Father: “You’ve disappointed me again, Clara.”
Clara: “Whatever could you mean, Father?”
Father: “Coming home drunk again, all tarted up and messy.”
Clara: “How could you possibly think I was drink?”
Father: “”Because you’re talking to the hat rack over there, and I’m over here.”
Clara: “Oh. I was just… it’s an acting thing we learned about… in acting class… where we learn about acting with our eyes… so that we can… what was the question? Do we have any pickles?”
Father: “Do you also learn how to reek of gin in this acting class?”
Clara: “Yes! It’s very avenue garde… like what they do in France… when they are not… making cheese and… French stuff.”
Father: “Clara, your mother and I are very worried about your shameful behavior.”
Clara: “Oh, is Mother here? Is that her behind you? Hi, Mother! That’s a very pretty hat!”
Previously published.
Categories: Past Imperfect
Bonnywood Manor 
Reminds me of one time in my teens when I came home and fell UP the stairs. Pure talent. Mother said “You’re drunk, go to bed” Stepdad laughed and I told Mother “Can’t you try that I’m seeing?!”
Now that I think about it, I believe it was a Gin & Tonic night.😉🍸
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Hey, I know all about falling up the stairs! I don’t think we’re given proper credit for managing to do such. It’s an art form, really. We should be celebrated for our efforts…
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I had some impressively drunken evenings as well. At least, I think I did. 😉
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I hear ya. In my head, I pretend that I performed admirably well despite my poor choices. In reality, well, the jury would probably vote otherwise…
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‘Ol’ Crazy Eyes Clara is back.’
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Hey, how did you know what people would shout when I walked into a bar in 1984? Not quite the same as “Norm!”, but I still felt the feigned love…
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Chill out dad, Clara was just wearing that new gin perfume. The line slice earrings are pure coincidence.
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And really, how could Dad, with that wretched hair of his, judge anyone?
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Clara will feel terrible tomorrow.
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True. But right now? Clara is just fine… 😉
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Brian my friend, writing dialogue is definitely your jam! or gin!
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Please remain on standby to repeat that affirmation on those lonely nights when I can’t squeeze anything admirable out of my scribblings. Thank you in advance… 😉
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That looks like the sofa Lizzie Borden’s father was on when she hacked him up! Made a child run up my spine. 😬
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Wait, is that a true typo with “child”, or are you being very clever with a reference to a previous post of mine? If you ARE referencing, you are now officially the Queen of Everything. If not, well, I probably should have responded in a different way, probably something along the lines of why you know so much about deadly sofas… 😉
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Sadly, and unbelievably, I’ve never been so walk I can’t drink… um. Grandpappy was a thunk you drink as he did (or something) and left an indelible impression on my mother (he was her father), which made her as think she was drinkie…I do know Ma had an unsavory encounter under someone’s coffee table and they had to go pour her into a bed somewhere so she could drink it off sleepily. Yet she was harsh with her children if they had two margaritas. I reminded her (being the child that imbibed margaritas on a sometimes unwise trajectory) that it was Utah and really how strong could they be? I could still walk…
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There are many layers of thought-contemplation with this comment, with the coffee table being right there at the front of my contemplating. But I’ll push all of that aside and simply hold your hand and comfort you over the sad state of affairs when it comes to the alcohol-content of margaritas in Utah. I feel your pain. The beer in Oklahoma is basically heavily-diluted fingernail polish…
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