As he tossed and turned, covered in a light sweat, the writer had a fever dream wherein, late one dark and stormy night, certain correspondents knocked on the door at Bonnywood Manor, demanding entry and entertainment and booze. The writer sighed (inwardly), smiled graciously (outwardly), and turned to lead his guests (Sacagaweadly) to the Patsy Cline Parlor in the south wing. Along the way, he punched (discreetly) a cleverly-hidden button that alerted critical staff that somebody better unlock one of the wine cellars and somebody else better get one of their asses into one of the kitchens and slap together some cucumber sandwiches and shrimp dip.
Two hours later, the wine cellar was empty, the crystal bowls had been licked clean of the tiniest trace of shrimp dip, and there wasn’t a single unsliced cucumber left in the entire county. Lips were loose and gossip was gushing and unfiltered rambling was rampant. Let’s eavesdrop on their conversation, shall we? Left to right…
Christi: “Hey, what happened to the rest of my hair? It was all there when I left Arizona this morning. It really annoys me when things get out of my control. Say, maybe those shrimp were bad. I’m a world-famous cook, you see, people come from miles around to sample my wares, and I’m fully aware of what tainted crustaceans can do to your beauty regimen. I once lugged a salmon roll to church and everyone loved it, but then the next Sunday everybody in the choir was bald. They had to get hair transplants and they sent me a bill in the offering plate. It was a dark day. But I know how to make this day a bright one. I can belt out some showtunes that I learned on my recent trip to New York City. Anybody have any requests?”
Embeecee: “I think I speak for all of us when I say that that is not going to happen. Life is too short, although I’m sure you have a lovely singing voice that somebody back in Arizona can appreciate. But since you brought up the trials and intricate tribulations of church politics, perhaps I should point out that I’m an equality-supporting, free-thinking Mormon who lives in Utah. Let that sink in a minute. I face challenges on a daily basis that would completely untether the minds of most people. Speaking of challenges, why the hell aren’t there any barstools in this Patsy Cline Parlor? This is fun and all, but my butt could sure use a cushion right about now.”
Mary: “How lovely that both of you are able to blather on so about things that are not really important to anyone else. And I say that with complete admiration. We’re all bloggers here, in case that wasn’t apparent to some innocent victim who clicked on this link in an ill-prepared manner. The primary goal of a blog is the ability to bang on the keyboard in just the right way that your worlds become shareable, no matter how distant and far and quirky those worlds might be. With the right imagination, like finds like, and we all move forward. Of course, the secondary goal of a blog is to get The Cheeto out of office, because his imagination stopped growing the very second he discovered he had a penis.”
Writer/Brian: “My primary reaction is that I should just keep shaking this shaker until everyone passes out. But my secondary reaction is that I might have erred a bit in making a post so specific to certain beloved followers that other folks will run for the hills and never come back. Then there’s a third, more important reaction. Sometimes you just have to stop and take the time to thank the people who have brightened your life, even if it means you don’t have a storyline big enough to thank all of them. I don’t think there is a big enough story to encompass everyone who inspires me to keep pecking away into the wee hours.”
Margo: “Oh, let that thought go. I’m old enough to know that you can’t please everyone, no matter how much you might want to do so. You do what you can, you smile when you should, you love with conviction, and you write the stories that mix all of that together. And the right people will one day stumble across your tiny posts and remember and smile. Now, spontaneous poetry aside, how is it that you have inspired so many women across the country to knock on your door in the midnight hour? I only ask because I’m working on a travel app that will eventually allow me to earn frequent flier miles so I can go back to San Miguel de Allende in Mexico whenever I want.”
Claudette, whispering to her neighbor who had not yet spoken: “Mexico is the furthest these people have been? I probably shouldn’t mention that I’m from Australia. It took me three days to get here, what with that awkward moment when I was detained in Bolivia because apparently art supplies can be mistaken as terrorist implements. After I sketched a stunning portrait of the customs officer, he handed me a handsome tip and let me go.”
Osyth, the now-speaking neighbor: “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ve traveled the world as well, living in fascinating places in full support of the bohemian concept that the more you expose yourself to others, the more you learn about yourself. At the moment, I live in France, next to some sour-faced and disapproving neighbors who clearly haven’t read enough of the right books. Still, in order to preserve the charming, alcohol-based camaraderie evident in this room, we should perhaps not mention that we have seen more of the world than the other four contestants. Discretion is often key.”
Peggy did not say anything, knowing full well that she had outtraveled everyone else in the room by a factor that was exponential. Why go there? So, she simply remained mum and took another swig of her delicious vino, not mentioning that she had actually been to the vineyard in Tibet where this wine was produced by intrepid monks who were still virgins. Unfortunately, the swigging caused Peggy to lose her balance and she toppled off the bar, landing on a covfefe behind said bar. Luckily, her cushioned tumbling did not cause any serious harm, and she was still able to click “like” on this post….
Categories: Past Imperfect