I am not a cheap date. One day if you’re lucky enough to grow up, maybe you’ll learn what it means to respect the female species and not assume that just because you happen to be good in bed, it’s enough, because it isn’t. I’ve had better. You’re one of the reasons the phrase “He’s a dog” was invented. If there are ever any classes on self-respect and respect for women, I suggest you enroll in them both. Have a fucked-up life.
Georgia.
I tip over from laughing so hard. I should’ve made a greeting card out of this letter and used it for a whole bunch of these bastards. I set this declaration aside and continue my scavenger hunt. There are plenty of cards: Valentine and birthday cards from Michael’s sorry ass, but these were when he was sweet and purportedly still loved me; then there’s a separate, one-gallon freezer bag full of corny cards from Niles that I knew he put absolutely no thought into, because there were always white women with blond hair on the front of them.
When I hear the doorbell, I push myself to a standing position and head upstairs.
“Coming!” I yell while dancing to an unidentifiable beat that’s obviously not coming out of the speakers. This is just one more reason I like wine.
I open the door, and Wanda walks past me in a blinding orange muumuu that must have once belonged to her mother. I close my eyes and put my hands on my hips. “Well, with that getup you’ve come to the right place, since I’m strolling down Nostalgia Lane. What has gotten into you, Ms. Thang?”
“I was sitting in my favorite chair just stitching away, and Nelson was snoring on the sofa, and the dogs were snoring at the other end, and some stupid football game was on, and I suddenly got this overwhelming feeling of boredom, so that’s when I called you. Where’s the wine, or did you drink it all?”
“Let’s go see!” I say, and follow her to the bar.
As she stands on her toes to reach one of my fine wine goblets meant for real guests, I tell her what I’m doing and explain that I’m looking for the fish I had to throw back, and she just shakes her head and pops the cork on a good bottle. Then we head downstairs, the hem of that muumuu making her walk like she’s in a beauty pageant or something.
“Throw that dress in the trash,” I say. “Even my mother doesn’t go this far, Wanda.”
“You’re right. I don’t know what possessed me to buy it.”
“Because you’re possessed when you shop, that’s why.”
I warn her how the room looks, and when we walk in, she stands there with her hands on her orange hips and says, “So they’re all in here somewhere, huh?”
I sit on the floor, and she sits in the white armchair.
“Why are you playing that funeral music?”
“It’s called chill.”
“Yeah, more like embalmed. We need some R&B music from the seventies and eighties, since that’s where we’re going.”
I get up and change it to smooth jazz.
“Now we’re going to need some reefer. Whatever. So who’ve you run across so far?”
“Nobody.”
“I see you call yourself trying to hide that scrapbook I made for your and Michael’s nuptials under the bed, and it’s still beautiful if I do say so myself.”
“It’s falling apart. Those ruffles are crushed flat, and the plastic has cracked. And no, I do not want you to repair it!”
I hand her a scrapbook she didn’t make, and after taking a sip she sets her glass on the little table and starts slowly flipping through the pages.
I do the same.
“What year is this?” she asks, turning it around. In the photo I have a giant Afro and a long denim skirt I made from old jeans and some kind of drapery fabric with giant flowers on it I sewed in the middle. Damn, was I skinny.
“The seventies. Don’t you remember that skirt?”
“Where in the hell is your bra?”
I look a little closer. “You know that was when it was cool not to wear one. But I think you slept in your Playtex.”
I fall over laughing
Georgia.
I tip over from laughing so hard. I should’ve made a greeting card out of this letter and used it for a whole bunch of these bastards. I set this declaration aside and continue my scavenger hunt. There are plenty of cards: Valentine and birthday cards from Michael’s sorry ass, but these were when he was sweet and purportedly still loved me; then there’s a separate, one-gallon freezer bag full of corny cards from Niles that I knew he put absolutely no thought into, because there were always white women with blond hair on the front of them.
When I hear the doorbell, I push myself to a standing position and head upstairs.
“Coming!” I yell while dancing to an unidentifiable beat that’s obviously not coming out of the speakers. This is just one more reason I like wine.
I open the door, and Wanda walks past me in a blinding orange muumuu that must have once belonged to her mother. I close my eyes and put my hands on my hips. “Well, with that getup you’ve come to the right place, since I’m strolling down Nostalgia Lane. What has gotten into you, Ms. Thang?”
“I was sitting in my favorite chair just stitching away, and Nelson was snoring on the sofa, and the dogs were snoring at the other end, and some stupid football game was on, and I suddenly got this overwhelming feeling of boredom, so that’s when I called you. Where’s the wine, or did you drink it all?”
“Let’s go see!” I say, and follow her to the bar.
As she stands on her toes to reach one of my fine wine goblets meant for real guests, I tell her what I’m doing and explain that I’m looking for the fish I had to throw back, and she just shakes her head and pops the cork on a good bottle. Then we head downstairs, the hem of that muumuu making her walk like she’s in a beauty pageant or something.
“Throw that dress in the trash,” I say. “Even my mother doesn’t go this far, Wanda.”
“You’re right. I don’t know what possessed me to buy it.”
“Because you’re possessed when you shop, that’s why.”
I warn her how the room looks, and when we walk in, she stands there with her hands on her orange hips and says, “So they’re all in here somewhere, huh?”
I sit on the floor, and she sits in the white armchair.
“Why are you playing that funeral music?”
“It’s called chill.”
“Yeah, more like embalmed. We need some R&B music from the seventies and eighties, since that’s where we’re going.”
I get up and change it to smooth jazz.
“Now we’re going to need some reefer. Whatever. So who’ve you run across so far?”
“Nobody.”
“I see you call yourself trying to hide that scrapbook I made for your and Michael’s nuptials under the bed, and it’s still beautiful if I do say so myself.”
“It’s falling apart. Those ruffles are crushed flat, and the plastic has cracked. And no, I do not want you to repair it!”
I hand her a scrapbook she didn’t make, and after taking a sip she sets her glass on the little table and starts slowly flipping through the pages.
I do the same.
“What year is this?” she asks, turning it around. In the photo I have a giant Afro and a long denim skirt I made from old jeans and some kind of drapery fabric with giant flowers on it I sewed in the middle. Damn, was I skinny.
“The seventies. Don’t you remember that skirt?”
“Where in the hell is your bra?”
I look a little closer. “You know that was when it was cool not to wear one. But I think you slept in your Playtex.”
I fall over laughing
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