Past Imperfect

Past Imperfect – #242

“The only thing that can possibly explain this scene is the now-empty enormous coffee cup in the lower right…”

Suddenly, someone stomped into my home office. I cannot name this person because said person is one of those family members who does not care to be mentioned in my stories. I’d give this person a pseudonym, but I’m one of those family members who gets a little miffed when stomping family members get sand in their crack for no reason, and me giving Person a clever pseudonym felt like undeserved validation at this point. (If you don’t like me writing about the things you do right in front of me, then stop doing things right in front of me. What part do you not get about me being an observational writer?)

Person apparently did not get any of the parts about being a writer, despite my fingers being poised above a keyboard as incense burned and Billie Holiday warbled in the background. “What are you doing?”

Me: “I’m writing. Because I do that. Would you like to borrow my dictionary?”

Person: “Then stop it. Right now.”

Me: “Okay, lots of rebuttals come to mind, but we’ll start with this: Why are you in my house? You don’t live here. I thought you were out of the country, doing fake charity work where you pose for three minutes with the one homeless person in a country that otherwise features exotic nude beaches where you can loll about all freebird, fisting martinis once the photo-op is done.”

Person: “I sense a lot of bitterness.”

Me: “I sense a lot of misdirection.”

Person: “Okay, fine. I was on the beach in St. Tropez when I got the text that you were about to use a photo that you absolutely should not use in your latest batch of lies and innuendo on that horrid website you have.”

Me: “Wait, you got a text? From whom? The cat?” (I glanced around the room until I spied Scotch the Cat ensconced on one end of a nearby couch, giving off that aura cats have where you don’t know if they want to kill you or if they are simply biding their time until the next treat-dispersal cycle. Hmm.)

Person: “I cannot reveal my sources without undermining society as we know it. Suffice it to say that the text was received and I immediately ran from the beach to a private plane piloted by someone I did not sleep with at that time, so keep that in mind when you attempt to weave your mendacious blog post.”

Me: “You’re fresh from the beach, then? So, you really do have sand in your crack. I love the smell of literary devices made flesh in the morning.”

Person: “I’m not following you. Just like your blog.”

Me: “It doesn’t matter. I’m tired and there’s only so much time in the day, a quote that I use as a footer on all my emails. Let’s cut to why I shouldn’t use this photo.”

Person: “Are you really that insipid? In your weak attempt at caffeine whimsy, you are apparently unaware that this photo is documentation from a time when matrimonial arrangements in our family were decided by fisticuffs between the matriarchs. Mrs. Freud, on the left, is trying to prevent her daughter from marrying the son of Mrs. Slip, on the right. They both fought valiantly, but in the end the judging officials called it a draw, and the marriage was allowed to transpire, even though the families continue to battle until this very day. Long story short, you wouldn’t have been born if the conjugation had been deemed verboten.”

Me: “Wait. You’re saying that our very existence is the result of an unresolved Freudian Slip?”

Person: “Yes! You can’t let this word get out or I will never get to sleep with the hunky pilot who transported my sandy crack across the Atlantic. His family has at least minimal standards, unlike ours. You simply cannot focus more shame on our branch of the family tree by publishing this post.”

Me: “The hell I can’t.”

Click.

Two seconds later, the phone rings.

Me: “Hello?”

Mom: “I’m thinking this is a good time to discuss my bequeathing options.”

Me: “I’m sorry, you’ve got the wrong number.”

Mom: “That only works in St. Tropez. Sit your ass down and listen to me…”

 

31 replies »

  1. Hahaha!

    ” I love the smell of literary devices made flesh in the morning.”

    Wow. Favourite thing you’ve written so far.

    (*Disclaimer : the above words and all other related sentiments are compliments and should not be misunderstood in any way, shape or form.)

    Liked by 1 person

    • Why, thank you kindly! [Disclaimer: Now I’m a little blue that I ever said anything, as it takes away the murky thrill of trying to decipher cryptic passages. Sigh. Perhaps I can never be satisfied.]

