It rubs the lotion on its skin or it gets the hose again… that’s what I would say if I lived up to my words in a recent email to my friend Mags (you have to read her shite at simplylaur.blogspot.com – she’s feckin’ hilarious).
Her arch-nemesis at work – we shall call her Buella – just realized that we (Buella and I) grew up mere steps apart with nary a run-in in the past 20-odd years. Now she works at the same company as Mags, one of my best friends since we decided we didn’t hate each other that much in high school (she and I played the flute and we thought our shite didn’t stink – hers did, mine not so much). “One time, at band camp…”
As for Buella, I clearly remember sitting in the basement of her childhood home painting our fingers and toes. She was older than me and, at the age of five, I thought it was cool to hang with the older kids. They could teach me so much – like what pink to choose for my pinkie finger and the latest disco moves back when I was an aspiring disco dancer.
She moved away well before I did and she soon became a memory, a childhood memory of playing until the streetlights came on, hopscotch on the sidewalk and lemon twists* down the driveway. And, painting toenails in a wood-paneled rec room (we all had them back in the day).
Her arch-nemesis at work – we shall call her Buella – just realized that we (Buella and I) grew up mere steps apart with nary a run-in in the past 20-odd years. Now she works at the same company as Mags, one of my best friends since we decided we didn’t hate each other that much in high school (she and I played the flute and we thought our shite didn’t stink – hers did, mine not so much). “One time, at band camp…”
As for Buella, I clearly remember sitting in the basement of her childhood home painting our fingers and toes. She was older than me and, at the age of five, I thought it was cool to hang with the older kids. They could teach me so much – like what pink to choose for my pinkie finger and the latest disco moves back when I was an aspiring disco dancer.
She moved away well before I did and she soon became a memory, a childhood memory of playing until the streetlights came on, hopscotch on the sidewalk and lemon twists* down the driveway. And, painting toenails in a wood-paneled rec room (we all had them back in the day).
Now she’s full of questions, and if you haven’t read Mags’ shite yet, you should know that Buella and Mags agree on nothing, save their mutual disdain of each other (I’d say hate, but I reserve that word for murderers, rapists and puppy killers). In an effort to keep Mags’ private life, well, private, I provided these tongue-in-cheek answers to Buella’s 20 questions about me, my life and whereabouts. I thought they were somewhat accurate…
Five down, 15 to go...
Mags, is Scribe married?
Well, Buella, she was married, but Scribe had a secret… she lived secretly as a black widow spider, and as those whores would do, she ate her then-husband, who was a prick anyway, so the world is a better place. Good men are hard to come by, so she’s onto Number 17. I think it just might be her lucky number. And if it doesn’t work out, she’s got this rosemary and garlic oil marinade. A dash of Mrs. Dash and she’s all set.
What’s her last name now?
Lucifer. She was going to change it back to her mating name (thanks go out to Ricky from Trailer Park Boys who provided that little gem), but she decided that Lucifer suited her better, especially when she gets all horny. Oh, I meant ornery. Forgive me.
What about kids? Did she pop any out?
Urrgh! No! Oh, sorry, I thought you were asking me. It was an unfortunate situation. Her two kids – a boy and a girl – got stuck in her web and, smelling fresh meat and having eaten her husband days earlier, she got a little hungry and ate them too. Barbecued kids? Choose a nice Chianti.
Where is she living now? Jail?
Buella, she’s currently between places, but she’s set up a nice gypsy camp along the River Styx that she shares with her one-eyed trouser sock. He spews occasionally but doesn’t say a word. It’s lovely. Really.
What does she do?
Do? Didn’t you pay attention to her answers? Man, I should get you to write this shite down and review it. There’s a pop quiz tomorrow. As I said, she’s onto Husband #17. It’s common-law, so she might have more trouble luring him into her web. She’s got the marinade ready just in case. It’s been a while since I’ve heard her utter those words: “It rubs lotion on its skin or it gets the hose again.”
TMI? Perhaps, or in Mag’s case, hopefully. To say that Mags really doesn’t like Buella would be an understatement. And for some reason, the feeling is mutual. All I can say is that she was rather friendly when we were neighbours, but that was over 20 years ago and things obviously change. I can’t imagine who wouldn’t like Mags. She’s magnetic and I don’t choose just anyone to enter my circle of awesomeness. Otherwise, they get the lotion and a nice Chianti.
* Scribe has a lemon twist story. Ask her about it.
