earI had a conversation, this morning, with my loves on the prairie that went something like this:

Them: Well, Kansas won’t be nearly as exciting as hanging out in the PNW being a stripper….

Me: WTF did you just say?!?! I’m not a stripper, for godsake! I’m a trimmer. I am a contract trimmer who works with clippers. I am not a stripper! Have you told anybody else that that is what I’m doing? Jesus! I get paid extra to leave my clothes ON! I trim with all my clothes on.. shit. I wear extra clothes. Oh lord, you guys….

Them: Oohhh man, stripper… trimmer… same same.

And, I’m still laughing about it. Oh how groovy the way wording can make such a difference.

One time when I was at my sister’s house, my back was killing me and I was whining. She was walking towards the fridge finishing up a sentence about spaghetti and I could swear she said, “Oh. I’ve been gay.”

My mind had whole long seconds to ask so many questions … WHEN had she had time to be gay? She’d been married forever and she was raising four high-maintenance sons. Why would she tell me that, now? I don’t need to know that shit, it’s way above my pay grade. Was I the first person that she came out to? Did mom know?

When I could breath again, I said “Why the fuck would you tell me that?” She turned around and said, “You said your back hurt and sometimes I use Ben Gay on my back. I was just trying to be nice.”

Oooohhhh, I’m pretty sure I said.

Another time, she was standing at the freezer, getting ice and I was pretty sure she said, “Man I hate it when I’ve had Brian in the house, it smells greasy for days.” We have an estranged brother with that name, whom I have not seen in many years and again – what I thought she said was not easy to process.

“When was Brian in this house?!?” I asked. I’d been there for a hot minute and I sure hadn’t seen him.

She turned to look at me with a slightly exhausted face and said “In THIS house?!? He hasn’t been here for over a year.”

“But the house still smells greasy?” I asked.

“What the hell are you talkin’bout, Willis?” She asked with less humor and more exasperation.

I repeated back the sentence I thought I’d heard and she burst into laughter.

She said this: “Man, I hate it when I’ve been frying in the house. It smells greasy for days.”

About 30 years ago, I was walking into a marriage counseling appointment with a human I had yet to marry. Nobody was in a great mood and not a lot of talking had been done in the hours leading up to this date. As we walked by a fat strand of Yew bushes, I said “Ug. Yews smell like cat piss.”

That was all I said and I didn’t say to anybody in particular, but my companion heard “You smell like cat piss.” He stopped dead in his tracks so I did too. He turned to look at me and said, “What did you just say?” Not in the mood for any bullshit, I squared off and said, maybe a little too loudly “Yews smell like cat piss.”

I was able to clear up that little misunderstanding but it wasn’t nearly as funny at the time as it is now, after all these years.

maureenmasters © 2016





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