A friend of mine described seeing something new on her boyfriend's mantle and being terrified that a girl had given it to him. She was madly in love with a man who I will refer to as Dufus (D for short). D often went missing for weeks on end only offering what I refer to as a "tard story." A tard story is a genre most often seen on COPS when someone starts out with a crack pipe in his shirt and says, "The fucked up shit is that it's not my shirt, I was just wearing it and I was a long way from home in New Jersey where I didn't have clothes and my brother lives there . . . " D's tard stories were considerably terser -- "I was building a fence" could serve to secure his whereabouts for a month or so. When he told her it was a gift from his brother-in-law, she sighed in relief and exclaimed how lovely the new object was. "It's a titty," D said. "He got it in Padre." My friend looked at said titty and indeed it was was, complete with a straw in the nipple should one want to enjoy his favorite beverage in this festive glass/ conversation piece/ object d'art. It reminded her of the fake breasts they give you in the gynecologist office to teach you how to palpitate your breasts for lumps except for the drinking straw business. "But I was so happy," she told me. "He hadn't been with anyone else."
Well, where to start? Robert Frost would say, Weep for the little things that could make them glad! I would say that it's a really depressing night when a replica of a breast that your beloved refers to as a "titty" seems like a victory. And of course, there's the fear we live in that someone else might be around or about past loves and the gifts they have bestowed, sometimes a museum's worth. I knew someone who "accidentally" broke everything her boyfriend's ex had given him. I asked her how she knew what to break. "You just know. It has an energy. And you know what, I don't even mind cleaning up the mess," she said. Once a boyfriend gave me a bunch of clothes that his various ex-loves had left behind. He didn't seem to understand how bizarre this was, and I didn't have the heart to tell him. As tempted to throw the whole pile out, I didn't. There was a beautiful red sweater that fit me better than anything ever had before, and I wore it until it started to unravel.
Michelle's Spell of the Day
"Look, even bad years are pretty good years I think." Robert Downey, Jr.
Cocktail Hour
Drinking essay collection suggestion: Things I Like About America Poe Ballantine
Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Thursday! Thanks to everyone for all the sweet comments yesterday!
8 comments:
Uhhh Dufus I have the word Dufus copyrighted. And only use it in relation to one person, whom I assure you is not a man.
myCajunQ
BigDoor
HotMama
FolxyLadyD
TardStoriesRFunny1s
DufusmustbesomekindofClownMan
OMightyEyes
ShinyHair
Shzammmm
R2C2!!!!!
You can usually find one gem in a pile of the unwanted.
So that's how you spell that particular descriptive moniker.
Great story. "But I was so happy," she told me. "He hadn't been with anyone else." Not even a hollow victory. This is so sad.
But the red sweater unraveling saves everythng, trailing behind you, like a line to your soul, or a fuse to be lit. It's a vivid image, all the frayed ends. And yeah, I've never even thought of offering such an offensive gift. Where was his mind? To paraphrase the Pixies, anyway.
Take care, peace out
Dear Michelle
lovely post and view as always. You deserve a lifetime supply of whatever you wish clothes and otherwise, with a lifetime guarantee. Life is too flashing for anything less. Champagne wishes and caviar dreams, and to your lovely vision, Bravo!
Tigers are tits!
Poe Ballantine--very hip writer.
I like the "tard" story. I heard one of them on Cops the other day by these two guys trying to explain why they were caught in their driveway with about a hundred blunts. They were just going to take them down to the cops to turn them in. They'd found 'em tossed out IN the driveway.
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