine job it is, too” replied Bill. “So tell me, what’s your going rate?“
With furrowed brows and crinkled noses the twins eloquently asked “Huh??”
“How much do I owe you for shoveling our path?” Bill asked in a way they could understand.
Very matter-of-factly with absolutely no sign of embarrassment or regret, the boys announced “Oh, we’re not allowed to accept money. Our mom and dad said we have to do good deeds.”
“Hold that thought, boys, and don’t go anywhere.”
Bill scurried back into the living room. “Are you hearing any of this conversation?” he asked me, clearly incredulous. “A concept like that in this day and age is mind-blowing!”
“Well, what’s your game plan?” I asked, knowing Bill always had a plan brewing.
“My game plan? Why, I’m going to pay those boys for a job well done and toss in a few packs of Pokémon cards just for good measure!” He was downright gleeful.
Bill scurried back to the boys and, opening the door just a crack to keep the cold out, shoved $20 and two packs of cards into their pockets.
The boys immediately started to put up a fuss about taking the money but Bill told them to stash it in their piggy banks for a rainy day and if their dad had a problem with it, he was more than welcome to come over and talk about it. With new-found treasures in their pockets, the toothless twosome raced home to show their friends their unexpected booty. Their little friends cheered loudly at the sight of the boy’s riches. Even their dad came out to see what the hubbub was all about.
The big financial deal now settled, Bill sat back in his recliner and sighed contentedly.
“You’re such a soft touch” I teased. “You’re rather pleased with yourself, aren’t you?”
“As a matter of fact, I am!” he replied. “Listen, I’m all for good deeds but when I was their age, I was out shoveling snow and I know it’s hard work. Those kids did a damn good job. If their dad objects to them getting paid, I’ll just tell him to think of it as a tip for his two fine sons. I can’t believe he’d have a problem with that.”
Well, it came as no big surprise when the twins soon returned and began shoveling the snow off our driveway – and this time they had reinforcements. Their momma didn’t raise no dummies! You haven’t lived until you’ve seen five six-year-olds shoveling one driveway like their little lives depended on it.
“Better get your wallet out, Rockefeller. They’re back and they brought company” I laughed.
Bill may have unwittingly created a couple of monsters; during the spring the twins started going door-to-door pulling a wagon behind them. They were selling rocks! I’m reasonably certain their parents did not give permission for their budding business venture because it ended as abruptly as it started. Too bad; I’m sure they had the rock-selling market cornered. Very entrepreneurial kids; even Warren Buffett had to start somewhere!
Well, kind of a pity when you think about it. The boys scrubbed those rocks until they glistened in the sparkling sunlight. They really were impressive-looking rocks – there’s no denying that – but they were still just rocks, not exactly a priceless commodity.
There I was, sitting in my car taking a smoke break. Damn shame! We can’t smoke anywhere these days and that’s a perfect example of discrimination.
Anyway, I’m looking out the car window, and that’s when I spotted it …. a rubber glove on the ground. Disgusting!
Since I was parked just across from a nursing home, I figured that glove belonged to one of the employees there and that made me even angrier than I was. Imagine, a health facility employee tossing a glove away like that! I bet they throw their masks on the ground, too. Pigs!
What’s wrong with people? You’d think after 3+ years of Covid, they’d finally get it right and stop ditching their used gloves or masks on public property. I could never understand how someone, especially a health-care worker, could show such disrespect for other people. If I had seen whoever tossed that glove so indiscriminately, I would have said something.
Well, there’s only one thing to do …. I donned a glove, picked up the offensive litter and deposited it in the trash. Puffing on my smoke, I walked back to my car feeling very proud of myself.
Just then a pigeon landed on the trash can, picked out the glove and flew off only to drop the glove on the road. Well, I’ll be damned! It wasn’t a deliberate act of human negligence after all! I chuckled, my faith in mankind restored.
Flicking my cigarette butt out the window, I drove off.
Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge has challenged us to write a Six Sentence Story and include the word “task”. This is my response.
Not having practiced the piano at all that one week, I called my instructor who was waiting for me at the church and declared into the phone “Mrs. Ridgeway, it’s Nancy and I can’t make it to my lesson today because it’s raining”; I was quite proud of myself for coming up with such a creative and foolproof excuse.
In her clipped New England-accented voice, Mrs. Ridgeway replied “You’re not a sugar cube and won’t melt in the rain”, then went on to say “Surely you have an umbrella you can use”; I was quick to inform her that I had left my umbrella on the school bus, adding that no one was at home with me to lend me an umbrella and my mother didn’t approve of me walking unprotected in the rain to which my piano teacher replied “Well then, I’ll just come to your house for your lesson”.
You could have knocked me over with a feather because I certainly was not expecting that response and, true to her word, ten minutes later Mrs. Ridgeway appeared at my front door, ready for the task at hand; I dilly-dallied as long as I could looking for my book of Schirmer’s Library of Musical Classics – Selected Piano Masterpieces, setting up my metronome, cracking my knuckles and swinging my arms a la Ed Norton and shifting butt cheeks searching for the most comfortable position until Mrs. Ridgeway’s patience reached the breaking point and she barked “Enough!” which nearly made me jump off the piano bench in a panic.
Shaking like the last leaf on a branch in a windstorm, I opened my lesson book to the appropriate page and began playing Beethoven’s Für Elise while Mrs. Ridgeway sat next to me, staring over my shoulder and glaring; I played as though I was wearing boxing gloves and, being the master sleuth that she was, Mrs. Ridgeway saw right through my brilliant plot.
