The ladies are sitting next to the pool. They wear housedresses & sit upon cheap lawn chairs. They are not old ladies – not yet – but they’re old enough to be sitting next to the pool in housedresses instead of swim suits.
So they’re getting there.
& Helen uses her pinky finger to move the tiny umbrella in her glass so she can drink, & she slurs on about her Junior, who has moved back into her mobile home. AGAIN.
//Ha!\\ bursts Margaret. //That’s nothing!\\
All eyes on Margaret.
//My Trey is 32, & he’s moved back in the house w/ Henry & me & brought his girlfriend this time, too!\\
There is all-around agreement that this is worse than Helen’s pickle. Agreement that poor Margaret has it bad indeed.
There is silence as they think about Margaret & Henry’s predicament.
Finally, my Aunt Maxine clears her throat. Swallows another Nembutal. Picks at a particularly scary mole on her arm.
//3 weeks ago Thursday\\ Maxine begins, //Jason comes over w/ his wife, Ann, their 3 little kids, their Rottweiler, boxer, & their parrot, Captain Beakers.\\
//He tells me they’ve talked it over & they have decided they’re moving into my uterus, because it’s warm & it’s comfortable in there & from what he remembers, there’s a lot of easy floating around doing nothing all day involved.\\
//& while I’m stuttering, trying to find words to say, it’s FOOMP! & up into my uterus they go.\\
Maxine looks around. //It’s a momma’s worst nightmare.\\
Everyone by the pool agrees that Maxine’s story just about takes the cake.
But Maxine says, //But that’s not all!\\
//Because after that, I get nervous about my OTHER kids, so I decide to stop the vicious cycle. I swallow my youngest right down. Eat him up. Well, HE takes up residence in my stomach & demands cable TV, complete with premium channels!\\
//Jason & my youngest talk through my meaty walls to each other, & they’re complaining about me, mostly.\\
//That night, I dream of the perfect son, & I dream of what he’d be like. Come next morning, I find that Dream Child still in my head, & he’s taking online classes & demanding piano lessons!\\
& all the ladies just sit there in their house dresses, sipping their drinks, staring @ the sun reflected on the water, while their husbands stay out too late boning overpaid nubile secretaries.
& all the housedress ladies sit there, growing old & dreaming of death.
So they’re getting there.
& Helen uses her pinky finger to move the tiny umbrella in her glass so she can drink, & she slurs on about her Junior, who has moved back into her mobile home. AGAIN.
//Ha!\\ bursts Margaret. //That’s nothing!\\
All eyes on Margaret.
//My Trey is 32, & he’s moved back in the house w/ Henry & me & brought his girlfriend this time, too!\\
There is all-around agreement that this is worse than Helen’s pickle. Agreement that poor Margaret has it bad indeed.
There is silence as they think about Margaret & Henry’s predicament.
Finally, my Aunt Maxine clears her throat. Swallows another Nembutal. Picks at a particularly scary mole on her arm.
//3 weeks ago Thursday\\ Maxine begins, //Jason comes over w/ his wife, Ann, their 3 little kids, their Rottweiler, boxer, & their parrot, Captain Beakers.\\
//He tells me they’ve talked it over & they have decided they’re moving into my uterus, because it’s warm & it’s comfortable in there & from what he remembers, there’s a lot of easy floating around doing nothing all day involved.\\
//& while I’m stuttering, trying to find words to say, it’s FOOMP! & up into my uterus they go.\\
Maxine looks around. //It’s a momma’s worst nightmare.\\
Everyone by the pool agrees that Maxine’s story just about takes the cake.
But Maxine says, //But that’s not all!\\
//Because after that, I get nervous about my OTHER kids, so I decide to stop the vicious cycle. I swallow my youngest right down. Eat him up. Well, HE takes up residence in my stomach & demands cable TV, complete with premium channels!\\
//Jason & my youngest talk through my meaty walls to each other, & they’re complaining about me, mostly.\\
//That night, I dream of the perfect son, & I dream of what he’d be like. Come next morning, I find that Dream Child still in my head, & he’s taking online classes & demanding piano lessons!\\
& all the ladies just sit there in their house dresses, sipping their drinks, staring @ the sun reflected on the water, while their husbands stay out too late boning overpaid nubile secretaries.
& all the housedress ladies sit there, growing old & dreaming of death.
Uterine wallpaper? ("Dress Up Your Interior" - it's the latest thing, you know; it'll make Jason; Ann, and the rest of the tribe feel right at home.)
ReplyDelete(I think you answered the question earlier - 'meaty walls' are quite probably like those Sugar Walls which Prince wrote about; Sheena Easton, Morning Train, and all....
Remember - you never know you're in prison until you try the door....
Oi Ja VEY! I'm so glad I don't own a housedress. If my sons move out of my house, I'm turning my uterus into an office instead of a guest room. They can sleep on a blow up mattress in the pater familias testicles.
ReplyDeleteThanks for the warning, Your Grokness.
Astra: Some walls are meaty. I mean, compared to the walls in my house, I imagine the blodily area between the stomach and the uterus would be meaty. I'm sticking with the line, despite the kickback I'm getting.
ReplyDeleteDarla: Install a jacuzzi! I might as well get some use out of mine, since I won't be using it for incubation...
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteThis has me thinking of a kangaroo (with the going back into the womb) and also the Tardis (where there's more room inside than appears outside). But it was a FOOMP and not the distinct grating sound of the Tardis, so it couldn't have been that. Well maybe still, the grating sound only happens when the Tardis launches. Hmmm??? How do they do that? Must be something magical in the genes. Maybe going all the way back to Mother Mary and the immaculate conception, but that's another story.
ReplyDelete... or rather it being a somewhat semi-immaculate de-conception process. Semi-immaculate due to those dang voices.
ReplyDelete