I have to tell this story. I'll never forget riding in the car with my cousin and her parents, right after we moved to Memphis, when she hollered, "Mama, are we in N-----Town?" The N word was profanity to us. I remember once, Mother soaped the mouth of whichever one of us who called the other "N". Surely not me.
But don't think we were enlightened and P.C. No, indeed. My sibs called me "Jap" (I was born in Japan). Now, they got in trouble for that, not because it was a racial slur, but because it was a slur against me. To my parents' credit, it was just 16 years or so after the end of WWII. Not to make excuses.
The military is very egalitarian. At least as far as cultural differences. Except for Japs after WWII, I suppose. But don't forget, RHIP (Rank Has Its Privileges). I think it's sweet, though, that they refer to the lower ranks as NCO's. Non-commissioned officers. But officers got better housing than NCO's. And their own Officers' Club. There was a separate NCO club. We played lots of bingo and drank gobs of Shirley Temples with Mother there. Fond memories. I'll have to do a whole post on that.
Back to the switch-whippin's. They're painful beyond belief. It stings. Especially if you've been washing the family car and sliding down the windshield and your legs are wet. I think it must be like prison caning in Singapore, except without the medical clearance. And follow up exam.
I have to say that more switch-whippin's were inflicted on me by my cousin's diddy (I swear - that's what she called him - way before Sean Combs, aka P-Diddy, came along) than by The D. Mother never used the switch. She employed guilt - much more effective. I'll never forget dragging in at 5:30 in the morning when I was in college. Mother was already up, ironing. She looked at me and said, "I'm disappointed in you." I'd rather have had a switch-whippin'.
That's enough of the serious stuff. This blog has been
Great segue into my feeble attempt at going for a run this afternoon. It's been a beautiful day. 80 degrees. Sunny. Orgasmic. I haven't run, walked or ridden my bicycle since September, when my mother went into the hospital. Back when Jolynna and I were footloose and fancy-free. We were going to the GreenLine two or three times a week to run or walk or ride bikes. Then real life intruded. She took a nine-to-five job in lieu of her real estate biz. My mother died and The D became my roommate. Then in December, I got a great new client and had more work than I could handle. This was a good thing, but it left me even less time, on top of all the things I had to do to handle D's move, Mother's estate, and the million things involved in that. And of course, the fuckin' holidays. I would've skipped them except for Daddy. I wanted to make it special for him. Bearable, at least. And then there was Deb, prodding me into roasting turkeys, making cookies and mashed potatoes and stuffed celery - you name it. I did this while she came over and mixed confectioner's sugar with butter and milk to make icing for her sugar cookies. Then she artfully added food coloring and sprinkles. God, it makes me sick just thinking about it. Hypoglycemic, remember?
But I did anything I could for her. Especially since she had the opportunity to flee to Oklahoma with her children for the holidays but instead, stayed here with D and me. I shudder to think how it would've been without her. The D loves her so much. She's the littlest, after all.
Just getting through Thanksgiving and Christmas was huge. And now, we've made it through the winter.
Oh, back to my (attempted) run. It felt good for the first 20 seconds (except for major booty jiggle - where'd that come from?). Then I hit the wall. Damn. I guess all my push-ups and sit-ups haven't helped my legs much. To think I could do two miles just six months ago. Fuck. I've got to get in shape before prospective husband comes to town. Not much time left. I suppose I could wear my torture compression garment, I mean body smoother or whatever the hell it's called. I bought it at Victoria's Secret for my one and only holiday gala event. I had to get the sales clerk to help me get out of it. The plus side of wearing it when I meet dude in person for the first time is that my virtue will stay intact. Modern day chastity belt. That reminds me. When one of my many Desoto County cousins got married, the ceremony included a chastity cord which was presented to the groom. Wonder if they waved the bloody sheets out the window on the morning after their wedding night? To prove that her hymen had been intact.
I hate that I missed the wedding. I must've been in New Orleans being less than chaste that weekend. I got the blow-by-blow from Deb. She said Chaste Cousin's little sister threw up on the alter. I would've, too. Her husband was a freak. He worked at Pizza Hut while he was in seminary and he proudly regaled us with stories of "withnessing" to his co-workers, complete with threats of fire and brimstone and eternal flames. Wonder why he couldn't hold a job.
Believe it or not, that holy union didn't last. Her second husband is some kind of Rush Limbaugh wanna-be. Ugh. Crazy FaceBook posts about terrorists burning in hell. Don't misunderstand. I unfriended him when things got crazy, but I friended him on Daddy's FaceBook. Which is just a propaganda machine for me. I just make posts about his wonderful middle daughter and all the ways she makes him happy. Complete with pic's of roasted Thanksgiving turkeys and mounds of Christmas packages.
Oh, my. I need to get back to work. I'm meeting with my number one client tomorrow and as usual, I've procrassed. I wanna call dude and try to be cute with my stupid attempts at Polish, but will try not to give into that impulse. On the other hand, his birthday is tomorrow, so that would be a good excuse to call. Or not.
He might have plans. Unlike me. Sitting home. On a Friday night. Blogging and smelling the skunk chair and listening to McCoy Tyner. That's a long story.
But it's almost 5:30 and I told The D that I'd make Swiss and Mushroom burgers tonight. So I should get started.