Angrier than my sister the day she discovered I had ripped off all the heads on her Barbie dolls, Mrs. Ridgeway exclaimed I had wasted her valuable time and she doubled my lessons for the next week which would have been tolerable if she hadn’t reported to my mother who got so mad because of my lack of responsibility, she withheld my allowance for the next two weeks and took away my TV privileges …. even Dr. Kildare.
This is what Für Elise is supposed to sound like; you’ll notice Lang Lang is not wearing boxing gloves (but I bet he’d sound just as good even if he was).
The incomparable Jackie Gleason and Art Carney in a clip from the Honeymooners – Suwanee River. How could I possibly resist?
Linda G. Hill has challenged us with the first prompt for JusJoJan January 1st 2024: and the #1 prompt of the year is “train.” Here is my submission.
Every morning I take the train to work in lower Manhattan from Far Rockaway, New York and back home again in the evening. Along with a multitude of fellow commuters, I ride the underground transit system (affectionately known as ‘the subway”) for a total of three hours round trip. That’s a long time to observe the parade of weirdos entering and exiting the train.
Riding the subway for as long as I do, it’s easy to become familiar with my fellow passenger’s quirks and foibles – even assigning them made up names to go with their peccadilloes. And let me tell you – people are strange!
Far Rockaway is where the commute originates so I’m always guaranteed a seat. A couple I call Marge and Homer gets on the same train as me. I have determined from their heated conversations that they have been engaged for about six years. Marge is ready to get married; Homer’s not. She talks about her biological clock; he talks about nothing but his upcoming promotion at work. Then Marge reminds Homer he’s been saying the same thing for five years now and their discussion becomes more heated with every chug of the subway.
First stop: enter Malodorous Man. This guy is always guaranteed a seat in the corner all by himself. The fact that he desperately needs a shower would be enough to keep people away but he also brings his breakfast on the train – a raw onion which he peels and eats with gusto as one would an apple.
At our next stop Mr. Obsessive gets on. He immediately takes out a can of disinfectant and sprays it in the direction of Malodorous Man who indignantly shouts“Hey, I’m eatin’ here!”
Mr. Obsessive goes to HIS seat (where no one else dares sit because everyone knows it’s HIS seat), cleans it and begins his routine. First he unties his shoe laces making sure they are of equal length. Satisfied that they are, he reties his laces, then adjusts his socks so they reach the exact same height on both legs. He smooths his trousers, unbuttons and re-buttons his jacket, aligns the amount of shirt cuff visible from his jacket sleeves, straightens his tie and adjusts his hat repeatedly. Finally all is well in OCD Land.
At stop number three Malodorous Man departs and the Tattoo Twins get on, a teenage boy and girl covered from the neck down with multicolored tattoos. They lean against the door and start making out while Mr. Obsessive huffs in disapproval.
Totally out of character Marge suddenly declares to Homer that she’s “had enough” and moves to another seat next to Bob the Builder, a good-looking construction worker. Homer’s not happy about this; perhaps he’s noticed the same thing I have: whenever Bob the Builder enters the train he winks at Marge and pats his impressive tool belt. Bob and Marge begin a quiet conversation while Homer fumes.
Next stop and Mr. Obsessive fearfully sidles, past the Tattoo Twins who reach out and knock his perfect hat right off his head. Shocked by this unnecessary assault, Mr. Obsessive stares at the now unwearable hat, sniffs in disdain and scurries off the train.
Impulsively, a jilted Homer jumps up and punches Tattoo Boy in the nose who retaliates by shoving Homer backwards on his ass. A few passengers give Homer a thumbs up. Somewhat embarrassed yet proud of himself, Homer glances over at Marge for her approval. She, however, is too involved with Bob the Builder to notice. Homer tells Marge “it’s our stop” but she shakes her head and snuggles closer to Bob. Homer huffs off and looks back just as Marge fondles the tip of Bob’s hammer.
Welcome to the daily subway sideshow where everyone is strange except me – or am I?
As far back as Rob could remember, he’d had a love affair with water. All his life, whatever the circumstances, he was drawn to water.
Whether it was to seek comfort or solace, an escape from a busy day, a place to be one with nature watching the sun rise or set – being by the water’s edge was a mainstay in Rob’s life.
Today, as he sat on the docks with his faithful sheepdog Petra, Rob was seeking an answer.
He lived in a nice house and a had a great job, a group of good friends and lots of social activities. Rob and Petra were quite content. The only thing missing was a life companion. He had his share of relationships but two years ago someone special had entered his life. Rob now knew he was ready to make a commitment. She was the girl of his dreams – beautiful physically and in spirit, intelligent, outgoing and vivacious. She had a loyal and trusting heart and a lovely disposition. Rob had never felt such a connection before and he knew this was true love.
He spoke quietly to Petra:
“You know, girl. I feel like the time is right to finally settle down with my true love. It took me a while to realize how I felt but now I know there can’t be anyone more perfect for me. I’m truly happy and ready to pop the question.
What do you say, Petra, my sweet girl? Will you marry me?“
Another oldie while I’m being lazy this week! Some of you have read this; others have not. Here’s a freshened-up, rewritten story. Hope you enjoy this one! 🎁
“What the hell am I doing out on a night like this?” Finn grumbled to himself, his mood worsening with each soggy step he took. “Freezing rain, my feet are soaked and I don’t even want to go to this damn office holiday party!”
