This is how one turns to a life of crime and indiscretion: When your older sisters force you to wear ridiculous costumes and then torment you further by laughing uproariously, despite their inability to arrange Grandma Bennett’s heirloom china in a proper table setting. The day will come, dear inebriated sisters. The day will come.
There was a knock at the door. Oh? Perhaps that day had come sooner than expected. One could always dream.
The older sisters did not respond in any way to the knocking, perhaps due to their inebriation or their general laziness when it came to proper social behavior. Little Sister sighed, hopped down from her chair, and trotted to the cottage door. She wrenched said door open with a little more force than necessary, because bitterness served at the dinner table often escalates into reactionary displays of anarchy at odd moments.
“Hello!” said the woman on the stoop, wearing an overly-frilly outfit and clutching what may or may not be a casserole dish containing Shepherd’s Pie. “My name is Mary, and I’m looking for my lost lamb.”
Little Sis: “I’m her.”
Mary: “But my little lambkins is white as snow.”
Little Sis: “There was an incident and I’ve been tainted. It was a wretched ordeal and I can’t give you any more details without being given a sedative.”
Mary: “And my lambie is a boy, not a girl.”
Little Sis: “Okay, fine. The incident partly involved a threshing machine. Are you happy now, making me relive the horror? I now have to use a different bathroom where all of the facilities are in the wrong places. In more ways than one.”
Mary: “Oh, I would never dream of acting in an inappropriate manner. That’s why I brought this freshly-baked Shepherd’s Pie on my first visit to your lovely home. It’s just proper etiquette.”
Little Sis: “It’s not a lovely home and etiquette has never been even briefly considered within these walls. There will eventually be a documentary made about what happened here, with neighbors being interviewed and asked why they didn’t report the screams. But I’d rather not be around when that happens. Please take me with you wherever you are going. You can dye my wool if that’s important to you. It wouldn’t be the first time today I’ve pretended to be something I’m not.”
Mary: “But what should I do with my pie?”
Little Sis: “It depends. If you’re talking about your personal pie, you can do whatever you want with it, I won’t judge. If you’re talking about the casserole, just leave it on the stoop. My sisters will eventually find it when they run out of beer and have to venture to the corner market in a lumbering and shameful manner that happens so regularly you set your watch by it.”
Mary: “Well, I don’t know. Doesn’t something seem to be a bit off here? Are you even of age to be making your own decisions?”
Little Sis: “I could be asking both of those questions about your pie. Either one of them.”
Mary: “Fair enough. Still, I’m not sure if there is any benefit for me in this situation. I mean, I would love to have my little lamb tagging along behind me again, as it’s part of my social-network branding and my followers expect to see such. Then again, your sisters sound spiteful, like those basement-dwelling people who make wretched comments on blogs out of pure meanness and nothing else. I really don’t have time to delete the poisonous remarks, not when I have to post at least ten daily images of myself in the latest Shepherdess Couture, looking pensive on a beach whilst gazing at the waves splashing on the shore.”
Little Sis: “Yes, it must be very stressful thinking of new ways to love yourself every day. Poor thing. But I think I can sweeten the pot, here. On my way to this door that I will hopefully be closing for the last time, I managed to swipe all the stock certificates, banking account access codes, powers of attorney, and online passwords that my sisters only thought they had hidden from me.” [These actions were not properly captured by the writer in his narrative because he didn’t think of them until now.] “With just a wee bit of deception, I can easily be in control of a family fortune that will allow us to have all the Shepherd’s Pie we could ever want.”
Mary: “Oh. Well, you should have led with that. I’m all about deception if it can lead to personal gain. After all, the poem about me was not meant to be a celebration of barnyard camaraderie. It’s actually a ribald ditty meant to encourage customers to visit the Red Light District in New Orleans.”
Little Sis: “Are we back to your pie again?”
Mary: “When is it ever not really about pie?”
Little Sis: “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
Mary: “Stop trying to trump me with the best closing line.”
Little Sis: “Stop talking about your pie.”
Writer: “Can both of you just stop yammering? It’s after midnight and I’d really like to post this thing and go to bed.”
Previously published. Slight changes made.
More Important Note: Until just a few minutes ago, it was still the Third of July, at least here in America, a date otherwise known as “The Day When Drunk Americans Can’t Wait Until the Fourth to Set Off Fireworks”. There have been explosions in and around the neighborhood for several hours now, and it will be even worse tomorrow night.
I’m probably preaching to the choir for most of you, but it’s against the law to set off fireworks in the city limits of Dallas, as I’m sure it is where many of you live. Yet these idiots insist on doing so, creating a cacophony of terror for pets and veterans and people with anxiety and folks who just want to write a blog post. It’s just another sign of how so many twits these days couldn’t care less about their fellow man. Sad.
Don’t be an idiot. Leave the fireworks to the professionals you can watch on TV. And let you neighbors have some peace.
Categories: Past Imperfect