“Well, I’m overwhelmed all the time. My nerves are frayed. I feel like screaming and crying, but instead all I do is eat cookies.”
“Oh that’s normal, that’s just like – you know, life.”
“You have got to be kidding.”
“Now if you said you felt like jumping off the roof of your building then I might be worried, that might put you more in the breakdown category.”
“Great, thanks.”
“What does your therapist say?”
“She’s away at a self-actualization retreat.”
“For how long?”
“A month.”
“Excuse me? That’s fucked up.”
“It did seem a little long.”
“Have you talked with your family doctor?”
“She’s only allowed fifteen minutes per patient, that’s not a lot of time to get into things. But she suggested using a seasonal affective disorder lamp and taking more vitamin D.”
“Right.”
“What if I turn into one of those crazy women who wanders the streets jibber-jabbering?”
“I’m not going to let my best friend live on the streets, you can jibber-jabber at my place. In fact, I just put a new bed in the basement guest room.”
“Okay, well everyone needs a back up plan, thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“So you think I’m okay? Like I’m not emotionally unraveling?”
“I didn’t say that. I think you are emotionally unraveling.”
“Oh.”
“But I think emotionally unraveling is good. You know like when your necklaces get all jumbled together and stuck in a giant knot? And you have to sit down and slowly untangle each piece from the other? Right now you’re that knot. But as you unravel yourself you will re-discover all the beautiful gemstones that were hiding in the tangled mess. And you will sparkle again. You will sparkle like a motherfucker.”
It’s October – can u believe it?! It’s a busy month. 3 of my friends have birthdays – Scorpios r crazy. And on the 18th mom is taking me to a protest. It’s like an anti-fascism, anti-Trump thing. He’s a total freak. What do u wear to a protest? Maybe 90’s grunge. Anyway, dad is acting weird, I think he might be having an affair. He’s always leaving the table to take calls. He says it’s work related, but I just get this vibe, u know? And I mean his new assistant is so young, like early twenties and she’s fucking gorgeous. Do u think mom will leave him if she finds out? Or maybe she already knows and doesn’t care. Remember when mom gave me that weird speech about sexuality being a powerful energy that flows in and out of us? Like what the fuck was she talking about? Maybe they’re in an open marriage. Ugh. Gross. I am never, ever getting married. Mom asked me if I wanted to go to Planned Parenthood, or if I wanted to see her gynecologist. I told her “for the love of god NO!” The straight guys at school are so gross, like they wear vintage preppy 80’s and their vibe is sleeze-core. If I’m going to let a guy put his body inside my body – then he better have something to bring to the table, know what I mean? Just like grandma says: “If they don’t enhance your life they’re not worth it.” Truth bomb. Grandma knows what’s up. Anyways, u know what Diary? I’m not going to worry about dad having an affair or their marriage. I have enough to worry about. Apparently I have to master a 3rd language, like knowing 2 languages isn’t enough anymore, that’s what the career counsellor said. Can’t I just enjoy my life for a minute before I have to start worrying about my future? And it turns out that the volunteer work I’m doing – as you know Diary I work at Best Friends Animal Shelter – is not the right kind of volunteer work. It’s not “upper tier” volunteer work, it’s “lower tier.” I’m helping dogs get adopted, how is that not top tier? This world is fucked. Like grandma always says, “we’re going to hell in a hand basket.” Do u think I should get bangs? By the way, our entire school smells like weed, but all the teachers pretend not to notice. I think that new girl, Lucy, has an eating disorder. Her arms r sticks and they’re covered with soft furry type hair. I feel weird eating in front of her. Mom wants to have a 16th birthday party for our cat, but that’s insane right? I mean birthday parties r for dogs, not cats. Theo would literally run away from our house if he saw mom decorating. What is wrong with her? I think she’s in perimenopause, which sounds revolting. Why do women get all the shitty stuff?! I bought a pair of skinny jeans because I just can’t with the oversized, wide-leg jeans anymore. Not a good look. Anyways, that’s it for now, I’ll write again soon.
Love Olive
Mademoiselle Magazine editorial “Grunge: The sound and the Fury” by Walter Chin. February 1993.
“No. Plus, don’t even think about dying. I already have three mini urns on my mantel, there is no room for a fourth.”
“You’re not getting my ashes. I’m having myself turned into a pod, then planted in the forest.”
“That can’t be legal.”
“It is, I read about it in The New York Times.”
