Thursday, August 11, 2011
(I'd LOVE, for example, to share with you the one about a young married couple who quarreled SO bitterly while on vacation, she attempted to end their relationship -and HIS life - by poisoning a tuna/noodle casserole. Her attempt was a total botch - so strong was his constitution - that ahe - clearly in a moment of reckless abandon - whacked him over the head with a bottle of Aste Spumante in the hopes of causing an oh-so-memorable, throbbing headache. Unfortunately, the poor, unsuspecting - and apparently generically-flawed - rogue suffered a fatal brain bleed because 1) her aim was serendipitously accurate and 2) landed the liquid rocket encased in a thick, cheap, glass containersquarely on his unbeknownst kinked and weakened cerebral arteriole. But that will have to wait for another day, another story, another black bleed.)
I DO recall - on too many occasions, I fear - thinking, "Some day you'll eat these words, L." Like the day someone actually recalled that couple from my foolishly adept description and inquired about the entire saudry mess. However, those thoughts wer certainly NOT confined to my writing. There were countless times in my own youth when I'd 'mouth-off', as the saying went, to my mother and would pay dearly - or not so. Mom had this uncanny way of snapping up a wet dishcloth, twisting it into an efficient projectile in a nanosecond and then flinging it at me - often across a room, the "Babe" having nothing on HER arm - and landing it smack on my lips. She never looked but she never missed. Got MY attention and verbal respect, I'll tell ya. And, as is SO often the case, although I can honestly say I never struck my children, they are fond of reporting "that look" which I apparently saved for moments of "If-I-get-up-and-walk-over-there-you're-going-to-pay-for-every-step-I-take."
(In ONE of my columns, I just could not rest until I'd shared a story of "just desserts" involving some neighbors - actually it was the MISTER - who got too much, too fast and took every opportunity to announce/display/brag about this largesse at any opportunity. First THE landscape artist, next up, the interior decorator, the ADDITION, the ALL-NEW Country French kitchen - you get the portrait. We were finally graced with a dinner invitation at which the many, expensive wines flowed freely. THEN dinner - a true Cana affair, with the four of us seated and Spodrd and Waterfored, armed with enough sterling to re-stage the Battle of Yorktown. And just as the MISTER stood ceremonially to pour the first "red" into our goblets - which were fine and fetching and footed on the imported Italian ecru "Holed-Marble" table, I began to feelan uncomfortable, unforgetably delicious wetness dripping languidly onto my skirt. Seems, MISTER hadn't inquired re: porosity of "Holed-Marble" and HAD he, it would have been allowed as how liquids HAVE been known to ferret their way through the table tops - or so SOME importers had said. SUCH a waste of fine red vino! Rather the same hue, in fact, as my skirt and MISTER'S cheeks.)