Finn had been keeping something secret for a while: no one at the place where he worked knew he was going to quit. He waited for his boss, Mr. Hardy, to leave with his secretary, then Finn placed a sealed envelope on the secretary’s desk. It was addressed to his boss and marked “Personal & Confidential”; inside the envelope was Finn’s letter of resignation.
He was sick of his dead-end job, always being passed over and stuck in a little cubicle all day. There had to be more to life than this and he was ready to find out!
Running into the little gift shop located in the lobby of his company’s building, Finn spotted a small lapis lazuli paperweight near the cash register and decided it would make a fine item for the secret gift swap. As he reached for it, his hand collided with a delicate feminine hand with sparkling mistletoe-green fingernails.
“Hold on, buster! That’s mine! I just left it on the counter while I went to get a gift bag.”
Turning his head, Finn encountered a familiar face; it was the receptionist at his office. He always thought she was pretty but tonight she looked particularly fetching.
“Hayden, isn’t it? Well, I’m sorry but the rule is if you put something down before paying for it, it’s fair game. Besides, I’m in a hurry and I don’t have time to look around for anything else.”
Hayden recognized Finn immediately. He reminded her of a dreamy Hugh Grant in his younger days – handsome and charming – just not at this particular moment.
“Finn, right? Well, I’m in a hurry, too. The office holiday party is starting and this is my selection for the gift swap. You’re probably here for the same reason.”
“Guilty as charged” Finn quipped. “Come on, Hayden. It’s been a crappy day. I just want to buy this thing, make an appearance at the party and get the hell out of there.”
“I feel the same way. These office celebrations are the worst! The last place I want to be is at that party but it’s mandatory. Nothing like ‘forced fun’!”
Finn had to chuckle at that.
“Look, Finn. There’s a bunch of other stuff right over there. Just go select something else. After all, I did see this first.”
“Oh, alright! It’s all yours!” Finn conceded and dashed off to find another gift.
He quickly spotted a rosewood ballpoint pen, grabbed a gift bag and returned to the register just as Hayden was finishing up her purchase. She gave Finn a little smile and headed out into the lobby. He couldn’t help noticing her shapely legs as she walked away, heels click-clacking on the marble floor. He watched till she was out of sight, then made his purchase.
Still waiting for the elevator, Hayden heard a familiar voice behind her declare, “So, we meet again”. She felt a slight rush knowing it was Finn.
“Or maybe you’re following me” Hayden replied coyly, hoping she wasn’t blushing.
She and Finn never really spoke at work but they always caught each other’s eye. Glancing at him Hayden was struck with how intensely blue his eyes were. At the same moment Finn was thinking how very kissable Hayden’s lips looked in the shimmering light of the lobby’s chandelier.
They stepped into the elevator, the only two occupants as it made its slow ascent.
“Mind if I ask why you’re dreading this party so much?” Finn inquired.
“That’s easy.” Hayden replied. “I hate my job! The people are unfriendly, all I do is answer the phone all day andgive directions to rude visitors. This was not my dream when I first came to New York. I’m bored to death and capable of so much more.” She glanced over her shoulder even though they were alone in the elevator, then asked conspiratorially “If I tell you something will you promise to keep it a secret?”
Finn nodded and gave her the ‘zipped lips’ sign.
“I’m quitting tomorrow” Hayden whispered.
“No kidding! So am I! I left a note on Mr. Hardy’s secretary’s desk just before I left today. I hate my job, too. Making a career out of working in a glass box 8 hours a day was never my plan. But mum’s the word, OK?” Finn whispered back covertly and they stared into each other’s eyes like kids making a pinky pledge.
“Any idea what you’re gonna do?” Finn asked.
“Not really” Hayden sighed “but I’ve always dreamed of running a bed and breakfast in Maine.”
“It’s gorgeous there” Finn replied wistfully. “We used to vacation at my grandparent’s lake house when I was a kid.”
The elevator door opened to the office party in full swing. Finn and Hayden rolled their eyes and deposited their little bags on the gift table. He went one way, she went the other but every now and then they found themselves looking for each other across the crowded, noisy room.
After a short time Hayden casually made her way to the elevator. She was just about to make her escape when she heard that familiar voice cry out “Hold the elevator!” and Finn rushed in breathlessly.
They stood side-by-side, both unsure of what to say. Then the inevitable happened.
“I was wondering…..” they said at the same time and laughed self-consciously.
“You first” prompted Hayden.
“I was thinking perhaps we could get a drink somewhere and talk” Finn suggested.
“My thoughts exactly” Hayden replied. And when they stepped outside they discovered the freezing rain had changed to snow. Finn thought the light dusting of snowflakes on Hayden’s hair looked enchanting.
Hayden smiled at Finn. “Maybe we can have that drink at my place” she suggested, her eyes twinkling. “We could light the fireplace, listen to some music …..”
“Sounds perfect” Finn replied softly and slipped his fingers between hers.
“Credited for my award-winning fruitcake” was probably the last thing I heard my speed date say before I zoned out, my head hitting the table with an impressive “thud”.
“DING!” went the timer and my arm automatically shot up as I shouted out “Check, please!” Everyone looked at me like I was crazy. “Yeah, I’m crazy alright for agreeing to go along with my friend Nadine’s cockamamie idea of speed dating the day after Christmas …. and she never even showed up!”
I looked up to see my next date arriving – an Elvis impersonator replete with spangled jumpsuit, a ton of hair and heavy cologne. Whoever invented the jumpsuit should be pummeled with one of Elvis’ belt buckles. “Well, hello there, little lady. I do believe fate has brought us together. You are the spittin’ image of my darlin’ Priscilla.”