“What will I have to remember you by if I don’t get your ashes?”
“You’ll have my vintage purse collection.”
“I’m listening.”
“And I’ll leave notes in each purse. So you’ll have little memory prompts like, ‘remember when we were Goth for six months in high school and our boyfriends were brothers?’ The notes will help you with your dementia.”
“I don’t have dementia.”
“Not yet, but you’ll probably get it.”
“What a lovely thing to say, thank you. Honestly though, what is up with you and your grief? You’re literally cloaked in it. It’s like a sad girl perfume that you spray on each day. And you spray on so much – like the cosmetic ladies at the mall used to do in the 80’s. It turns people off: So some of your people died. So some of your people are currently really sick and are probably going to die soon. You are alive, you have to live.”
“Do I though? What if I’m just tired and kinda over it all and I just want to take a permanent nap. I should be able to decide my own fate.”
“First of all, if you kill yourself I’ll never forgive you and I’ll haunt your decayed pod in the stupid forest. Second of all – the whole point of life is that we don’t get to decide our own fate, life just unfolds. Maybe you’ll get lucky and get smashed by a dump truck tonight. Or, maybe you’ll live to 103 in a cottage by the sea with only a sprinkling of arthritis. Girl that’s the wild ride of it all, you don’t know what’s going to happen. You can’t control everything.”
“I am a bit of a control freak.”
“Ya think? Maybe you should go do that ketamine therapy, they just opened a swanky clinic near me.”
“That sounds dodgy.”
“It’s not, it’s legal, I read about it in your precious New York Times. Plus their office is really chic, like a minimalist-artisanal vibe. And the doctor who founded the place is hot. Dream-boy hot. Do it! Do the ketamine and shed your sad girl scent. I honestly can’t take it anymore.”
“Okay, okay, you made your point. I get it. My grief spiral has become unbearable, I’ll deal with it.”
“That’s my girl. Now let’s get back to people watching and being snarks. Like what is that woman even wearing on her feet?! They’re kitten heels with a super long toe. Ugliest fucking shoes I’ve ever seen.”
“But you never look at them. They just sit in a box in the basement.”
“I like knowing they’re there.”
“I find that strange.”
“I find you strange. You don’t have a sentimental bone in your body. How are you my daughter?”
“I’m sentimental, but I’m also a minimalist. I’m not going to keep old stuff, it’s very hoarding-esque. Unhealthy I think.”
“Well, I can think of many things that are unhealthy about you, including your taste in men & the fact that you lather your face with beef tallow.”
“Beef tallow as skincare is a legit thing mom, my skin has never looked so good.”
“But you smell.”
“I smell?”
“Yes, you smell gross.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is. I mean you have fucking beef tallow on your skin. Why don’t you use that nice Estee Lauder serum I bought you?”
“It’s full of toxins.”
“Jesus. You and your toxins obsession. I hate to break it to you kid, but we’re all gonna die, so you may as well use nice creams on your face.”
“You know you’re not a normal mother, right?”
“Normal is an outdated narrative. Are you still dating Devon? He’s a narcissistic prick in case you haven’t noticed. No idea why you would debase yourself by letting him into your heart and body. Have you talked with your therapist about him?”
“Talk therapy is old fashioned. I meditate, journal and occasionally do Ayahuasca.”
“So basically you sit on a yoga mat, get high and write about it. Great. Now I understand your generation better.”
“And Devon is no more narcissistic than anyone else I know, he just embraces his narcissism, he doesn’t try to hide it.”
“Wow. What. A. Gem.”
“Stop it mom.”
“Okay, okay. Why don’t you invite him over for Sunday night dinner sometime?”
“Because I don’t want to traumatize him.”
“Very funny.”
“Plus, he’s vegan on Sundays.”
“I’ll make him a nice salad.”
“We haven’t even had sex yet mom, it’s too early to introduce him to the family.”
“You haven’t had sex yet? Why the hell not?”
“Just because you were slutty at my age doesn’t mean I have to be. We hang out. We talk. We smoke weed. We walk in the forest.”
“That’s sad. I tell you kid, you’re missing out.”
“Stop calling me kid, it’s annoying.”
“Fine. Let’s pop into this cute bakery. You still eat cake right?”
“Of course I still eat cake. What kind of a question is that?”
“Oh thank God. Sex-less is one thing, but cake-less would have put me over the edge.”
Tossing laundry into the washing machine, Tessa paused, looking at a ratty old pair of plaid boxer shorts.
