Wretched Friends

I spent the afternoon helping Wendy clean out her future mother in law's pond. It was disgusting, very hard work, but tons of fun. After creating a sizable heap of what I dubbed "mermaid hair" on the bank (I don’t know, it was some kind of curly stuff that resembled green Spanish moss), we decided to call it quits. We cleaned up our mess and headed back up to the house, both covered in mud and some sort of silt that clung to the hairs on our bodies and made us look like we had strong, burly man hair. Everywhere. Realizing that we were not making much headway with the garden hose and noticing that I have mud in places one should never have mud, I asked Mrs. Bonds if I could jump in the shower. She obliged. About halfway through the shower, I started to feel dizzy and nauseated. I knew from experience that I had gotten too hot and needed to sit down before I passed out. I turned the water on cold only and sat on the little shower bench. The feeling intensified. I knew I had to get out of that hot little room, so I threw on my clean clothes and headed out into the living area. Wendy, having seen this particular combination of symptoms before, takes one look at my clammy pale face and asks, “Oh no. Are you going to throw up?”

“I think it’s passing.” About that time another wave of nausea hits me and I quickly look around for a proper receptacle. The bathroom is not an option, it’s too far away and the doorway is blocked by Randy and his dad with computer parts strewn about. I’ll never make it. I only have one option. I run to the kitchen and arrive just in time to wretch in the sink. Wendy and her mother in law are a mere 20 feet away, and although they are making sympathetic noises, I know they must be repulsed. I try to apologize, but another wretch pulls the words from my mouth, this time it’s deeper and is accompanied by a repulsive guttural burping sound. Lovely. 

I notice Wendy has gotten up and is rifling through some snacks on the counter. She holds some up and asks, “You want some fig newtons? You like fig newtons. I don’t really get it, but I guess you like what you like.” I try not to laugh and heave again. “No? Maybe a granola bar. There’s some granola bars with chocolate. Looks taaaaasty. Wanna 'nola bar? Do ya?” She dangles the granola bar by the corner of the rapper.  Finally my cheese grits from this morning make an appearance and I know I have to be nearing the finish line. “I think I’m going to have one of these chocolate thingies. Maybe two. You know if you’re hungry you shouldn’t be shy. They don’t mind if you have a snack. You really should eat something.”

I manage to squeak out, “I’m gonna punch you in the neck.” While I rinse out my mouth and sheepishly clean the sink with cleanser I found under the sink. 

Why No One Wants To Play With Me

During a recent discussion with Dewie regarding games we played as children, it suddenly dawned on me that I never had a lot of friends growing up. I still don’t. I usually have a main friend, maybe two and then a gaggle of people I just know. As I look back, it probably has a lot more to do with me than moving around a lot or any of the other ten excuses I can come up with.

When I was a mere whippersnapper, one of the games we often played involved raking piles of leaves or pine needles into a floor plan of a house. Although I preferred to play this game alone, sometimes a brave friend would attempt to put up with my need to control everything and offer to play.

Let’s take a ride in the way back machine, shall we? As I’m happily sectioning off the kitchen, cabinets and a roomy pantry in which to store our stick and rock food, I realize with a start that I have forgotten to add a bathroom. I address the little friend who has up until now busied herself with collecting cook-worthy acorns, a job I undoubtedly assigned her, “Hey! I forgot the bathroom. Why don’t you add one?”

She looks at me, excited that I have given her a task that requires more skill than a squirrel, “Ok, yeah! Where should I put it?”

“I don’t know, where ever it makes sense.”

                I turn my attention back to my awesome pantry and soon hear the scratchy sounds of the rake arranging leaves. After a few minutes I walk over to check her work. I am horrified.  “Why in the world would you put the bathroom in front of the front door?!” I squat down to point at the offending bathroom, my long braided pigtail bouncing against my knee.

                “I don’t know. I didn’t know where to put it.”

                “If someone were to visit, do you think they would want to pass someone sitting on the toilet to get to the living room? Does that make sense to you?”

                “Ummm, it’s a leaf house. I don’t think anyone’s going to visit.”

                I take a deep breath, stand up and put my hands on my hips. I calmly address my little friend, making sure to speak slowly so that she understands. “Are you playing make believe or not? I’m going to make believe that the Queen of England is coming over for tea in a few minutes. Then I’m going to make believe that you really had to use the bathroom. Then my make believe Queen of England is going to walk past you pretending to pee on your leaf toilet. Is that what you want?”

                The little friend sighs and picks up the rake. “Where do you want the bathroom?”

                “I point to the hallway. Right there, off the hallway. Be sure to put the good towels out. The Queen is coming.”