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Amy
I’m supposed to be at a party right now. A small party, I imagine around 25-30 people. It was to take place in a popular downtown restaurant. But instead, I’m sitting at home with my dog, writing you. Not because I decided not to go. Not because I don’t feel well. But because of panic and “guidelines”. Guidelines being a nice way of saying restrictions. One week ago, last Tuesday, America was aware of this “flubug” called Coronavirus. We felt bad for China, and we were really examining our spring break plans. We had enough sense to know we didn’t want to go to big cities with international airports. We weren’t too keen about getting on airplanes or cruise ships. But we’re not China. So we laughed and joked and shared memes about beer and face masks made from bras. Wednesday. I look back on this day now and wonder how long it will be before I’ll have another day like it. Because that was the last time I had dinner out with friends. We laughed and teased our friend who stayed glued to her phone. She travels a lot, and her panic rose substantially as the night wore on, no matter how much wine she drank. She was in communication with a coworker in California, who said she was praying. In case you’re new to America, let me…
All I knew was he went by Rod. I found him through a friend of a friend of an acquaintance after I couldn’t find a granny witch. Everybody said I didn’t want to open that door, and I tended to agree. So straight-up murder, no magic, then. I assumed he came from a neighboring county that had, shall we say, less stringent laws? The authorities would turn a blind eye to lots of misdeeds…especially if you feathered their nest if the public got to lookin’ too close. But I wasn’t going to ask him about his family and politics. The less we knew about each other, the better. It’s surprisingly easy to put a hit out. And cheap! Less than what you’d pay for a mediocre used car. The details were simple: meet in a corner booth in a Mexican restaurant. Wear a black shirt (how original, I know). Order a burrito with extra sour cream. Slide the money under a stack of napkins at the earliest convenience. Finish the meal, and get the heck out. Leave first and don’t look back. So that’s what we did. Rod was sturdily built, with a goatee. He looked like any number of guys in these parts. Not a killer. He was wearing a plaid shirt with pockets and blue jeans. Lace-up boots. A pack of cigarettes in one pocket, sunglasses in another. He…
I stepped into my favorite restaurant bar at a quarter to five, seated at what I’ve come to think of as “my” table, since it seems I get it nearly every time. Maybe I should see to getting a little plaque made up. I ordered a cosmo and settled back to wait on my friend. I surveyed the people at the bar and what I found was a goldmine. I couldn’t get my WordPress account opened fast enough. Left to right: Balding man, grey hair trimmed short. He was in blue jeans, a black hooded sweatshirt under a jean jacket with white tennis shoes. Describing his appearance makes me feel that his best days were the 80’s. He stayed absorbed in his phone the few minutes I got to observe him. I’d wager he’s still figuring it on, maybe navigating YouTube. He polished off his light beer and left abruptly. Maybe to drink PBR’s in his buddy’s garage while bangin’ some drums and smoking a little weed. He was replaced shortly after by a heavyset dude in his 30’s, clearly fresh off a construction job, but obviously he’d taken the time to change his boots. Otherwise, they would still be sweeping up mud. I didn’t notice what he’d ordered to drink. Maybe sweet tea, maybe a dark draft, I dunno. His friend came from a…
An electrician, a felon, a lawyer, and a secretary were crammed in a booth, gobbling chips and salsa. Nope, this isn’t a joke. You’re probably wondering what they all have in common. I ask myself the same thing. The electrician and the felon had grown up together, and we might as well say they were the best of friends, even though the felon had stolen his identity. That was sometime back, and not what he’d gone to prison for. The lawyer was the felon’s girlfriend. You probably thought I was gonna say lawyer, didn’t you? Because that would make a sight more sense. But life doesn’t make sense, don’t you know anything by now? The secretary was just along for the ride, wondering what she’d married into most of the time. She would wonder for the rest of her life. The felon had been free for one whole day. He’d spent some time re-adapting to “normal” life in a sort of halfway house in Nashville but today he was officially “out”. And celebrating by eating the food of his people. Just kidding. He was a white guy. The electrician was pointing out the finer points of manners, becoming agitated when the felon rushed off to the head before even ordering his drink. You would think the lawyer would have schooled him, but she probably had her hands…
“Anybody down that way got 1000 tacos and margaritas?” I read the text and rolled my eyes. That was just like him, incommunicado for a month and then pop back into my life like two hours had gone by. I typed out a witty response, smirked, and hit send. The problem was we were both in denial. But I was wearing a new dress and the fact was, I didn’t have dinner plans. So why not? He pulled in about an hour later. We left right away, with me behind the wheel because I knew where we were going. And because he drives slow and it makes me a little crazy. It was the first time we’d gotten together for supper in a Very Long Time. Lunch, yes. But lunch is somehow different. Broad daylight doesn’t make for sliding glances and double-entendres. Daytime lunches are for catching up and griping about work issues. But take away the sun and replace it with a moon…things take a more serious note. So we slid into a booth with all the things left unsaid between us. Things we hadn’t discussed at our lunches. and it was going to be said because enough is enough and I’m not known for my passiveness. We broke the ice by tormenting our poor hapless waitress, who, as it turned out, could hold her own. “What can I get y’all…