“These are gross. How is Jordan even still wearing them? What is wrong with him?”
Irritated, Tessa continued loading the machine. Her own underwear was pretty: black cotton with black lace trim. And of course she had some sexier ones too. The point was that she put effort into keeping herself lovely – for herself and for her husband.
“These are literally ten years old. I’m not going to have sex with him until he buys new underwear.”
A few pairs were even ripped –
RIPPED!
She angrily balled them up and tossed them in the garbage. A moment of guilt swished over her:
The underwear would end up in a landfill, polluting the planet.
She considered cutting them into rags. It was the right thing to do, but Tessa wasn’t that committed to the planet. Plus, they had a cleaning lady – Veronica – and Veronica was very particular about her supplies, so much so that she brought her own with her. Veronica would never use underwear rags, it was beneath her.
Later, as Jordan and her sat on opposite sides of the couch with their laptops, Tessa burst out:
“Do you still love me?”
“What? Of course I still love you. Why are you asking?”
“Because you never buy new underwear.”
“What does that have to do with me loving you?”
“Everything.”
“Everything?”
“Yes everything. You no longer make an effort. You don’t romance me. You don’t surprise me with little treats. You never wear the nice clothing I buy you. You never change up our routine to keep things interesting. Your nasty old boxers are symbolic.”
Jordan tilted his head:
“I bought you a gift a few days ago – that pink Christmas poinsettia.”
“Doesn’t count. You were at the grocery store picking up beer, plus it was wilted and 75% off.”
“Now you’re just sounding immature and petty. But if my underwear is so triggering I’ll buy new ones.”
Tessa started quietly weeping, as if she was at a movie theatre and didn’t want to disturb anyone.
“Why are you crying? Are you menopausing? Is that what’s really going on here?”
Tessa’s nostrils flared:
“FYI – menopausing is not a word. Also, that’s insulting, it invalidates my tears. I’m crying because I feel emotional about the state of our relationship.”
“It just seems like you would not be crying if you had seen nice underwear when you were doing laundry. And that’s nuts.”
“What’s nuts is that you’re on auto-pilot. Ever since we got married it’s like you stopped trying. You’re in this relationship passively, not actively, and that makes me feel like shit.”
“I thought one of the cool things about getting married was that you could just chill with your person, you didn’t have to be “on” all the time.”
“You don’t have to be “on,” but you do have to participate in creating a life together. You do need to give our relationship some of your energy. You have a beautiful spirit – that’s why I fell in love with you – but some of that spirit needs to be directly funnelled into ‘us.’”
“Okay, okay, I get it. At least I think I get it and I’m sorry. I’m on Nordstrom.com right now ordering boxers.”
“Thank you. And since you’re already shopping – I like the new Marc Jacobs purse, it’s called the Mini Bag. In lilac, not black.”
“Okay, gimme a second. Wait, you want this purse? It’s like crazy-tiny.”
“I know. That’s what makes it so chic.”
“I will never fully understand you.”
“And you don’t need to. You just need to love me.”
“You still have your fall wreath up and old pumpkins and gourds. It’s December.”
“There’s nothing in our condo rules book that says we have to do any kind of decor. If I wanted to, and maybe I do, I could put out my pink flamingos.”
“Very funny. The condo board just wants a cohesive look for our development, is that too much to ask?”
“Umm, ya, actually it is too much to ask.”
“All you have to do is look around at the other houses, do you see any fall or Thanksgiving decorations? No you don’t. You see Christmas and Hanukkah and lots of sparkle and lights. That’s what’s appropriate for December.”
“We’re not Stepford Wives and this is not Connecticut; I’ll put up whatever kind of decor I want. By the way, in case you haven’t noticed, the world is going up in flames. I’m pretty sure no one cares about my outdoor decor.”
“Actually, people do care. We’ve had two complaints about you in the last year.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The condo board received two anonymous notes about your slovenliness.”
Victoria started laughing.
“Oh my God, that’s hysterical. What were people upset about?”
“You didn’t throw out your fall plants. You left them to rot in the front yard bushes.”
“I do that so they’ll decompose, it’s good for the soil.”
“It looks unseemly. That’s what yard waste bags are for.”
“And what was my second infraction officer?”
“The second complaint was about your dandelions. Your yard was covered with them this spring, it looked like some derelict home from the wrong side of town.”
“They’re good for the environment, haven’t you read about the honeybees?”
