Peephole People

Living in a wheelchair sucked. Her hands hurt, calloused only after months of bleeding. Everything she wanted was out of reach, her husband had not put all she wanted, no, all she needed at a level she was comfortable with. After all, he’d left, having had enough of her fussing, of her constant need of help. Tired of her.

An infection. Something she couldn’t even see had landed her in this rolling hell. Sure she was bitter, angry, upset, resigned. The new bicycle that had hung on the wall, quickly removed, never ridden in the park as planned. Lots of things would never happen as planned she realized long ago.

Furniture moved so she could easily get around the house sat empty now, friends who stopped in came less often, weary of her sour face, sour attitude. Outdoor wheelchair excursions used all her energy. People stared, held doors open with a look of pity she felt she deserved, but hated nonetheless.  If she had been put in the chair because of an accident, it would be so much easier to blame someone else, blame a car, a careless driver; but how do you blame something you can’t see, touch, or really believe exists?

Anger woke with her each morning, stayed for breakfast, left only to be replaced by hate, sorrow, defeat. No stable mental state for her, no sir! Her roller coaster ride made possible with her very own wheels. An artsy friend had come over and painted flowers, and vines along the chair rails, foot rests, and for a while it made her smile, however she soon lost interest with the same view of flowers that never gave off rich aromas, became bored with the same old view out her windows.

Her landlord installed a peephole at her now short eye level. If her doorbell rang, which really didn’t happen often, she was able to see the belly of the offending bell ringer. Much good that did. Ha!

Once, while rolling past her door, she saw movement through the peephole, and stopped to snoop, after all, no one had buzzed her door.

She noticed an entire other world sitting watching her neighbors coming and going. Mornings they seemed chipper, eager to take on the day. She snorted a laugh at that one. She wondered how it was possible to do the same things each day, and be happy about it. Each evening, these same once smiling puppets arrived home, smiles not as shiny, a bit of a slump in their shoulders. That’s more like it she thought. Reality has arrived. Occasionally these drudges put on fancy duds and came home drunk, or with strangers. That made mornings interesting, a stranger tossed into the mix of ordinary.

After this discovery; of life in the hallway, she eagerly arose each morning, and actually looked forward to evenings, when she could sit in her fated chair, and watch her peephole people.

I’d Like to be a Cigarette

She holds me in her slender hand

fingers caress me, fiddle, her energy

transferred to me.

An inhale, simple really; I swirl

in her mouth, down her tender throat

to her lungs where I settle however briefly

then once again find her throat, mouth

to pass through her parted lips graced with

Passion Pink lipstick. A silent O of smoke

floats and dissipates, much the way our love did.

My smoke envelopes her hair, stirring the blonde

tint over her left eyebrow. I play my vapor along

her arm as she reaches for her new man. He

waives me away, annoyed, but pleased she

has taken the seat he reserved for his find of the night.

She coughs, a jarring reminder of what I can do. She

laughs and lights another me. I center my talent in her

lungs, leaving bits in air sacs, leaving bits for doctors

to find.

That nasty thing, cancer. Oh, how I’d like to be

a cigarette.

Don't Sell My Underwear

I love garage, and estate sales; the hunt for the bargain, the unusual. I love to dicker, and try to keep current on what "used stuff" is selling for.

Harriett, a very dear friend with cancer, knowing my penchant for sales, asked me to help her organize her lifetime of stuff.  She wanted to give certain goodies to family members, and friends, and make specific donations. She talked about an estate sale, "Only after I'm gone, dear.", and thought it ought to do well. She had a lot of cookbooks, and beautiful serving pieces that she figured would sell for a tidy sum. We discussed quite a bit that day, and I was feeling a heavy weight in my heart from all this talk of "What to do after I go to see the Lord".

I think my friend sensed this, and our talk went on to other, less heartfelt things. A while later however, she broached the subject again, with a bold, "Don't sell my underwear!" I giggled, then frowned, and asked her to explain. She said to donate all her under-things to a charitable store. She did not want people rummaging through her "unmentionables in my own home” and didn't want men seeing her bras. It would just be too embarrassing. I didn't remind her that she wouldn't be around to witness the sale of her things, but told her I would honor the request.

