Friday, August 12, 2022

"Well, i knew there was an agenda, somewhere, sometime." Irene refilled the coffee pot. She'd, of course, regret having

drank so much of it after 4pm.  But hey, was worth it.  After all, she didn't get much company; her only social outlet was church, and sunday nights were off the table, until around early april, when atleast some daylight lasted until 7pm.  Why they had to go and get rid of spring forward back in '23...ugh!  While the old woman was not quite fit for driving...what was she supposed to do?  Kiss hiney for rides??  Uhm, no, no and NO!!!!  

"Must be sorta a shock."  Meg reached for an orange walnut cookie, from a small plate of which her hostess had set out.  Upon it, were about six; each had plenty of walnuts, but Meg somehow knew Irene made these to keep around for company - whenever that happened.  Alot of things must be a shock, to old people - women, especially, Meg was certainly old enough to remember a time when about half the senators were women - and now, what was it?  Ten percent? if even that.

Per a prior conversion, between the sunday school and worship, Irene had made a qwip to the effect, Dorothy, you're not in '05 anymore.  Back then, MRA was beneath notice - well, to anyone, with atleast some socio-political influence; men's rights activists were - and properly so, at the time -dismissed as either basement boys, or cads, or baby-dadDUHs - who had money for drugs and games, but not for their kids' shoes.  But even Meg - still struggling to get her ged...the math part was super HARD, but so was the histo-graphy - anyway, even she knew enough, that these MRA guys had found their feet...and had, not only entered top meetings, but, more than a few held the podium.  

"Yes, and no," Irene continued, after taking a bite of her cookie.  "A bit over ten years ago, I began noticing clouds on the horizon, turning dark."  She slowly arose from the table - so as not to wrench a muscle...old age, "WHACK!"  She then stifled a bad word; the stink bug - natural or manufactured - flew off...with a neh, neh, neh?  "Hate them ... ppfff things."  

"Tell me about it!"  Though Meg didn't detail as to precisely why.  But between you and I, Dear Reader, those dern bugs were putting a dent into the private life of the, still blushing, young bride and her older Husband.  Like they were the only couple...?  Just when she was getting okay with giving him some spice, outside of their bedroom and from beneath bed covers...lo and behold, wouldn't one of those things fly amongst the cupboards, land atop the hutch, or whiz by a table, or near the sofa.  Meg's Hisband, Doyle telling her, they're here, and that's just how things are...yeah, but, getting used to it???  Getting used to, potentially, NO PRIVACY???  That kerri lady, wasn't the first to host various thumbnails; but man o man, she was skating...NewsGuy had a similar site, but it was no longer accessible.  Word was: neither was he.  

"Anyway," Irene continued, and I can't quite explain, but when ... what was his name? ... oh, Donalds, when he signed that order...wachamacallit... the one that exempts girls from getting drafted, I could not, and cannot, cease to suspect...a rider, somewhere in those 300-some pages - one that hasn't yet, officially, made an appearance, but will soon."

"They're THAT long?"

"If not longer.  Think it was the healthcare under President Clinton ... or was it Obama?... well, whatever, was something like a few thousand pages."

"Bu,  but, wouldn't it take atleast a MONTH to read all that?"

Irene let out a cackle, then apologized.  "That's the thing, likely skimmed, at best."  Being not entirely sure if she'd heard right, a recent podcast, but if she did hear the phrase "militarily attached" or something along that line, it could very well mean the overturn of a certain amendment - one that passed around 1919, or was in '20.  

Frustrating...not being able to remember things, and half afraid to bring up upon the search engine.  Nor had she much confidence in so-called security software - neither had she the funds - stuff kept going up.  Supply and demand...just a bubble-bathed and perfumed pig-capitalism.  

Thursday, August 11, 2022

We'll call him Control-Freak - CF for short, because that's who Deb's Husband is, and what he does - every story needs atleast one bad guy.

"Be back in about an hour." CF passed by his boss, who really didn't mind.  CF had been on board long enough, did his job - and some.  The door closed, CF, now out of hearing range, one of his workmates made some lewd comment, concerning a certain hottie who used to work at lucky's.  While CF had enough sense - from past experience - to keep his head, and his job, the workmate also knew running his mouth, could earn him a busted head, after hours.  

