At least he’s got a JOB…of sorts—more than I can say for MY kid. Of course, she’s not risking jail time by lolling around, sponging off me—dismemberment and death, perhaps, on a given day—but certainly not jail time.
Did I Say That?
Queen Janice had come to the Sweet Potato Queens® Million Queen March™ in Jackson, Mississippi, the third beautiful weekend of one particular March and went home a Changed Woman. Upon her return to Nashvegas, she developed a problem with the seatbelt mechanism in her car and, not wishing to risk her very life any longer than absolutely necessary, she betook herself forthwith to the auto repair shop, even though to do so constituted a full-fledged errand…and you know how we all feel about those.
Nonetheless, the bullet was bitten and her turn with the mechanic came sooner than expected and she explained to him her problem. He listened gravely to her and then solemnly examined the mechanism, paying special attention to the buckle. Gazing thoughtfully into it, he remarked that there was “something in it,” and with that he commenced to fishing around inside it with his screwdriver, and what should he pull out but a single black feather.
Without a word, he looked at the feather and then at her, and then back at the feather. He then resumed his screwdriver fishing expedition, which yielded quite a few more bird hairs. Now, Queen J admits to being over fifty and possibly JUST a tad overserved at the dinner table, although I am certain she is exaggerating that part. Her hair is gray because she refuses to dye it and end up looking “like I’m wearing a bad Elvis wig—like some folks I know”—but politely does not name, naturally. She can tell that the mechanic is not totally comfortable asking her the question that he feels, nonetheless, that he MUST ask her: “Ma’am, have you been wearing a feather boa while driving this car?”
And you know how it is, your Inner Queen just WILL pop out sometimes when you least expect her to, and so it was not “Janice” but Queen JaJa GaBoa who gave him a sidelong glance from underneath her thick black eyelashes (all natural, of course) and said, in a Southern accent so thick it would scarcely roll off her tongue, “Why-y-y-y…ye-e-e-es…I ha-a-ve!”
Totally bowled over by the right-before-his-very-eyes transformation of his formerly normal customer, he gaped at her for a long moment as if he expected her to break out into a Fan Dance next. He finally pulled himself out of his trance, went back to fishing feathers, and stammered, “Well, I-I-I’ve ab-b-bout g-g-got it f-fixed here, j-j-just try not to w-w-wear it while you’re d-d-drivin’ next time, ma’am, okay?!” She huskily assured him that she “wouldn’t DRE-E-AM of it and thank you SO much for ALL your he-e-lp.”
She had a fair-sized chuckle to herself as she drove away, secure in the knowledge that she’ll be getting much improved service THERE in the future.
Not Particularly Queenly, but Certainly Snappy
I love those little short stories that come out in the newspaper—just a paragraph and a half usually—they come from a wire service and fill in gaps, I suppose. They’re nearly always way more intriguing than the stuff they’ve devoted whole FEET of column space to—and it’s always just enough to make me wonder what the hell was REALLY going on there.
FOR INSTANCE: Last year, there was this teeny-tiny mention in our local paper of an event in a small town in Pennsylvania. It seemed that—for some undisclosed reason—the police had been summoned to a private residence—by person or persons unknown—and once on the scene, the woman, with whom I assume the authorities had been summoned to deal, met the officers at the door and “held them at bay” (I love that term) by “brandishing” POISONOUS SNAKES at them.
There was no information at ALL about what exactly it was that she had been doing to spur the unknown party(ies) to call the Law on her—no explanation of how come her to have all those poisonous snakes—didn’t even tell us how many or what kind, eggzackly—nor what might have led to her snatch up a coupla handfuls of ’em on her way to answer the front door—was she always toting them around by the fistful or was this a special circumstance? They didn’t even describe the alleged “brandishing” so we don’t know if she was waving them around in big circles or waggling them, in a taunting fashion, right up close under the cops’ noses or WHAT exactly? NONE of that was explained and I’m quite certain I am not the only person in the country who read that little blurb and wondered to herself, What the fuck?