“Oh Lord! Get me out of here!” my mind screamed. Quickly I jumped up.
“Hey, toots! Number 9! Whaddya think you’re doing? You can’t just break outta line like that!” shouted the hoody-wearing overseer with the pronounced nose. He pointed an accusatory finger at me looking every bit like Charon the Ferryman from the River Styx.
I shoved passed him, walking out into the cold December night. “You are such a pathetic loser” I murmured to myself. “Another wasted night and this time during the holidays! Wonder if there’s anything to do other than just go home?”
Looking around I noticed a movie theater down the street. “Well, better than nothing.” As I got closer I saw the movie was “A Hard Day’s Night” and it was about to start. Cool! I got my ticket and bought some popcorn. There were clusters of people sitting here and there so I chose a secluded seat in the back. I liked sitting by myself, away from weirdos.
Just as the theater lights dimmed, some guy walked in and sat right next to me. “Jeez!” I’m thinking, rolling my eyes. “Of all the seats, you had to choose that one!”
Looking straight ahead, eating my popcorn, I assess the situation. I never know what to do at times like this. Do I change seats and risk him saying something nasty? Do I stay put and pretend everything’s normal? What if he’s a pervert?
“This is all your fault, Nadine” I whispered.
“Excuse me. Did you say something?” asked the guy next to me.
The charming English accent caught my attention; I turned my head slightly in its direction. In my excitement, I immediately began choking as I inhaled a puff of popcorn. The guy sitting just inches from me was a carbon copy of my one true love – George Harrison.
“Are you ok?” he asked. “Here, have some water.”
Finally able to breath and talk again, I said “I’m awfully sorry! You shocked me. Has anyone ever told you you look exactly like George Harrison?”
“All the time. It’s a curse. And has anyone ever told you you look exactly like Priscilla Presley?”
“All the time; it’s a curse.”
We both sighed heavily in resigned commiseration and turned our attention to the movie. We laughed through the whole thing, totally enjoying ourselves and lost in the moment; there was definitely a connection between us. When it was over we left together and decided to get a drink to celebrate the holidays.
We walk to a swinging little bar and who happens to be there? None other than “No-Show Nadine”!
Spotting me and my guy from the movie theater, she came running over, gushing like a schoolgirl. “Oh my God! Has anyone ever told you you look exactly like George Harrison? Giving ‘George’ the once-over, she drooled. “Mighty slim pickings here tonight. Wanna dance, handsome? Olivia won’t mind, will ya, hon?”
Wanting nothing more at that moment than to escape Nadine, ‘George’ grabbed my hand and we ran from the club, laughing and tripping over ourselves just like in the movie.
It’s our final edition of “In The Groove: Sounds Of The Season” and we’re celebrating the holidays with something George would definitely dig! Please stop by and join in the fun! https://rhythmsection.blog/
It’s six for A Six today, all coming together to form one story: One prompt for GirlieOnTheEdge’s Six Sentence Story, four Fandango’s One Word Challenge prompts and one photo prompt from Melissa’s Fandango Flash Fiction Challenge. Yes Siree Bob, that makes six! 🎄 🦌 🎅🏼 🦌 🎄
It was a long time ago, probably 30 years now, but I remember that night like it was yesterday, as if someone had taken a permanent marker and etched the whole event on my brain for all eternity; at the time I was quite active in my church, so much so that I somehow managed to get myself elected president of the parish council, a situation I found myself in because it’s a tremendous challenge for me to say “no” and, as a result, I end up getting involved in projects I’d rather not be doing.
My committee and I were decorating the rectory meeting room and setting the tables for the parish council’s Christmas dinner when I realized the wine I bought for the function had gone missing; now, I am a very organized person, certainly no scatterbrain, and when I found there was no room whatsoever in the refrigerator or freezer for the bottles of wine, I placed them in a covered box in the garage attached to the rectory knowing they would stay safe and cold, so how they could have disappeared was a total mystery.
Faced with the inability of turning water into wine and with no time to go to the store, I decided to check the rectory storage room hoping to find wine left over from a previous dinner and I was rewarded with an entire case of red wine sitting on a shelf in the corner just waiting for me; well, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I saw this new-found wine as divine intervention and placed two bottles on each table, quite pleased with myself for having saved the night at the last minute.
When the priests arrived for the party, they looked around the room in approval, nodding and smiling, but that was short lived when I suddenly saw one priest, Fr. Bob, heading my way and he didn’t look happy which made me wonder what was causing his consternation; now, in my defense, I am not a member of the clergy and have no way of knowing these things but the wine I found in the storage room was not just any ordinary, run-of-the-mill wine – no siree – it was blessed communion wine, meant solely for the purpose of Holy Communion and definitely not for a party, albeit a church Christmas party!
When Fr. Bob asked me (rather belligerently, I might add) how I could have made such a careless mistake, my mind went blankand everything I tried to say ended up sounding like a lame excuse; what was supposed to be a great accomplishment for me as parish council president turned into the most mortifying experience of my life and just when I thought the evening could not get any worse, it did.
The man I hired (from a so-called “reputable” agency) to play Santa Claus went AWOL, leaving his sleigh and a slightly inebriated-looking reindeer abandoned in the snow-covered backyard of the rectory; after a search of the grounds, Santa was found in the monsignor’s car in the garage, drunk as a skunk, passed out in the back seat and clutching my missing bottles of wine …. and if you give me a Bible, I will place my right hand on it and swear that everything you just read is entirely true (except the part about the tipsy reindeer; I added that because I simply couldn’t ignore the adorable graphic accompanying this story).