My friend passed away quietly, donations were made, friends received their due, and her cookbooks sold quickly. As promised, I made sure her unmentionables were given away, never to be pawed or tittered over.

Since then, every time I find potentially embarrassing personal items at a sale, I think of my friend, and hope the owner of the current lot of underwear isn't looking down, mortified by their things being viewed by strangers.   

At a recent estate sale, I came across an interesting looking box with a $5.00 price tag on the lid. I unzipped it, hoping for an exciting find, only to come face to face with a breast. Yes, a breast, which I was sure belonged to the recently departed.

Now, I have a warped sense of humor, and thought of all the jokes and gags I could accomplish with this breast, and as quickly as those thoughts entered my head, they flew out, followed by Harriett's voice scolding me.

I quickly closed the box, zipped it shut, and hid it in the far corner of the closet. I understand the embarrassment in having people seeing your underwear, but I was not even able to fathom the horror, and possibly shame at having such a deeply personal part of you out for all to see. Judging by the clothing styles the woman was elderly, probably from a time when you never even mentioned underwear, much less false body parts.

After another go around the house, looking for missed treasures, I made my way to the cash register, put on my sternest face, told the cashier where I had put the box, and seriously suggested they remove the item from the sale. I could only hope I had made Harriett proud. After all, there are just some things you don't sell.

While I don't plan on leaving this world anytime soon, I have written in bold type, told my children, and their spouses, "Don't sell my underwear!" I suppose now, I need to update my final requests with an emphatic, "Don't sell any false body parts either!" 

Potty Mouth

Relaxing, watching TV, I rise, look at my husband and say

  “I’m going potty.”

He laughs, “Well, go for me too, then I won’t have to get up!”

“I’m going potty.” That could possibly be the most idiotic sentence ever!

Why do we feel the need to announce that we are going to the bathroom? Everybody goes, nobody cares. Yet we whisper, “Excuse me, where is the ladies room?” as though we are ashamed to admit we tinkle, or… when we are out in public, at a party, or in unfamiliar homes.

A male teacher! Horror of all horrors to this fifth grader. I had to ask permission from a male (my father didn’t count, he was Dad) to use the restroom during class. For the first few months of school, I waited, often uncomfortably, for recess so I could go potty. I was mortified when I just had to go, and raised my hand, asking for a hall pass. The teacher didn’t ask why, so no awkward explanations in front of the class. He gave me the pass, I pottied, and felt fewer nerves the next time I raised my hand to be excused.

Why are bodily functions so funny, and why do we announce them?

Pet dogs announce they are going, just by the fact that they go to the door and bark an “I want to go outside” bark (very different from the “someone’s in our yard” bark). Of course pets probably don’t feel shame, what they are doing is natural. Again, we all do it, so what is the big deal?

I understand the embarrassment of rising during a movie, “Excuse me, oh! sorry, didn’t mean to step on your toes, excuse me.” I realize that unless I come back with a soda or popcorn, they will know where I’ve gone. I have interrupted their movie experience to go potty. How rude!

At restaurants, (stupidly so) I feel eyes following me to the restroom, hoping I will emerge with toilet paper stuck to my shoe. Now this has never happened to me, seen a few ladies, and gents with the tell-tale streamer following them back to their table, and laugh, especially when with others, because that is just the kind of evil mind I have. “Thank heavens it’s not me!”

Closer to 60 than 50, I still laugh about farts. So what? Perhaps that means I haven’t grown up all the way, yet, but I don’t care. Laughing keeps me young.

My ten year old granddaughter needed a chaperone for an over-night stay at the zoo. I volunteered, loving school field trips. There were plenty of adults, and kids, all sleeping on the floor of a large room. Tired after an evening spent walking the zoo, seeing what animals do at night, sleep came to all pretty quickly. Coughs and the swish of sleeping bag tossing and turnings soon quieted, and, as was inevitable, someone farted. Kids giggled, a few parent snored, and I had to cover my mouth to keep from cracking up. Why it was so hilarious was beyond me. Maybe the kids giggling added to the mirth that threatened to erupt from deep inside. Hey, it was funny. All was soon still once more, and sleep settled the room.

