Added: Fri. May 25, 2012 4:18pm
Posted in: Writing
All the people hovering over me right now think I am in the last stages of dying, but I’m not. I’m simply pretending to be in a comatose state so I don’t have to interact with them and so I can listen in on their conversations – I’m that kind of woman. However, a few minutes ago, I was sorely tempted to open my eyes and yell out, “That’s a big a-- lie!” Why? Because my cousin Jurline just told my friend Marcy that I had once had an affair with her (as in Jurline’s) husband, Furman. Jurline is living in ga-ga land if she thinks that ANY woman except her would want to get that close to that unkempt, crass man who’s constantly scratching his crotch. Give me a little credit here; I definitely have higher standards.
I do need to die within the next few days because there is real pressure on me to do so. Why do I think that? Because I keep hearing conversations like this: “When do you expect her to die? I have to make travel plans. If she’ll go ahead and die today, you can set up the funeral for Thursday, and I can make the 7:40 to McNairville on Friday.” And, then, there’s this one: “I sure hope she doesn’t drag this out – I’m scheduled to go out of town in a few days on vacation and I am not going to re-schedule.”
As I lie here, in my own home, I am watching one of my other cousins, Beulah, checking out my couch – I can tell she has taken a liking to it. Plus, she has been eyeing my favorite lamp – one she will never own. If I see her packing it for her trip back to Arkansas, I will get up, grab my lamp, and tell her to hit the road immediately. That will certainly rattle that bimbo’s cage.
Another thing that is really annoying to me is that these people are raiding my refrigerator and making comments, such as: “I can’t believe she doesn’t have any mustard” or, “why does she only have wheat bread?” My answer to these people, if I was to speak, would be: “E-X-C-U-S-E me-e-e-e - it’s my house, you boobs – why don’t you take your fat tails to the grocery store and BUY some food if you don’t like what’s here?” Or, I might say: “would you like me to get up and go to the store for you, and perhaps whip up a soufflé or two when I get back home?”
Why are these “loving” family members here? Because, Leonard, my ever-loving, but totally incompetent husband, called them in a panic when my doctors said there is nothing else medically they can do for me. Leonard tries to do his best – he immediately got me a hospital bed and an oxygen tank, and set me up on display in the parlor, just like you see for heads of state, but on a much smaller scale and with no American flags strategically placed on each of the four corners. I lie here in a fancy nightgown with my hair freshly combed and with all my good jewelry hid under my pillow. I may be sick, but I’m not stupid.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my cousin Teddy’s ugly little dog pee on my parlor rug. When the coast is clear, I take a straw and shoot a spit-wad at the little untrained mutt and watch him scurry from the room. I smile, but then regain my composure as Aunt Beatrice enters the room and takes a seat. She starts reminiscing out loud about me as a child and it soon becomes obvious (to me) that she has me mixed up with one or more of my 30-plus first cousins, but that’s okay – I love her anyway. She is soon joined by my Aunt Fannie, who is disappointed that I may now never be able to write her book – the one she has had in her head for 50 years. I can’t please everybody; isn’t hurrying up and dying enough???