Denise @ GirlieOnTheEdge has once again challenged us to write a Six Sentence Story, incorporating the word “limit”. This is my response. 🎅🏼
“Now listen up, kids, because Daddy’s had just about enough of this nonsense; I’m at the end of my rope and very close to losing it right here in front of Cinnabon, you hear me?
Every year it’s the same thing with you kids; Timmy, Sally .… I need you guys to get a gripbecause people are starting to stare, mall security is checking me out and the big guy in the redsuit is becoming impatient.
Try to remember what we talked about last night when I read you a bedtime story, how you gotta behave because Santa is watching all the time and he knows when you’re being naughty (like now) or when you’re being nice; if you want Santa Claus to come to our house this year and bring you Christmas presents, you better shape up this minute and stop crying or else you’re gonna get a big fat lump of coal in your stocking!
Sally, I know you want Mommy right now but the last time I saw her she was ducking into Ye Olde Candle Shoppe and she hasn’t come out yet …. as if we really need more goddamn candles that smell like fruit cake and reindeer balls …. it ain’t normal, I’m telling you; look, we’re next in line to see Santa so everybody settle down, stop crying and when we’re all done we’ll go down to the food court and get ice cream at Baskin Robbins, ok?
Hold on a second, kids, cos one of the elves is putting up a sign and I wanna see what it says; whoa, whoa, whoa …. wait up there, pal …. what’s with the sign?
Ok, change of plans, kids …. Santa’s taking a lunch break and won’t be back till 3:00 so we’re gonna go hunt down Mommy in the friggin’ candle store and then we’re gonna go home where Daddy can watch Sunday football and have a couple of cold ones and Mommy can bring you back to the mall tomorrow while I’m at the office; Timmy, Sally …. for fuck’s sake …. that’s enough now cos Daddy’s good and pissed and has reached his limit …. so stop with the damn crying or I’ll really give you something to cry about!”
This is Bob Rivers & Twisted Christmas with “I Am Santa Claus”
It’s Birthday Thursday today at The Rhythm Section. Stop by and see who’s celebrating a birthday! No fuss, no muss; just wall-to-wall-music! https://rhythmsection.blog/
Dad never learned to drive so mom had to take matters into her own hands.
She got her driver’s license in 1957 at age 40. Oh, she’d driven a bit when she was younger but women drivers in the 30s and 40s was unheard of.
Her first car was a Studebaker Golden Hawk and she ran that thing into the ground, literally.
One blindingly sunny day with the pedal to the metal, mom drove off the road, smashed into the cemetery and dug up a few floral arrangements along the way.
Open a map of New York, go as far east as possible and you’ll find the town of Montauk – a laid-back fishing village kissing the Atlantic Ocean. I lived there for the first 18 years of my life with my brother and parents before heading off to college.
Winters were harsh and barren, a sharp contrast to the summers teeming with tourists escaping the cramped and sweaty streets of Manhattan in search of the perfect wave, the perfect tan and the perfect lobster roll. Springtime in Montauk is mesmerizing with trees budding, flowers sprouting up through the ground and the delicious smell of the ocean. We’d keep the windows open at night and fall asleep to the sound of the waves.
Our house was off the beaten path, with only two neighbors within walking distance. In the house on the left lived a young couple with rambunctious five year old triplets: Timothy, Thomas and Theodore – ‘The Terrorizing Trio’. Befitting their status as triplets, the boys had identical mountain bikes – one red, one blue, one green – which they rode with wild abandon on the dirt road, through our back yards and down to the beach.
Our neighbor on the right was the usually phlegmatic Doctor MacGregor – never-married, retired history professor-turned-nature-enthusiast. He was particularly particular about the upkeep of his yard and the glorious profusion of flowers attracting all varieties of birds and insects. His pride and joy was a tall redwood apiary which housed eight honeycomb trays. Inside reigned the queen, surrounded by her working and droning subjects. Mac, our secret nickname for the professor, would don his protective gear every day and inspect the hives and the honey production, all the while puttering and muttering, making sure everything was as it should be.
And it always was …. except for THAT day when mom happened to be outside hanging the laundry; she looked up at the sky and saw a huge black swarm rapidly approaching. Mom ran into the house and yelled for us to “close all the windows and doors”; we watched anxiously as thousands of buzzing bees hovered over our house, took a sharp turn and headed straight for town. After the bees took off, we were shocked to hear the usually mild-mannered Mac angrily shouting and cursing; we ran over to see what had gotten him all riled up.
Trevor, the triplet’s father, raced over from the other direction to see what all the commotion was about. We all arrived at the professor’s yard at the same time to discover a disheveled and blustering Mac wandering around the remnants of his beloved apiary. Splintered pieces lay in a heap on the ground, the redwood gouged and marred with clearly visible traces of blue, red and green paint. Trevor groaned audibly and raced out of Mac’s yard toward his own house, yelling out the triplet’s names as he ran. It was obvious they had crashed their bikes into the apiary and were probably hiding from the inevitable fallout.
As we silently helped Mac clean up the mess, we became aware of screaming and shouting off in the distance; it was coming from the village as horrified townsfolk ran for cover from the angrily stinging horde of bees.
It took a long time for the residents of normally tranquil Montauk to settle down after that day; the only one who benefited from the bee attack was the town G.P., who was kept busy tending sting after sting after sting.