“A few dandelions is all you need to help the honeybees, not a yard full.”
“Dandelions are very chic. Architectural Digest even did a feature on them.”
“Victoria, I don’t want to argue about dandelions. I just want you to put up your damn holiday decor.”
“Well, since Trump is not President yet, I’m going to take advantage of the few freedoms we still have. I’ll decorate for the holidays when I’m in the mood. When I’m feeling festive. Goodbye Colleen.”
“Hi mom. Sorry I’m late, the freeway was nuts. Eric stayed in the city to catch up on some work.”
“So he’s not with you? Oh Dear.”
“What a lovely welcome.”
“Oh don’t be silly, I’m happy to see you. It’s just that I had a list for Eric, a few things we needed help with.”
“You know Eric is not a handyman right? He’s a Chief Operating Officer – whatever that is. The point is he went to Harvard business school and everytime he comes here you’ve got him up on a ladder or hanging a painting. It’s not fair. Plus, you guys can afford to hire a handyman.”
“Well, first of all daughter of mine, I don’t like your tone of voice one bit. Second of all, there are no handymen left, they are a dying breed. There is literally no one in this God forsaken town to help your poor father and I. We need Eric.”
“I’m pretty sure I can find you help, there’s an app for everything.”
“You know how I feel about apps. I don’t trust them. You could be hiring a murderer for all you know. One minute he’s changing a chandelier lightbulb, the next minute we’re bleeding out on the Persian carpet.”
“Tad dramatic. I need a glass of wine.”
“We opened a nice Pinot, it’s on the buffet. I’m going to find your father, he’ll be very upset about Eric.”
For The Love Of God
“What’s this about Eric not being here?” Her father bellowed as he walked towards her.
“Hi Dad, nice to see you too. Eric is busy with work this weekend. He’s a Chief Operating Officer you know.”
“Chief Operating Officer is a ridiculous title. I can’t believe he doesn’t have time for us.”
Jules sighed and took a sip of wine.
“I’m sure I can help you with a few of the tasks, but not tonight I’m too tired.”
“You’re too short to be of any use to us.”
“Mom, what the hell? That’s not a very nice thing to say.”
“I’m not insulting you, it’s just that Eric is tall, we need tall. And strong. Tall and strong. You are neither of those things, it’s a simple fact.”
Jules sighed again.
“Anyways, love you. I’m going to bed early, see you in the morning.”
“I’m just going to write Eric a little email, to say hi.”
“Mom don’t. That’s not a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because Eric and I are taking a break.”
“What?! You broke up with the man who helps keep this household running? How could you do that to us?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your generation is ridiculous. If I had taken a break from your father every time he drove me nuts, it would have been weekly. Don’t be stupid, don’t let him go. He’s a good man and he knows how to fix almost anything. Jesus H. Christ.”
Her mom poured a 1/4 glass of wine, then tossed it back like a tequila shot.
“Here I’m thinking maybe you two will get married one day, maybe even give me a grandchild, but instead you’re loafing around taking a break. Taking a break from a Chief Operating Officer who also happens to be an excellent handyman.”
“The thing is Mom, it’s not that Eric is driving me nuts. It’s that he doesn’t want to get married and he doesn’t want kids. The other night he told me he wants to be my life partner and he thinks we should get a cat. But that’s all he can handle.”
“Life partner and a cat? Is he kidding? And by the way Missy, how the hell did you get two years into a relationship not knowing that he was against marriage and children?”
“We really only talked about that stuff very early on. At the time he said he just wanted to focus on his career. It seemed like a typical “guy” thing to say and I figured he would change his mind; I was wrong.”
“You were delinquent in your vetting process.”
“Well maybe I was. Regardless, we’re taking a break so that I can figure out what I want.”
“He’s a business man, he’s used to negotiating. You go back to the bargaining table.”
“You’re kidding right?”
“I’m not. You counter offer with a city courthouse wedding and a small cocktail reception, no big hullabaloo.”
“You mean like Carrie and Big in the first Sex and The City movie?”
“Exactly.”
“Also, Eric will pay for freezing your eggs so that you have future options.”
“Keeping my eggs in a storage facility is kind of creepy.”
“Nonsense, it’s 2024, this is how things are done.”
“True.”
“But regarding the cat: that’s a hard no. You will adopt a dog.”