CF got into his truck, a big, black, noisey gas-guzzler.  He clicked on his phone, checking some recent posts.  Something was definitely up at home, and had been over the past few days.  Yesterday, she flipped him the bird, for really no reason, instead of answering a simple question.  This wasn't the first time, last summer ....  Well, he was having no more of it.  

"Dumb wench," he half scoffed.  His wife's password was not only an easy h*ck, but she didn't even bother to atleast change it, to another easy h*ck.  At the next red light, our esteemed driver of the year, scrolled a few more, and continued after the light changed, as he headed toward home.  The usual fem-drama,  Sis was mad about ... whatever it was, this time.  Well, that inhaled...atleast his eff'd up family didn't try to hit him up for money...well, not for too much. 

One girlfriend was going on about some craft show, another sent pet pics.  Gaag.  Another...well atleast Kerri, or whatever, could spell.  She posted a quick 15 second video, of a little boy sticking a cookie in his pocket, then his saucered eyes watching some bug fly from atop the frig, then b-lining into his folk's livingroom.  Her caption read, "This is funny, but the following vids are NOT!"  He clicked on the first thumbnail; it was a 5-seconder; long enough to see - from the neck down, some old person who was like a second late getting to a can.  Another, also from the neck down, was a child getting into the shower - caption read, "prvz will get off on this one, UGH!!!" 

He continued scrolling.  At the next red light, CF made a right, and pulled into a parking lot.  He scrolled through the comments.  One stood out.  "Ms. Atwood's book was published around '85, but my friends, Gilead is full tech - be careful."  The thread continued.  This time, from "Deb."  CF had to wonder, too techno dense, or simply not into screen-names? Or both?  "...friends its in the bag...cant wait...yeah all ever lovin day :) :) :)  ...yep wednesdays busy...old man wont b home til 7"

Punctuation really that hard? Deb?  The quip, rattling in his mindspace, was met up with another load lightener - lucky's, after all, was never exactly known for hiring nuclear physicists.  CF pulled into the back portion of the dollar store parking lot, which was hardly a block from his house.  

He quietly turned his front door lock, then relocked, once inside.  The house was quiet.  He checked the kitchen: some mostly thawed hamburg sat on a plate, it's juices had begun to drip upon the countertop.  Her knitting bag lay on the coffee table, alongside a half empty cup from that morning.  The dining room table had several plants, two of which were beyond hope.  He quietly ascended the stairs.  The ironing board in the sewing room was laden with remnants of various fabric.  Folded, upon the bed in the spare bedroom lay what appeared to be faded living room drapes, beside those, some garments she hadn't worn in awhile.  

He then turned to face the door to their bedroom; it was about a half inch ajar - the only thing visible was part of the dresser and a corner of the footboard.   Don't do anything stupid, came s voice inside his head.  He paused.  "Yeah, you GO!"  The bed creaked.  "Wuh-HOOO!"  It creaked again. 

Don't do stupid, came that voice.  But he had enough.  The door slammed against the wall.  "What th' EFF"!  his wife bawled. CF was in, and none of his 5'11ish" 230 poundish was happy.

"HAND IT OVER.  NOW!" he barked.

"NO!" Deb clutched the paperback volume tight against her ample bosom. Her knees folded toward her chest.

"DEB, I Said..."

Still clutching her copy of Margaret Atwood's "Handmaid's Tale," she flipped him the bird.

While the book was not on the forbidden list - atleast not yet, still, wasn't wise to be in possession.  

"Deb, when I tell you..." he approached.

"Go way, le me alone!"

The next sound was CF's backhand, followed by Deb's sobbing. 

Who was the starch-sadist? The band upon Meg's upper left arm chafed a bit.

With her index finger, she rubbed the chafed area bordering the space between the "I" and the "F".  As soon as she had a free moment, she'd borrow that bottle of olive oil, she'd seen upon one of the dusty kitchen shelves - among, which she expected, would soon be  doing spring scrubbing...that is, if some other poor schlub didn't break some earthshattering rule.  Meg placed her tray of pasta salad on the serving table, careful to put it in back of other various salads, brought by the other women.  Not that there was want for space; the spike in food prices was written all over the seemingly smaller dishes - as well as upon atleast two or three  other faces. 