As for Timothy, Thomas and Theodore …. they were found hiding behind their garage crying and covered from head to toe in bee stings. The boys were in a lot of discomfort (not to mention trouble). Trevor felt sorry for his sons and he was not unsympathetic but the triplets needed to be punished for the damage to Mac’s apiary. They were grounded for three weeks – one week for each boy – and their scraped bicycles were temporarily locked away in the shed.
As for Professor MacGregor …. he’s taken up birdwatching.
Her voice was soft and sultry, as smooth and silky as his finest Maker’s Mark bourbon. The image of a voluptuous goddess with long wavy caramel-colored hair, tanned skin and moist red lips immediately appeared before him. He could see her pearly teeth as she smiled, tantalizingly nibbling her bottom lip. He felt himself getting excited.
“Is anyone there?” he heard her say and roused him out of his fantasy.
“Yes, sorry. I’m here. I was distracted for a moment. There’s something about your voice; it’s very …. familiar” he replied trying to sound nonchalant.
“I get that a lot” she answered, her throaty laugh arousing him again. He could see this woman easily becoming an addiction.
“Are you calling about the apartment or the car?” Please let it be the apartment …. let it be the apartment .… he pleaded silently, picturing her sprawled on his bed.
“The Corvette, of course. No sexy car list would be complete without it, don’t you agree?” She chuckled softly.
There was that laugh again. He had to meet this woman. Today.
“Of course. The ‘Vette’s’ an incredible machine” he said, a bit disappointed that she wasn’t interested in renting his apartment. He had to get her there.
“Incredible sounds about right” she agreed. “And thrilling, too, judging by the photo in your ad. With her open top, she’s as sleek and beautiful as a Corvette was meant to be – a car to melt some hearts and explode others.”
As she spoke, he had a vision of her in the ‘Vette’, top down, driving along the Santa Barbara coastline, her hair loose and wild like crimson flames. She was laughing as she drove faster and faster, her hand teasing the head of the gear shift. She was wearing a short black leather skirt and a low-neck sweater, her perfect breasts heaving with excitement. She smelled of lilacs. His heart was racing, his erection pounding.
Who is this woman? He couldn’t think straight. Snap out of it, dummy!
“So, when would you like to see the car?” he asked. Today, today, today raced repeatedly in his brain.
“Today, if that works for you” came the response he hoped for.
Careful not to appear anxious, he hesitated before answering.
“Hmm, today. My schedule’s kind of tight” he lied “but I might be able fit you in around 4:00. Would that work for you?”
“Yes. I can come anytime.”
Oh God, did she really just say that? Sweet Jesus …. this woman was driving him insane!
“Hold on one sec” she purred. “I just need to check something.”
He waited impatiently for her return. He went over his plan: they’d meet at 4:00, take the Corvette out for a leisurely drive and get back to his place just in time for a “spontaneous” dinner and whatever might follow.
“Sorry to keep you waiting” she said breathlessly. “I wanted to make sure my wife would be available at 4:00.”
Wait. What? Wife? Did she say wife? She was married? To a WOMAN! His passion vanished instantly along with his rapidly sagging manhood.
“Hey, sorry …. I’m getting another call” he lied again. “Hold on.”
Rochelle at “Friday Fictioneers” has challenged us to write a 100 word piece about how the image below inspired us. This is my original response to her challenge.
Devin and Charlie jumped out of her car, fiercely kissing and tearing at each other’s clothes.
What great luck for the teens with sex drives in hyper-mode; Devin’s cabin all to themselves while both sets of parents were far off on weekend vacations.
The teens planned to spend every minute in bed.
Devin retrieved the key from her pocket and unlocked the door.
The first shock was the romantic glow in the fireplace. The second? Finding all four parents getting it on …. and not with their own spouses.
And there stood Devin and Charlie letting it all hang out.
Rochelle at “Friday Fictioneers” has challenged us to write a 100 word piece about how the image below inspired us. This is my response to her challenge.
“We’re out of gas, Pepper.”
“Look, Brad! There’s a light! Let’s walk to it.”
“Good idea! Maybe someone can help.”
Arriving at a house, the couple was struck by its serene beauty. They dreamed of owning a home like this.
They knocked and a woman answered.
“May I help you?”
Brad explained their situation; the woman said there were full gasoline cans in the garage and invited them in.
The interior was breathtaking.
“Your house is gorgeous!” exclaimed Pepper.
“Oh, it’s not mine; I’m the selling agent. You interested?”
Brad and Pepper exchanged surprised and delighted glances.
How could this have happened to me …. a savvy, street-smart, strong- willed woman of the 21st Century who has seen and done it all?
Oh sure, I heard the warnings from well-meaning friends. I chose not to put much stock in what they said. After all, this is my life …. not theirs.
I’ve been hurt very badly twice in my life …. once about 14 years ago when I gave my entire heart and soul completely only to have my world crumble about me. God only knows how much I wanted that piece of my life to work. Strange how I’m still holding on to those broken pieces.
The second time was about three years ago. It was love at first sight, as cliched as that sounds, and I fell hard. I was left in shambles and have now come to the realization that if something is meant to be, it will be. It will pass the trials and tribulations of life without having to work so hard at making all the pieces fit. What’s that old saying? You can’t put a square peg into a round hole? That should be printed in giant red letters on all the owner’s manuals we collect in our lifetimes.
Well, I’m at it again. I tried to resist the charm and allure but I’m weak and the pulling forces are strong. I’m aware of the FRAGILE signs and I will be vigilant. I simply cannot resist that table.
It was a busy night at The Cock ‘n Bull. The second act was about to start when Paige Turner came running out of her dressing room screaming that she’d been robbed.