Sometimes we eat Mexican because there’s nothing else to do. And it’s cheap. I don’t understand these people who get hung up on the menu. It’s all the same: beans, rice, cheese, and either chicken or steak. Just randomly point, it’ll be fine. I’m looking at a girl, maybe 25, clearly at a loss on what to order. She’s dithering. All the advice I have is probably don’t try the molcajete. it comes in a cauldron and has tiny squid in it. I feel a little sorry for her boyfriend, but not too much, because it looks like he’s accustomed to her level of pickiness. He looks bored and slightly stressed because the waiter is having to answer fourteen thousand questions about rice, beans, and cheese. The boyfriend is probably thinking their food will be spit on. I would spit on it if I was their waiter. Heck, I might spit on her. That’s why I’m not a waiter. She looks kinda high maintenance. She’s got one of those “I need to speak with the manager” haircuts and a big nose. I hear hear say, “No guacamole. Nothing green,” with a cutting off motion of her hand. She’s wearing some very fancy shoes for this kind of establishment. The boyfriend is wearing a ball cap, cargo shorts, and a t…
I’ve been super scatterbrained lately.I went to the mailbox last night for the first time in about a week. I tend to forget about mail. Snail mail, email, whatever, all of it. It was stuffed, but half of it was junk, so I still don’t count this as notable.This morning, I was just driving along, thinking about Cookeville, and all the differences citizens have in their commute today. That is, if they’re even able to go to work. And I put my turn signal on to go around the curve at Indian Warpath 🤦A few minutes ago, I’m washing my hands and I’m looking in the mirror above the sink. My face looks different. Something isn’t right. I realize I’m not wearing eyeliner. More than that, I’m not wearing mascara. For a redhead to be without mascara…well, the term “pig-eyed” comes to mind.Now I’m trying to decide how vain I am, if I’m going to run to Walgreens to get a tube of cheap-o, because I have a new Clinique one at home.I’m pretty vain, but I don’t want to go to Walgreens. And who knows what might happen to me if I vary my routine today. I’m crazy enough already.~~~~~~~If anybody needs somebody to pray for, the list I have just…
Hard to handle. Direct. Ruthless. Stubborn. Impulsive. Selfish. Strong willed. Bossy. Sassy. Confident. Outspoken. Snobby. Bold. Too-smart-for-your-own-good. Assertive. Uncompromising. Unapologetic. Did these words cause you to stiffen? Did they make you feel defensive? Would you feel more at ease if I had started with meek, ambivalent, selfless, passive, harmonizing, delicate, reserved? What characteristics would you rather have at your side as a partner? Or what about in an active shooter confrontation? Don’t you want the stronger willed person fighting for you? I don’t even know how to be anything else. Now go back and read it again but picture those words being applied to a man (well, maybe not sassy and men are somehow exempt from bossy, too. And nobody ever thinks of “handling” men, only women require handling 🙄). Because the first time you read it in my voice and you knew I was talking about myself. So read it again. In a male, isn’t that what they look for and call them “leadership qualities”? Yeah, I thought so. Why aren’t all women “difficult women”? I’ve asked myself this ever since I realized I had been branded with this label (around the time I went to work for the Co-op). I don’t mean to imply I dislike the branding, quite the opposite. To me, it just means I have a backbone and I express my (sometimes…
Lisa and I have this game we like to play when we’re out. All we do is try to guess the occupation of the people around us. Sometimes we even ask the ones we’re talking about if we’re not in agreement. I don’t like that part, because I understand that not everybody is approachable. Also, after so many years in a retail environment, I don’t fancy striking up a conversation with strangers. But Lisa has virtually no filter and she really likes talking to new people (and subsequently challenging them to a debate). Additionally, she likes telling people she teaches kickboxing. But anyway, it’s a fun way to pass the time and speculate. We get it right more than you would think. I’ve played a version for years in my head everywhere I go. But mine is more of a first date/ just friends/ work colleagues/ affair/ married an eternity version. Careers typically don’t enthuse me. And you know what I see the most? People sitting across the table from one another, on their phones. Completely ignoring the person they’re with. This drives me mad. Surprisingly, you don’t see as much of it at the bar. Patrons watch sports on the TVs, or they’re engaged with the people around them, strangers or not. There is a camaraderie. Blame the alcohol or praise it; I know I prefer interaction…
I like to think that my writing is a gift I have. Y’all tell me so, and I want to believe you. You say that reading my words is just like having me in the room with you, chatting. And that makes my heart swell. Because ain’t nothing worse than pretentious writing. I have a little sign above my desk that reminds me every day to be thankful. It says, “The meaning of life is to find your gift. The purpose of life is to give it away.”~Pablo Picasso I think I do. Even if I’ve had half a pot of coffee, I can write. Even when I hurt, maybe especially when I hurt, I can still write. I may not be writing about the thorn itself, but I’ll be circling it like a shark circles its prey. My other gift is my hair. It gives y’all something undeniable on which to blame my crazy. You’re welcome. It’s also a gift to me from God, that way I can shrug and say, “What’d you expect? I’m a redhead.” I think my hair was the gateway that got me here. It’s wild, and people are drawn to it. When there’s nothing else to talk about, when we’ve exhausted the weather, and what we do for a living, conversation will unfailingly turn to…