“I don’t know mom. I mean I really appreciate you thinking outside the box with this advice, but,”
“But Eric is also a big fucking asshole. He doesn’t deserve Jules. I mean he offered her partnership and a cat. Who does he think he is?”
“Thank you dad, my thoughts exactly.”
“But you two love each other. You belong together. Plus,”
“Plus what?”
“Plus Eric is an excellent handyman and we need him.”
“STOP. Enough with the handyman!”
“What’s that noise?” Jules’ mother asked suddenly.
Her father grabbed the golf club he kept in the living room to scare off would be intruders.
“Call 911! This neighborhood is going to hell in a hand basket!” Her mother shrieked.
The door knob jiggled furiously.
Jules’ father raised the golf club high up over his head.
“God, this keyhole needs oiling. I’ll do it in the morning,” Eric grumbled to himself as he walked in the front door, throwing his bag on the floor.
“Eric, I almost smashed your brains out with this club!” Her father yelled, his face covered with anxiety sweat.
“Jules told us you two were on a break and that you only wanted a partnership and a cat.” Her mother said giving him a dirty look.
“Jesus Fred, put down the club. Everyone just calm the hell down. I thought you would all be in bed.”
“Cancel 911!”
“I never called them.”
“You never called 911? We almost died at the hands of an intruder!”
“I figured it was Eric. I mean, who else has a key?”
“Everyone just take a breath,” said Eric, reaching out for Jules’ hand:
“Babe I’m an asshole, a big fucking asshole.”
“That’s what I said,” her father clucked.
“I mean a partnership and a cat? Who says that? I was out of my mind the other night, really upset over a botched deal at work. And kind of overwhelmed by all the wedding invites and baby announcements in my inbox. I freaked out. I’m sorry. I don’t even like cats. Please forgive me.”
Jules’ mother pushed her towards him.
“Well, thanks for explaining things. But maybe we should talk in the morning, this night has been a lot.”
“Jules, pour Eric a glass of wine. Eric – are you hungry? Did you eat dinner?”
“I’m fine Agnes. But I will take a glass of wine, thank you.”
“Okay. Well your father and I are going to bed. Eric, we are happy and relieved that you are here. I made your favorite snickerdoodle cookies, there’s a plate for you downstairs next to your bed.”
“Amazing. There’s no problem that a snickerdoodle can’t fix,” he said winking at her.
Patting Eric’s back, Jules’ father leaned in close to him:
“Get your shit together kid, I mean it. I’m watching you,” he whispered.
“I hear you Fred, don’t worry. I love your daughter. And I’ll oil the door lock tomorrow, I promise.”
“No but for real. Like I should add it to my dating profile. That’s a hard no for me.”
“You’re hilarious.”
“And if the guy is voting for Trump, that’s also a hard no.”
“Then your tag line should read: “attractive 32 year old looking for a Kamala Harris-voting man who won’t choke me during sex.”
“Not bad.”
“But what if he’s super hot, can prove he’s a registered Democrat and only occasionally wants to put his hands around your throat?”
“NO. You don’t see choking in the Kama Sutra. If he can’t get off without almost killing me then I don’t want him.”
“Ya but isn’t the choking supposed to be for you? Apparently it helps people achieve heightened sexual pleasure.”
“I don’t need anything heightened, regular sexual pleasure is good enough for me. Jesus.”
“You are no fun. Last week I used a feather-trimmed whip on Jason. I was running it lightly across his chest when he started sneezing. It led to a full blown asmtha attack. He couldn’t find his puffer so I had to call 911.”
“That’s so scary. Did you return the whip?”
“I tried to, but they said it was used so I couldn’t. They wouldn’t even give me a store credit.”
“Horrible customer service.”
“That’s what said.”
“I’m meeting this guy Aaron at The Coffee Bean tomorrow, then we’re going to the Melrose Flea Market. It’s a first date.”
“Are you going to mention the choking before or after coffee?”
“When we’re at the flea market I’ll casually bring it up: ‘hey, check out this cool antique mirror and also, fyi I’m not into sex choking. Just so you know.’”
“It’s called erotic asphyxiation.”
“Sex choking sounds better though.”
“True. I’m following you on your date, I must hear this conversation.”
“I know. Whoever is standing near us when I bring up the subject – you’re welcome in advance.”
“At least this Aaron guy is pro-flea markets, that’s a good sign.”
“Agreed. Though he could be faking it. I think a lot of guys pretend to like flea markets because their girlfriends do. When really they rather be at a pub drinking a pint and watching sports.”