Imagine my embarrassment when I, Angie O’Plasty, queen of the Chicago circuit drag queens, was accused of trying to absquatulate with all the girl’s expensive wigs!
Of course it was a complete misunderstanding and I was exonerated when my nemesis, Brook Trout, was found with the stolen goods.
“Papa, you said we were going fly fishing today. I’ve been waiting hours! What’s taking you so long?”
Lorian stood at the entrance to her grandfather’s study, an adorable 8 year old tomboy in hip waders, boots, a plaid shirt and golden-brown hair in pigtails, tied with a bow the exact shade of red as in her shirt. Arms folded significantly across her chest, she stared at her grandfather’s typewriter as if wiling it to spontaneously combust.
Ernest turned to face his granddaughter. He spoke to her as though she was one of his cigar-smoking buddies, not like a child, and she loved him for that.
“I’ve got to keep one step ahead of that damn Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words? He says I don’t know the $10 words. I know them, alright. But there are older and simpler and better words and those are the ones I use.”
He paused but Lorian knew not to answer. She also knew not to tell Papa that her mother was reading Faulkner’s newest book.
“Besides, he’s an alcoholic. Good thing he’s Republican!”
“Papa, can we go fishing now? The fish ain’t gonna wait all day!” and Ernest laughed at that remark. Then he spotted his gun leaning against the wall.
While reading the real estate section, my wife Jen called out to me. “Hey, Eric, check this out. You know that community we love? One of the houses is available, has everything we want plus a big yard and a pool. And get this – they’re asking only $275,000! That’s well within our budget!”
“Seriously? Those houses usually go for twice as much! Wonder why it’s so low.”
“The agent’s number is right here” replied Jen. “Let’s call.”
After a brief phone conversation, we agreed to meet at the house at noon. When we arrived, the real estate agent explained to us that the previous owners had moved back to England for work purposes and were anxious for a quick sale – even at a loss.
The community was lovely and families were outside enjoying the great weather. The house we had our eye on was even more beautiful than we imagined – not a thing wrong. We asked the agent to make arrangements for an inspector to check everything out and a few days later he reported the house to be in excellent condition. Any doubts were removed from our minds.
“Well, babe”, I said, giving Jen a hug, “looks like we just found our dream house!”
Two weeks later we moved in and everyone was extremely welcoming. In fact, the guy next door came over the first night we were in the house to invite us to a barbecue that weekend. We knew we were going to love this place.
The barbecue was fun and gave us a chance to meet all our new neighbors. Later that night at home we talked about how nice everyone was; in particular, Jen was surprised by how helpful the men were – “Except for that one awkward scene when Barb got annoyed with Gil because his potato salad had too much mayo!” she laughed.
As time went by, we couldn’t help noticing that all the men were house-husbands while all the women went to work. How odd!One night Gil called to invite me to the weekly Friday night poker game at his house and Jen to a ladies book club night at Susan’s.
The card game was going well and I was on a winning streak when out of the blue Gil asked “So, Eric, when are you gonna get your balls snipped?”
Totally thrown off base, I gagged on my drink. “Excuse me??” I sputtered.
“You know. Snipped! We’re all snipped” Gil answered, making little scissor cutting gestures with his fingers. “Dr. Susan does it, smooth and easy. Our wives convinced us life would be much calmer that way and it is. Here’s her number.”
Mumbling hasty excuses, I hurriedly left the game and dashed home, colliding with Jen running home from the other direction.
“Do you know what they do here?!?” she asked, horrified.
I nodded frantically. “And the only things getting cut are our losses! C’mon! We’re outta here!”
You know how it is when you see a person or hear a name and it sort of rings a bell but it’s not in its usual context so you don’t make the connection?
Yeah, that’s what happened to me when I discovered Carlton’s Candy Coop – my favorite place for all my sweet-tooth cravings.
Chocolates, nougats, peanuts, caramels … all those mouth-watering, sugar-rushing, delectable tummy treats that stick to your teeth but you don’t care because they’re just too damn yummy!
Then it hit me. Carlton. Carlton? Carlton! But of course! Carl Carlton was my dentist!
“Jesus Christ, Marco! I’m a nervous wreck!” wailed Tina. “Meeting your mother for the first time is freaking me out! Do I look ok? What if she doesn’t like me?”
“Are you kidding me, babe? You look great! She’s gonna love you! Besides … my mother thinks we’re just friends; she won’t be judging you!” replied Marco with a huge grin and a bit too much enthusiasm as he selected his mother’s favorite Dean Martin record.
“But honey, you’ve told me how your mother scrutinizes everything with an eagle eye and doesn’t miss a trick. I’m scared of her and we haven’t even met yet! The pressure is killing me! What if she figures out we haven’t been honest with her?” Tina was getting frantic.
Marco reached out and pulled her close, giving her a comforting hug. His mother never liked any of his gitlfriends, saying no one was good enough for him. Just this once Marco wanted her to likr being with Tina for who she was, without any preconceived notions – even if it meant keeping the truth from her for a while.
“Babe, try to relax. Ma’s bark is worse than her bite. I promise, there’s nothing to worry about. You’re getting yourself all worked up for no reason. When my mother finally hears the truth, it won’t matter that we didn’t tell her right away; she’ll already be crazy about you! I’m not a little boy and I don’t need my mother’s permission for anything. As long as Dean Martin is playing in the background, she’ll be fine.” It sounded to Tina like Marco was trying to convince himself as well as her.