She then went back to the kitchen - where atleast she could stay invisible - and began washing the first, of what would be atleast several cooking vessels.  New to this group, but apparently, most, if not, every such club, had a Jenny and a Barb, amongst their "aux" - which, among outsiders, was often misunderstood as "auxiliary."  Per the vfw and the moose, the ladies of their "auxiliaries" were members, with atleast some voting privileges,  Not so, in this particular org's chapters.  But, atleast at her Father's chapter, Meg, sort of  knew what to expect from the other women. Here, she was not only a stranger, but lowest in the "aux" rank.  The other women stood around the table, socializing; a few over by the bar doing the same.  

One, a bleach blond, in her early 20s - with a figure to about die for - looked familiar, but couldn't place from where; her faded jeans and t-shirt, were just ever so.  The picnic, late last spring, at littlebison park? of the few times Father had actually allowed her to go know the "#all boys dogs, all girls beeches" hashtag.  No, couldn't place the young woman there, nor could she, during her father's employer's family day, which had been held on capital island; the day had been a scorcher - and for the first time, probably for decades, swimming in the river had been permitted; but not for Meg, of course - the last bathing suit she had worn, had been the summer between sixth and seventh grade.  

And no cool jeans either - she glanced down at the baggies upon her frame; the chapter's t-shirt, a size L, of course.  Size M wasn't  even snug, and could have stood a wash in hot water.  What freaking next?  A burka?  Don't ponder that birth-dearth in that community.  Unlike some others, Meg was no islamaphobe - nor any other *phobe.  And as far as the "wahmen question" among leading, or rank-and-file muslims, at the end of life's day, didn't really matter...was the ultimate tragic same, stepping into eternity without Jesus Christ.  

She rinsed off the vessel, and while reaching for another, she caught another glimpse of bleach-blond.  The rather heavily, but - of course - expertly eye-lined youngish woman was passing a cigarette to - if Meg wasn't mistaken - the Sec's wife.  Okay, atleast midland on the order...socio-darwinism, energy pit, one wrong move, word spoken oh, the drama... Meg didn't yet want to make eye contact.  Didn't know her, couldn't yet place her.  Upon hearing one of the women call "Hey, Deb..."  Meg halfways blanched.  But almost enough to ask herself, if she had died, or something,  and sort of woke up back in Newmarket Middle School...had been not exactly a fun place.

But this wasn't middle-school.  The days of being bullied, for really no valid reason, and then mercilessly excoriated for ... well no better reason than defending oneself... but, oh spit, fighting like a girl?  Duh!  It had been as if half the school had been in on the taunting.  Though Meg, from time to time, since then, had practiced on her father's punch bag, she had never gotten the hang of it.  

What luck :/  The only other wife around her age was the sort of person, best avoided.  Yeah, yeah, she'd heard various of mom's boyfriends, and then Deb working at a place called lucky's.  Meg had never been inside any of those places, nor wanted to be...washed up, years before "the wall"...ugh, no thanks.

From an adjoining room, she heard the chapter president's gavel pound the desk, and two or three voices - one that didn't want to shut up.  Something about an upcoming run to DC; Meg had heard other / related snippets, but to ask - much less eavesdrop...just wasn't done.  Finally, mouth - whoever he was - was done; probably, on account of one other voice, who - even through the closed door and paneled wall - sounded quite hangry.

The members filed out, and took their seats in the social hall.  The women, more or less per Husband's rank, lined up at the serving table, and began filling their husband's plates - reusable ones, since paper products were ... a stack of 30 styros were almost a dollar, each - yikes.  Daughters served their brothers.  Meg, alongside another wife, remained behind the table to remove empty trays, and replace with full.  By the time the men and boys - and some of the women - were enjoying their meal - the table was experiencing a population drop.  Half the remaining vessels contained, more or less, a few serving spoonfuls.  

Nearly last in line, Meg was finally able to get something to eat - her last meal had been an english muffin and some marmalade, and just a spoonful of scrambled eggs.  Mrs Doyle Anders, had, that morning scrambled the last three eggs for her Husband; he had quite an appetite, but hey, he worked - hard.