“But at least at a flea market you’ll get a sense of what Aaron is about. Like if he’s genuinely into collecting those creepy old dolls wearing stained dresses, then that would be a major red flag.”
“Gross. But what about me? You know I have a thing for 1970’s polyester kaftans. What if that’s a red flag for him?”
“If I were you, I would kinda dial it down and not show your obsession for dressing like Mrs. Roper from Three’s Company.”
“So I’ll just start lying to Aaron on our first date?”
“Yep. If you want a second date with him he needs to imagine you wearing something sexier than a giant mumu.”
“All of it. What’s the point of anything? Why are we trying so hard when we’re just gonna die anyways?”
“I mean there is no point. You just live your life to the best of your abilities and then you die. That’s it I think.”
“But that’s insane. I mean there has to be more. More meaning, a reason that we’re each here. It can’t just be random nothingness.”
“It totally can be random nothingness. You’re searching for meaning where there is none. Don’t think so much, just be.”
“Bro, I’m not digging your advice. I need some answers and you’re giving me a whole lotta nothing.”
“You overthink everything, which then complicates everything, which then sends you spiraling into the Twilight Darkness. Just shut that big fat brain of yours off and be in the moment. Like look at that sunset man – that’s fucking beautiful. While you’re getting all existential the sky is on fire. You miss all the good shit when you’re in your head.”
“The sky is pretty spectacular, Holy Fuck. It looks like a painting.”
“Exactly. Maybe that’s the point of life.”
“A cool sunset is the point of life?”
“No. But appreciating and revelling in a cool sunset is the point of life.”
“Okay, I kinda feel that. Thanks.”
“No problem. Now stop talking and let’s just vibe on this epic sky for a few minutes.”
“You were a surprise. Your father and I weren’t planning on having a family for another few years. But back then abortions were hard to come by, so we had you.”
“Oh, well, okay. Thanks for sharing mom, it’s always good to know one’s origin story. Here, eat some toast.”
“You know your father wasn’t my first lover, before I met him I slept with many men. One in particular was unbelievable in bed, he was a Marine. My God what a time we had together.”
“Wow. I’m getting the good family history, not the boring stuff. Want some orange juice?”
“Not that orange juice, it’s got pulp in it, looks like orange sludge. You never remember to buy pulp-free.”
“You’re right, I do seem to have a mental block about pulp. How about a few bites of egg?”
“Sure, I love eggs. And I love chickens and hens and roosters. Though roosters get up a tad early for my liking.”
“I almost forgot, here: I brought you a cappuccino from that cafe you like around the corner.”
“I hate cappuccinos, I only drink lattes. You never get anything right.”
“Oh.”
“Do you see that lady in the pink uniform?”
“Yes, that’s Nancy, your Personal Support Worker. She’s lovely.”
“She’s not lovely, she’s a thief. She stole my pearl earrings.”
“I don’t think Nancy would steal from you mom, the earrings must be around somewhere. I’ll find them.”
“No you won’t find them because Nancy stole them. We should fire her.”
“We’re not firing her, she’s a great help, we’d be lost without her.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Did you take your pills?”
“Yes I took my fucking pills, stop harassing me. You treat me like a child.”
“I don’t mean to, I apologize.”
“Your father is acting weird lately. Have you noticed? He’s wearing his hair shorter and he’s dressing nicer than usual. Do you think he’s having an affair?”
“No, of course not, dad adores you. He has a new barber who likes to cut his hair short. And I made him buy some new pants, he was looking grubby.”
“It’s probably that woman who drives that ridiculous pink scooter around the neighborhood, she always had a thing for him. And now that her husband is six feet under she’s got her eyes on your father.”
“It doesn’t matter if she has her eyes on dad, he would never go for her. A pink bedazzled scooter? Not his vibe.”
“True. I mean how tacky can you get? Where’s Jeff? He hasn’t visited in ages.”
“We broke up mom, remember? But he sends his best. He misses playing Gin Rummy with you.”
“You never told me you two broke up! Why would you not tell your mother such important news? That’s very sad. He was a good man. Your father and I are going to be dead before we see you get married. Jesus.”
“I don’t believe in marriage mom. And yes, Jeff was a good man, we just grew apart. It’s okay, we’re still friends.”
“Friends? Pathetic.”
“Want another piece of toast?”
“Yes please. Sourdough bread is the best, isn’t it? I just love it.”
sparkledame 