      Like

      • Oh Brian… With all the love I can muster in a comment to someone I virtually and barely know. ..get a grip and get over it! Hahahaha! Let’s pretend it neeeeever happened. ..mmmkay?
        You know I think your blog is a fantastic and truly unique.
        X

        Liked by 1 person

  2. Well, at least they haven’t got their thumbs stuck under their fingers – good start. However Miss White needs to raise her left arm higher. And yes, I know nothing about boxing or pugilism (i feel sorry for their little pushed in faces)- wait, that’s dogs isn’t it? – nuff said about these two anyway – Who Let The Dogs Out 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

    • I’m curious about the cup as well, and I believe Embeecee provides details further down in the commentary. As for the hats, they are most likely being held in place by those once-fashionable, ginormous hat pins that can pierce your skull… 😉

      Liked by 1 person

  3. That huge “coffee” mug is (I do believe) something called a thunder mug. I certainly wouldn’t DRINK out of the thing, given what people are supposed to put in it, and DO in certain rural circumstance where the loo is a wispy dream and the outhouse is far off through miles of snow. It saw peak usage in the days before indoor plumbing of any merit, no good disinfectant and no decent vaccines. Diphtheria and cholera are REAL, despite saps falling in love in the time of the last one. I choked on my Postum (Mormon version of ‘coffee’. Don’t try it at home, if you love coffee, it will not suffice AND I don’t think there’s any caffeine in it anyway) when I read “I love the smell of literary devices made flesh in the morning.” suppressing an Osyth sized snort. I lost that battle and guffawed loudly. The ladies (ladies? LADIES don’t fisticuff, they make catty remarks (sorry Scotch) about each other and the choice of hat of the day – no offense to Mz. Freud and Slip); have long tea parties where groups of them discuss these things (catty remarks and couture of the 17th Century 😉 ) and pay exorbitant fees to therapists to talk about their wounded feelings at being excluded from the festivities. Still. A girl MUST blow off steam and being raised in a primarily male household, I learned the value of a solid right cross. My brother (who doesn’t read blogs and therefore can’t bitch about being included in this one) sported a black eye for taunting me. It was August and I was 15 and he should have known better than to taunt… He learned. I digress (sorry). I personally think those two women are fighting because Mz. Freud had the nerve to serve Mz. Slip coffee in the thunder mug. One sip and it was ON. Because you can’t disguise poorly disinfected dishware with strong coffee. And serving pee with your brew is just passive aggressive.

    Liked by 1 person

    • I’ve seen a few actual ‘thunder mugs’, but never one that small. It might do for the males, but definitely not for the women. The ‘ladies'(?) seem determinedly British, so it’s probably a tea-mug. Doesn’t matter, same caffeine, just served with lemon slices and cucumber sandwiches which create digestive distress, and cause these Bantam-weight bouts. 😆

      Liked by 1 person

    • Embeecee: You have taken this are deeper than I expected, and I say that with admiration. I have learned so many things, with perhaps the most important being that I should never get on the bad side of your pugilistic prowess. I might end up face-down in the gutter without having gotten there on my own. I need to stay on my toes… 😉

      Archon: Odd thought – What if the mug in question is actually the jaunty military cap that Shirley Temple sported whilst running amok and warbling in “The Poor Little Rich Girl”? This means she must be somewhere in the vicinity. Proceed with caution. And make Embeecee walk in front of you when you enter darkened rooms during the search…

      Like

  4. That was an impressiveness bit of story you wrought, before you reached what I suspect was your goal the entire time, that being, to bring forth the Freudian slip.
    Also, those women are having a heck of a time keeping a straight face. They must have seen your pun coming. 😉

    Liked by 1 person

    • I sense that I have failed you with my manipulative ways. To be fair, I didn’t think of The Slip until well into the bit, but I will confess that once the idea crossed my mind, I did seize it with a bit more relish and pomp than one should… 😉

      Liked by 1 person

  5. Oh, this was about you? I thought this was the picture taken of my grandparents on their wedding day. I swear, we must be related. No 2 women would wear the same hats on their wedding days. Besides, I thought it was Mrs. Fist and Ms. Icups getting geared up for a battle royal.

    Liked by 1 person

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