There had remained enough of the old-senate salad - a combination of noodles, some ricotta, white sauce and topped with walnuts; if it didn't have walnuts, and more than a few of them, still was a decent side.  But it wasn't "old-senate."  The meatballs of course, were nearly gone, but just as well for someone else to enjoy; had there been more, Meg would have taken two. With her plate reasonably loaded - well, almost - she took her place at table, and finally was able to have a few bites.  Water pitcher was about empty, she arose to refill it, and another nearby.  

The stiff armband was again acting up; she slid her index and middle finger beneath the "WIFE" letters, while making her way toward the kitchen.  "Hon, id'el take awhile ta get broke in," an older woman chuckled.  Meg recognized the voice, the woman had earlier been going on about having to start wearing a pair of boots she had bought a year previous - her favs, were shot and in the trash.  While, she didn't mean anything by the remark, two or three male voices either laughed or made quips.

Not funny.  

Saturday, July 30, 2022

The myth, that as soon as a man and woman marry, intimacy slows down...there's probably alot

reasons for that.  These days, gender confusion - and a whole lot of mistrust.  But men and women have never really gotten along that well, Bible says, we're all sinners.  These days, while husbands want to be served their sodas by their wives - wearing a little black dress and high heels, after working at the office all day, wifey is tired; she has supper to throw together and housework to do.  Any wonder, she throws off her office duds, and puts on a comfy tee shirt, sweat pants and a pair of flat fuzzy slippers. 

Back in the 50s, when wives were home all day, couples had a different barrier to intimacy.  Back then, there was no birth control - other than those moment-swiping rain coats.  And contrary to what we moderns may assume, marrieds in the 1950s weren't stupid.  Back then, money was tight (food and clothing alot more expensive then, than today), and another baby???  

So, it stands to reason, young wives sought the council of their mothers and aunts - who had done the same, when they were blushing brides.  Many women back then, for whatever reasons, didn't make it to 12th grade, but they likely knew - per the older women - during the few days, mid cycle to take a cold bath, and put on frumpy clothes.  

Tell me, husbands were out of the loop on this primitive form of birth control.  

Tuesday, July 26, 2022

Cadly was glad the chick was gone; he had wanted her canned,

but Jenny's resignation - and not even a two day, let alone a two week - though the suddenness, left the short-handed staff, even more so, Cadly was glad she was gone; saved him the trouble.  After all, he being just recently hired as the call department's vice manager - at about two thirds of what he'd earned at his last job - had to watch his step, before throwing around his 6'2" 180 something weight.   In short, he couldn't just fire somebody - someone, who was meeting job standards - on account of the employee's  facial expressions - which, silently, spoke clear enough: dude, you are just plain evil!  

Cadly hated that, when that happened.  And boy, was he mad, that certain day, when he walked into the breakroom to buy himself a soda, a few spoken words had reached his ears.  HR had recently hired a new girl, and even though she above the cut-off age of - is it still 30, or had it been raised to 32?  Regardless, of her near-wall age, she was hot!   And she came off as the type who might, without too much effort, be sweet-talked into getting under the desk.  

"Hannah, uh-uh; he's a nag."

Because, Ja-ja-jennie hadn't mentioned any names, there wasn't a dern thing he could do, except collect his soda, and get out of there.  Had he stayed a minute longer, he might have gone over there, and throttled that biker beech - and found himself out of a job, but this time, ineligible for UC comp.


Talk about pushing buttons...sure did.  Cadly couldn't have been much more than eighteen, while picking up his car from the garage.  The old geezer who ran the place, was listening to some preacher, going on about male-delilahs, and warning the young girls in his church, that these sort of guys ...


Cadly HATED, whenever his bluff got called.

The old woman listened to the sermon, Pastor West was expositing the latter half of I Timothy 2. Ruh-ro, the flippant exclamation

sailed through Irene's mindspace.  Dude is just begging for more pushback.  The pieces, had been coming together for some time.  While the last little stunt - Room #7 - had only created alot of good natured pointing and tittering...but surely the failed char-assination had the perps, fuming.  Irene was almost positive from where the attack, had been launched - but, of course, the murmurings of two certain harpies, sitting in the pew behind her, were not proof.  And frankly, Irene didn't relish, being the one to call aside, and quietly confront.  While she knew more than she cared to know about the situation, snippets, here and there, reaching her ears, were not proof of active intent.  And, oh so furthermore, she, somehow knew enough, that the two harpies - especially, the one - were ravening wolves.