“Oh! Excuse me!!!!! I farted.” Unless it was within hearing range, why do we again, announce what our body is doing?

What has now become a funny, maybe a bit unfortunate tradition at our house is farting for cake.

Yes, you read that right. Once, long, long ago, a grandchild wanted cake for dessert. Grandpa said “No cake unless you fart.” hoping the child would finish his dinner first, then get a piece of cake. Well, said grandchild took a few more bites of dinner, farted and proudly stated, “I get cake!”

Now, in the middle of dinner someone is more likely than not to pop up with an “I get cake.” Cake being whatever there is for dessert that night, if any. If no dessert that night, the grand kids say they will save that fart for a future slice of cake.

The grand kids also enjoy burping, and that is funny too, especially when they try to croak out an “Excuse me” while they are burping. Granddaughter one, a bit of a tom boy, hangs right in with the boys, matching them burp for burp. Talent is all I can think of, and hope someday she will find a young man who finds face farts and butt burps just as amusing.

My mother-in-law loves the game show The Price is Right. One morning she wondered out-loud if anyone, but especially overweight people spinning the Big Wheel ever farted. We went on to discuss this for several minutes, and decided with all the noise of the stage, no sound would find its way to human ears, however, the show emcee, Drew Carey might smell the faux pas since he stands right next to the person taking a chance on the spin. How mortifying. Funny, but mortifying. I have made a note to myself – if ever on a game show, eat very little, and no foul farting foods the day before my scheduled appearance.

Same mother-in-law, getting a new roof on the house – roofers working away, laying new tiles. My warped mind wondered if, when going to the bathroom, you were supposed to turn on the exhaust fan while the guys were up on the roof. What scents actually come out of the “fart fan”? And who wants to be the one to check it out? I’ll pass.

Reading about customs of other countries I came across the - you must burp after a meal to let your host know you enjoyed it custom. Well, well, well, my family would fit right in there.

We giggle, and snort when we get to laughing too hard, fart when climbing on the tractor, and let the world know that we have to go to the bathroom, what goofs. It all keeps us laughing, a good thing in this politically correct world we are supposed to be living in.

I can see it now, “Excuse me Mr. President, but I do believe I get cake.”

Contractions

Those’ll be the things

that’ll be on my list

of things I really don’t

like.

They’re supposed to make

things shorter, but’ll make ‘em

longer in the long run.

And’ve you seen what

I’d’ve done to those words

that’re on my list?

Would’ve, should’ve, could’ve

done this long ago.

You are correct, if you

think I will remove them

from my writing,

remove them from my

speech.

Remove that mark called

apostrophe and reclaim

entire words.

Oh! The joys of complete

sentences with complete

words complete my day.

Dinner for Two

She is older, a mother
of grown children.
He, a young scamp.
The odd pair - thrown together
they have become companions;
eating, frolicking, sleeping,
their timeless days spent
in the company of each other.
Circling, circling, they turn
clockwise, counter-clockwise,
their blessing patiently given.
Patient as their mistress
fills the crystal bowl, they hold
tails high, a flicked tip as a
thank you.
Ever the gentleman, he
waits as she is sated then waves
her tail in consideration and
wanders off so he may partake.
A once around the room to
confirm the place of new and
old, smells to entertain, frustrate,
then off to bed to consume
hours in blissful slumber,
 nose to nose, paw to
paw.

4th of July Breakup

My heart has broken once again,
another man gone, I'm too much
woman for him I guess.

My face an unattractive mottled red,
nose running, eyes puffy and bloodshot.
I pass the hall mirror ignoring me.

Knuckles white with anger at this latest
desertion. Really? Tonight of all nights!
The table set for six, our collective children
were bringing the wine, ribs and coleslaw.
I've posted a note on the door:
     "Go back home, it's over."
Nothing to explain, mine have heard
it before, not new to this despair.

Saddened by this sudden pain, I sink
into the depths of blue. In bed, I snuggle
into Egyptian cotton sheets. Something
to caress me, something tender.
I now have this space to myself, I can flail
and sob. Have nightmares or dreams
of things left unsaid, and those things
said that should have been silenced.