But her response when asked for a statement before her sentencing (they didn’t even tell what all she was charged with and convicted of)—to house arrest and probation—was one of my All-Time Favorite Snappy Comebacks to a Stupid Question—this ranks right up there with “That’s My Story and I’m Sticking to It.” What she offered by way of, I suppose, explanation and/or justification for her now-admitted acts that included, but I guess were not limited to, Willful Poisonous Snake Brandishment at a Law Enforcement Officer was this—and only this: “I JUST WASN’T IN THE RIGHT FRAME OF MIND THAT NIGHT.”
Now, THERE is a By-God ANSWER, I’m sayin’! I am so lovin’ this woman! I just want to sit down with her and have her tell me the Whole Story—I especially want to know ALL about her frame of mind that night—what the “right” frame would have been and what all led up to her being in the “wrong” frame and, of course, who was responsible for THAT and where is he now—did she feed him to the snakes, I hope? I fear this will be one of those things in life that I just never get the chance to do and it will haunt me. When I am a thousand years old, sitting in the nursing home in my diaper and staring out at nothing, looking blank, if you ask me what I’m thinking about—this could very well be it.
But Even at Our Worst, We Make More Sense Than “Some”
Some of my Queens have shared with me that they often suffer great torment regarding their Queenly Transformation at the hands of their most loved ones—namely, their wretched teenagers and/or their own personal husbands, who ought to know better.
Regarding the wretched teenagers—or even now-grown children who certainly were ONCE wretched teenagers—who dare to express shock, horror, and dismay, accompanied by a fair dose of humiliation and embarrassment, at the thought and/or sight of you, their mom, engaging in full cavort-mode while wearing all manner of sparkly, glittery, spangly, and feathery garb and also demonstrating your unswerving intent to carry on with this outlandish display IN PUBLIC—yeah, regarding them—BWAHAHAHAHA! SERVES ’EM RIGHT, doesn’t it? Is it not one of the Fondest Dreams of Any Parent of a Teenager that they will be blessed to just live long enough to one day BE an embarrassment to that teenager? (THE Fondest Dream is, of course, to be blessed to live long enough to see that kid with his or her OWN teenager—but Causing Them Embarrassment is one of the top Dreams, for sure.)
So, I’d say, unless you’ve got them shrieking “OH MY GOD!” and running to lock themselves in their rooms—you’re not wearing QUITE ENOUGH bling. Just keep adding rhinestones until you get the desired reaction, then you’ll know your outfit is perfect.
As to the HUSBANDS who dare to not only LOOK askance at your Royal Garments but further compound their error by VOICING some unsolicited and unwelcome opinion regarding the supposed “suitableness” of such attire and behavior, let us consider for a moment some of HIS OWN pursuits and weigh THEM on this same scale.
For your consideration: You are being questioned and/or criticized by an individual who will crawl out of your very own warm bed and get up in the absolute DARK of night to dress up like a TREE, and he can’t tolerate your cologne but he will douse himself with a foul elixir with an equally foul name, like “Doe in Heat,” and go hide in the woods, just on the off chance that a boy deer will happen by and he can shoot at it. Sometimes he wears bobcat urine—no one knows why.
Now, I ask you—do you REALLY CARE about this person’s opinion of your outfit and Queenly Intentions? Good, glad we got that settled.
He Did Know the Job was Dangerous When He Took It
Once upon a time, not so very long ago, there was a husband of a Queen who insisted on comi
ng along with his Queenly Wife and her Queenly Girlfriends to Jackson, Mississippi, for the Sweet Potato Queens® Million Queen March™ weekend. He willingly agreed to all the terms they specified for his attendance to be approved—those being for the most part that he would be around to tote, fetch, and pay for things and assert loudly and repeatedly to everyone within human earshot that THEY themselves were, in fact, not only the Cutest Things in the Whole Town, They Were Furthermore the Cutest Things He Had Ever Seen Anywhere at Any Time in His Whole EN-tire Life, but other than that, he understood that he was to be Wallpaper.
Whatever They Said, he assured them in his fevered desperation to tag along, and they finally assented and allowed him to accompany them. There were constant reminders of His Word during the long car trip to Jackson and one final unified chorus as they all exited their vehicle upon arrival at the Jackson Hilton. Yes, yes, he understood and he would not be ANY trouble, he promised.