The latest bit of evidence, though indirect ... but no so indirect.  Long story short:  Barney, or whatever his name is, had ... oh about, six weeks ago, gone to some sportsmen show or whatever.  There, he had waiting in a line - probably for a sandwich - and had ended up in a conversation with some guy named Doyle.  The guy's last name escaped her, but she sort of knew the young woman attentively seated beside him - Meggie, or was it Maggie?  Either way, the young woman's last name was the same as Doyle's.  This new couple - the young bride, especially, was but fresh meat to the two hyenas, sitting not far from Irene.  Had 'em mad as heck.  Doyle looked to be about pushing near forty, while his bride was... well, alot younger - if the girl was twenty two, that was so pushing it. 

"...a related Scripture, turn to Titus 2:3, Paul writes to Titus..." Pastor cleared his throat and took a sip of water, then continued, "The aged women likewise, that they be in behavior..."

Yikes, Preacher! ya really wanna honk off th' jezes?? ...sure gave Elijah abidda rough runnin.  Wasn't like back in third wave days, when "they(?)" - and their smooth-palmed handlers - were annoying...more or less.  Fourth, and especially, fifth wavers were always mad, and could be dangerous.  

She remembered as a child, hearing the term "generation gap."  Oh, they had no idea!  Back then, it was all about tie dye and rock verses suits and orchestra.  Back then, the old would argue and chide the young, but ... uh-uh, these days, there were, more than a few, old women who were known to atleast want harm to come down upon young women.  Made Irene sad...wasn't the youngins' fault the oldsters dun missed the boat...after all, doesn't taka...

PAY ATTENTION!  A loud rebuke, reverberated throughout Irene's mindspace, sending her lollygagging thoughts, running for cover.  

Monday, July 25, 2022

You're kidding me, Julie mumbled to herself, as her husband pulled into Hank and Jenny's drive.

With winter on, club didn't do a whole lot.  So, Julie hadn't seen Jenny - which was just fine with her.  Oh well, was probably - hopefully - a quick stop; either way, she and Celia - she and her Husband's only child, so far - would wait in the truck.  The two men headed for the garage.   Though it was dark, Julie sensed something different about the place...something calmer.  From inside, a shadow crossed to the back door.  Jenny appeared, motioning Julie to come inside.

What the heck?  Julie pondered.  Something was very different ... pod people must have made off with her.   That thought confirmed, once inside.  The place was clean, not just shuddy-booty, but neat.  Jenny bent down to Celia's eye level.  "There's cookies!"  The little girl's eyes lit up, looking towards into the kitchen, where the treats, sat on a plate, by themselves, next to a vase of silk daisies, upon an otherwise, empty table.   "But ya godda ask your mommy first."   Julie nodded okay, "But just one, Celia."  The little girl, turned her head as she b-lined, "k mamma."

Jenny then reached into the frig...holy hannah, Julie exclaimed to herself, catching a glimpse of it's interior, that was even tidy.  Jenny pulled out a carton of milk, opened  cupboard, and retrieved a short glass and two tall ones.  She then, reached back in the frig for a pitcher of sweet tea.  

The two women exchanged small talk, but somewhere in the conversation, the deal changer became clear.  Jenny no longer worked at the call center, or any other grind. Jenny was Jenny.  She wasn't real good at navigating through bs, and so, of course, had been canned, more than once, for calling rubbish.  Though Julie, neither asked, nor pried, it appeared that Jenny had landed a job, she actually enjoyed. 

The office had about six or seven rooms.  It's location meant no traffic snags, no having to run out for something, because it was after 6am, and you ran out the door - leaving your lunch sitting on the kitchen table.  The address?  Hank and Jenny's home.  

The visit was brief, maybe about fifteen minutes.   The men returned into the house.  It didn't take a degree in Human Resources (Tools) to conclude, Hank liked his what his wife did for a living.  Their guests, graciously, booked on out of there.