The ring of the doorbell was expected but it still startled Marco and Tina. Carrying a box of Italian pastries, Marco’s mother Francesca arrived promptly at 6:00 – ready and quite curious to meet this woman sharing her son’s new house. Introductions were made, niceties exchanged and then Tina excused herself to check on dinner. “She certainly knows her way around the kitchen well enough; maybe her cooking won’t be so bad” Francesca thought hopefully while keeping a close eye on her son’s “house mate”.
While Tina put the finishing touches on dinner, Marco brought out some appetizers. “Ah, bruschetta!” exclaimed Francesca but when she bit into the small thin slice of toasted Italian bread, she discovered the topping was raw meat. “It’s steak tartare, Ma” explained Marco. Francesca made a horrified face and hastily deposited her half-chewed mouthful into a paper napkin. “O Dio mio!Raw meat will give you food poisoning!” Francesca exclaimed. “I hope the rest of the meal is cooked”, she thought.
In an attempt to calm his mother down and get her mind off the failed appetizers, Marco decided to give her a tour of the house he shared with Tina.
“Look, Ma. Isn’t this nice? A large airy kitchen with an island and plenty of room for a table and chairs. Here’s the dining room with a buffet and hutch filled with glasses and dishes that belonged to Tina’s great-grandmother. Isn’t the furniture beautiful? We got at a Roma’s in Brooklyn, imported from Italy. We even have a fenced-in backyard and patio with a barbecue grill. But the best part is two big bedrooms, each with a separate bathroom so there’s no fighting over who gets to shower first.”
Marco realized he was saying too much and talking way too fast; he laughed self-consciously, feeling like he was 10 years old again and his mother’s laser eyes were burning right through his skull after catching him in a lie. He squirmed uncomfortably and quickly closed the bathroom door when he noticed the towels that were on the rack were embroidered with the words “HIS” and “HERS”.
Francesca just nodded her head and mumbled “That’s nice” every so often; she may have seemed indifferent but that was far from true. If Francesca saw the bathroom towels, she gave no indication. Now Marco was nervous about that … a careless mistake on his part.
“Come in the kitchen, Ma. Let’s have a nice glass of wine to celebrate your first visit to our house” Marco suggested.
“Our house” thought Francesca.
Francesca sipped her wine and silently simmered on a low boil, her thoughts working overtime while Marco and Tina puttered around the kitchen. “Well, Tina certainly made herself right at home, bringing over all her great-grandmother’s dishes and glasses! I don’t get it. Unmarried men and women sharing a house?” Francesca asked herself. “Maybe in a big house with five or six other people and a lot of bedrooms, but an intimate space with two people of the opposite sex? I don’t like it! And how come the bedrooms have such big beds? Something fishy’s going on here!” Francesca tapped her foot impatiently, her eyes taking everything in.
Finally dinner was ready; throughout the meal, Francesca couldn’t help noticing how attentive Tina was to Marco. By now she was very suspicious about their relationship; she was sure there was more than just friendship between the two of them and their little interactions further convinced her there was something brewing between her son and his “house mate”.
Recognizing the look on his mother’s face, Marco said “I know what you’re thinking, Ma, but I told you before – Tina and I are just friends. House mates. Don’t go making a big deal out of nothing.” Francesca smiled thinly and replied “Whatever you say, Marco”. But in her head she was thinking “House mates, my ass!”
About a week later Tina said to Marco “I know this is gonna sound crazy but I can’t find the napkin rings I used the night your mother was here. I’ve looked everywhere for them. You don’t think your mother took them, do you?”
“Well, I can’t imagine why she’d do that”, Marco replied, “but there’s only one way to find out. I’ll send her an email.”
Dear Ma – Crazy question! Tina’s napkin rings are missing. Now, I’m not saying you TOOK the napkin rings and I’m not saying you DIDN’Ttake them but they have been missing since you were here the other night and you were the only other person to see them. Love, Marco
A reply came through one minute later:
Dear Marco – Funny you should ask! Now, I’m not saying that you DO sleep with Tina and I’m not saying that you DON’T sleep with her but if she was sleeping alone in her OWN bed she would have found the napkin rings by now – under her pillow. Love, Ma
Today’s burning question from Cyranny is: “What’s one odd thing about yourself that you would never want to change?”
Perhaps it’s not so terribly odd but for me it is a no-brainer: Promptness, as in I am never late … never; there’s no good excuse or acceptable justification to make anyone wait for me because in the scheme of things, I am just not that important.
I have a family member who is consistently late and by consistently I mean late for everything, even her daughter’s recent wedding (how is something like that even possible?); we like to joke around that she’s going to be late for her own funeral but all the joking in the world doesn’t erase how irritating it is to have to wait for her every single time and it’s gotten to the point that we have to fib a little and give her a 20 minute earlier meeting time knowing she’ll be 20 minutes late but will actually show up on time … lol … see how that works?
Sure, shit happens, like being unable to control the weather or traffic; maybe we can’t control it but we can anticipate it by checking our weather apps and bringing along a freaking umbrella or listening to the traffic report and leaving the house 15 to 20 minutes earlier than the other guy … the guy who doesn’t care if he shows up late and makes people wait.
I’d rather be half an hour early for my doctor appointment than arrive 5 minutes late; at least I can get myself a cup of coffee, listen to the radio and relax in my car until it’s time to go in, even though chances are excellent the doctor will be running late!
In that case I am faced with the one thing I dislike more than being late and that, my friends, is called “The HurryUp And Wait Syndrome”; man oh man, does that ever burn my biscuits – like an old Sunbeam Toaster Oven stuck at 475º!
The Elephant's Trunk 