So, of course, what did he do but come down with APPENDICITIS that very night, just LIKE a man, I swear. Lucky for him, he was in the company of a pack of nurses who identified his symptoms quickly enough that it did not disrupt their evening much at all. They did take time out to PERSONALLY drive him TO the hospital on their way to the SPQ™ Ball, in their full regalia—although there were perfectly good ambulances nearby that could have spared them the time and trouble—nurses AND SAINTS is all they are, obviously.
He was maybe a leetle bit surprised, I think, when they LEFT him at the emergency room, but they reminded him—a deal’s a deal—made sure the nurses on duty promised to keep the pain meds coming—gave him a little pat and told him they WOULD come back and fetch him for the drive home—he did not need to worry about getting a cab to the Hilton or anything. They’re coming to take you to the OR any minute now, you just sit tight after surgery, take your drugs, watch huntin’ on the teevee in your room and we’ll be by to get you on Sunday afternoon—BYE-BYE!
As it turned out, he was released from the hospital late Saturday afternoon—after the parade but before Pearls & PJ’s—which was SO lucky for THEM because that meant he was available to go down to the Hilton lobby to fetch their coffee on Sunday morning before they went to the Bathrobe Brunch™. He was thrilled that he was at least able to provide this small service for them. He still wants to come back next year. Now, that’s a Good Man, right there—a true Spud Stud™—and we LOVE him for it!
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Dear God, Please Send Children
At nearly every wedding I’ve attended in recent years, I’ve been struck by a recurring theme in the prayers. Somewhere in one of the prayers in all of these different ceremonies, there has been a humble entreaty that the Almighty bless this union with children. At the most recent wedding we attended, the plea was issued at the rehearsal dinner, during the wedding, and again at the reception—and the ante was upped in that MANY children were requested. I was nonplussed.
But then, I was having a before-church conversation with my good friend “G.” Having just returned from visiting his finally-grown-up-and-happily-married son, he was beaming and going on at some length about the rapturous joys of Grandparenting that can come to one when one has survived the childhood and often overlong adolescence of one’s own children.
He waxed hysterically sentimental about the charmed and charming teen years of his precious daughter, “N,” compared to the way, way overlong adolescence of his way wayward son, “T.” Truth be told, son T liked to have driven G plumb over the edge many times—many, MANY times. If we want to be completely honest about the whole thing, G got to looking with great longing at that edge before T met and fell way off into love with a darlin’ girl, and that little girl got hold of T and inspired him to grow the hell up.
In the years before her arrival, G quite often received those dreaded middle-of-the-night phone calls that NEVER bode well for anybody concerned. He would frantically fumble for the phone and try to focus his eyes on the clock and his mind on the call, eke out some groggy semblance of a “Hello,” only to be greeted on the other end by an inappropriately chipper T who hailed his dad with a hearty “HEY, DAD! HOW YA DOIN’?!”
To which G would logically respond, “T, it’s two-thirty in the MORNING. Why are you calling me—what is wrong—what have you done?” T would answer with a happy, oh-gosh-darn tone, “Well, Dad, I’m in Tupelo and I was in this bar…” (It should be noted that T nearly always went at least three hours away from home to commit these infractions, making it even more unhandy to go and extricate him from whatever circumstances he had gotten himself mired in. In this case, he was a good four hours away. The calls ALWAYS involved “a bar” somewhere, naturally.)
So, T says, he was in this bar and he got in a fight. “Are you in jail?” G naturally asked. “Well, no, Dad, I’m not in jail but I am bleeding and I was just wondering what you thought I ought to do?” “T, just go to the emergency room and see if you need stitches—do you think you need stitches, son?” “Well, I might, Dad, it’s kinda SQUIRTIN’ OUT everywhere—what do you think I ought to do?” “T—GO TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM, NOW!” G hangs up the phone and lies there in the dark, staring blindly, wondering if there is any possibility of sleep returning to him this night, and the phone rings again. “HEY, DAD! Say, are you coming to take me to the emergency room?” “T—I’m FOUR HOURS away—YOU ARE IN TUPELO—YOU’LL BLEED TO DEATH IF YOU WAIT FOR ME TO COME UP THERE—just hold a towel over whatever it is that’s bleeding…” “It’s the top of my ear, Dad.” “Hold a towel over your EAR and GO to the emergency room, T. Do NOT call me back until you have done that.” “Uh, okay, Dad.”
