If that’s what you think, then I’m afraid you’re very, very wrong.
I know I said I’d be getting back to work on my new manuscript this past week, but ye gods and little fishes! I let so much slide while preparing for the Poetry Cafe, I simply had to get caught up before I started (or restarted) something new. I just couldn’t ignore the dust bunnies rolling down the hallway like tumbleweed anymore. (You think I’m kidding, huh? Wrong again.)
And then the dear old bod started sending me signals that it needed a bit more downtime. So, the order of the day is, if I don’t sleep well at night, I sleep in the next morning. This has wreaked havoc with my schedule and has led to a startling revelation which came about in this wise…
Last Thursday, I worked sorting stuff for my church’s rummage sale. Ah rummage sales! How I do love them! My mother, God rest her, was horrified when she learned that was where I bought my clothes, and if they were just castoffs, well, I’d say maybe she had a point. But no, these are beautiful pieces, some designer labels, and some with the tags still on – never worn! And the women in my church just love to dress me up like their very own Barbie doll. At first it was just, we found something we think you’ll like. And then it was, we have a few things we picked out for you. And this time – “You see that huge box over there full of clothes, well, it’s yours!” I take it all home, try it on, and then wash whatever I decide to keep, much of it by hand. And then I dry it. Outside. But for some reason our clothesline disappeared years ago and we’ve never replaced it. So how do I dry my beautiful dresses, you ask? Uh, well, promise you won’t judge me? I hang them on the backyard trees.
Now you know.
Thursday night was not a good night for me sleep-wise, so I slept in Friday morning and naturally everything got pushed back. But I was determined to wash my dresses because I wanted to wear one on Sunday, and because Friday was a gorgeous day – a rare occurence around here lately. And that’s when my revelation happened. I was hanging the dresses on the trees like some kind of ghostly Halloween decorations when the Mister came back from running errands downtown. He walked over to me and asked why I looked so pensive.
“We really are white trash, aren’t we?” I replied.
“What do you mean ‘we’?” he countered.
“Well, OK, I’m white trash.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Well,” I said, “I’m hanging my clothes on the backyard trees instead of a clothesline…”
“Yeah…”
“And,” I continued, “it’s a quarter past two in the afternoon, and I’m still in my bathrobe. White trash?”
He put his arm around me and kissed the side of my head.
“‘Fraid so, Ma. C’mon into the kitchen and I’ll fix y’all some vittles.”
No help for it. Anyhoo, I’m hoping next week I’ll get back to writing. I’ll let you know.