And then it all became crystal clear to me—the reason for the kid prayers at the weddings—(which, clearly, vengeful parents are slipping into the service)—and the reason for G’s sparkling disposition that Sunday morning after his visit with T and his wife. T’s wife had just presented them all with a brand-new BABY BOY and G is now praying to be around for at least another eighteen years.
Grandkids are the definite upside of Geezerdom. They are precious beyond words when they’re little—and it brings to mind the good old days when your own kids were babies—and then, when they turn into Teenage Mutant Hounds from Hell—you can just laugh and laugh from the soothing sanctuary of your own home, far, far away. Vengeance may indeed be His, according to the Lord, but ain’t it swell when He shares just a little bit of it?
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Travel
Travel has certainly changed a good bit for me over the course of my life. As a child, terrified of nearly everything in the Universe with the one remotely possible exception of my own shadow (maybe, I don’t really remember—coulda been scared of that, too—prolly was), I never went anywhere—ANYWHERE—without one—but preferably both—of my parents.
In the summers of my twelfth and thirteenth years, my best friend, Rhonda, and I would go on business trips with my daddy, who was in the insurance industry. He would need to meet with his agents in various and sundry little towns all over Mississippi, Louisiana, and Arkansas, and Rhonda and I thought it was just THE best thing in the world to ride along with him—for hours upon hours on highways, byways, and narrow, rutted two-lane roads—stopping at many roadside mom-and-pop stores—and every single Stuckey’s—along the way to restock on sugar and stupid souvenirs, both of which we could never get enough of.
I remember the first time I became aware of the existence of Stuckey’s. Can’t tell you where we were traveling to or from but I can tell you that somewhere along our route, I suddenly saw, outside my backseat window, a sign proclaiming that it was only 153 miles to STUCKEY’S. In just a minute, there was another sign advising me that we had moved one mile closer to STUCKEY’S—and so it went for the subsequent 143 miles. There was a small roadside sign at every single mile, feeding my frenzy for whatever this mystical thing called “Stuckey’s” was. On these signs, there were no words or graphics offering me so much as a hint concerning the nature of this too-slowly-approaching wonder—“14
4 miles to Stuckey’s” was all I got until “143” came up. It was like “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” only slower and not to music.
I couldn’t imagine what could be so all-fired important about this thing called Stuckey’s as to require so very much consistent advance notice, but I knew that, whatever it was, I did NOT want to miss it.
At about ten miles out, Stuckey’s increased the pressure by erecting huge billboards with mentions of what all I would find in plentiful supply when I finally arrived at Stuckey’s. Each mile we traveled brought me that much closer to “PECAN LOGS!” and “DIVINITY!” “CLEAN RESTROOMS” at least got some response out of Mama, who declared that she would believe THAT when she saw it with her own two eyes.
She’s a Potty Animal
A clean public restroom was the Holy Grail for Mama, and it was just about as elusive, as far as I can recollect. I can’t actually recall her ever, even once, walking into one and breathing a big sigh of relief, delight, or satisfaction at what met her gaze. My memory banks are overflowing with her most common reactions, which included but were not limited to horrified breathing—on both the inhale and the exhale—which gave you a shocked, fainty kind of gasp on the front end and a sharp, disgusted puff on the finish—accompanied by eyes that were at first bugged out as wide as possible with eyebrows yanked up around her hairline, followed by the squintiest possible squint, eyebrows lowered and drawn together tight in the middle of her much-furrowed forehead. Due to the horror of the sight before her, words would often escape her momentarily, but when she did find a few, the first couple were most likely to be “MERCIFUL HEAVENS!” (Never once in my EN-tire life have I ever heard my mama express shock or dismay with a resounding and well-earned “HOLY SHIT!” which, as you oughta know by NOW, is one of my most oft-used epithets. I can’t recall right off where I learned it, but I can tell you for sure, it was most assuredly NOT from Mama.)
American Thighs Page 13