Past Imperfect

Past Imperfect – #411

As the evening waned, Melanie did have a few regrets.

Perhaps she shouldn’t have chosen to wear ballet slippers with an outfit that strongly hinted of working on the serving line at Furr’s Cafeteria. She had initially found this ensemble to be saucily enticing, with its erotic subliminal signals of artistic athleticism (extreme dexterity!) and buffet goodness (all you can eat!).  Instead, old men kept asking her if there were any steamed prunes in the kitchen and young girls kept inquiring if she had ever danced with a nutcracker. She had answers to these queries, of course, but she couldn’t share them with either demographic without the possibility of obscenity charges being filed.

Perhaps she should have invested a bit more in a decent hair-conditioner. Yes, it’s fair to say that many folks have mane-management issues whilst straddling a log on a wind-swept beach. Still, Melanie and her Chia Pet hair looked like this two seconds after stepping out of a shower. Clearly, some degree of progress could be made with her Sahara-tribute bouffant.

Then there was the whole mess with the tequila. It seemed that she couldn’t avoid being around it, no matter how hard she tried. (It never occurred to her that she should filter out the phrases “bars” and “frat parties” and “barn dances” and “people named Spike” on the primitive GPS that she was clutching in her hand as she slumped against the log.) Perhaps if she had taken a break from the spirits for at least a few minutes, she wouldn’t have played squat tag up and down the coast of South Carolina.

Still and all, at the end of the day (and Melanie had no idea what this day might be), these issues paled in comparison to her real source of dissatisfaction, irritating her even more than the sand blowing up her Blue-Plate-Special skirt. Her current paramour, whose name completely escaped her at the moment, what with all those tequila shots, clearly had no idea how to use a proper filter on Instagram. This wouldn’t do. And she wouldn’t be doing him. At least not again.


Previously published, slight changes made. And I must confess that my mild jesting in regards to Melanie’s bush hair is a tad hypocritical. I keep my own tresses closely-cropped, because if I let them gain any degree of length, my follicular nimbus can be seen from space, regardless of my intense application of conditioning unguents and oils. Life is cruel.

Bonus extended ending for those who scrolled this far:

Sand crab, skittering in from the left: “I find this entire post to be sexist and misogynistic.”

Sand crab, skittering in from the right: “Oh, please. That could easily be a man passing out against the log. The only difference is that the man wouldn’t have any regrets. And he wouldn’t have a GPS, because men never ask for directions.”

Sand crab, skittering up from the center: “Look, we all just need to learn how to get along and compromise or we are never going to have universal healthcare in America.”

Suddenly, a giant wave crashed ashore and swept many of the crabs out to sea. In the American history books, this wave would become known as the 2018 elections. A subsequent wave arrived in 2020. Sadly, it would take a few more elections before the sand was finally swept clean of all the rotting Republican driftwood on the Beach of Hope and Decency…


17 replies »

  1. And two lobsters washed ashore.
    Alpha: Is that a whale trapped by a log?
    Omega: Wow! That was some storm, then. We’re lucky we made it!
    Alpha: Our luck is going to run out if we don’t get a ticket back out to sea.
    Omega: Right! Wha’cha got on you? Looks like a prawn shop over there.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I read this with zeal. To see what my *potential* doppelganger might be getting up to. You can tell she’s a clone and not a real “Melanie” (well not THIS one anyway) because of the following:
    a) Bushy hair which is a dark hue indicating either black or brown (or perhaps aubergine, but who could tell given the black and white nature of the shot), My own locks were once deemed “flaxen” (as in blonde, across the spectrum of that choice). They are thin and disappointing now, and if they tried to “bush”, they’d all abandon ship (as in my pate) totally. I don’t mess with them any more, save to get them trimmed every 8-10 months if they need it or not. The color now is platinum. Because I’m old.
    b) the Melanie of our tasty story is young. I am not.
    c) that Melanie on the beach (and half shell perhaps) apparently is limber enough to play squat tag. I never was, and in Utah? That could get a girl jailed.
    d) Her couture ala’ “Fashionable Waitress Wear – 1952” was never suitable for me. I thought (very very briefly) of doing something food service related as a job a few times in my life, but quickly realized I hadn’t the tolerance that waitresses are obliged to show if they want to get enough tips to qualify as “minimum wage.” I’d have dumped soup on someone’s head at least once I bet. And blamed it on being gimpy to boot.
    lastly (thank God, right??) e) Squat tag and limberness revisited – that young woman is apparently fully fit as to mobility. I haven’t been for eons now.

    So in case there was any confusion about which Melanie was which (which there wasn’t. It’s not all about me, the name choice was random obviously); it should now be cleared up. And that Republican Beach? I’d wouldn’t have been caught dead on it. Well maybe dead. Because I’m far too liberal to have survived the driftwood and implied stupidity that abounds in such places. They’d have burnt me at the stake.

    Liked by 1 person

    • You are quite correct, naturally, in that the selection of the moniker was totally random. I briefly thought about adding a disclaimer at the end, but I thought that might be pushing it a bit. After all, the first incarnation of this mess was scribbled long before we bonded over our errant grandpa.

      For the record, I would also be a terrible waiter. Sure, there can be good money in it, and I greatly admire the folks who expertly handle belligerent and obnoxious customers. I could not do that. Well, I could handle them, but in my case the handling would be a slap across the face. (“This IS what you ordered, fool. And no, you did not tell me to hold the onions.” Whap. And then my ass is booted out the door and/or suddenly appearing in civil court.)

      Trivia: When I first saw your comment pop in on my phone, my mind managed to “slap” together a rather witty reply that included a twist on some James Taylor lyrics and I relished composing said reply once I got around to it. Sadly, as I sit here, I can’t remember WHICH lyrics, even after a bit of Googling. I am not a fan of getting old…


  3. No lie, I always wanted hair like Melanie’s. It has that carefree, sassy look to it, you know?

    Also, per Rivergirl’s request above, don’t be stingy with the directions man. If you know where the Beach is, lead us there!

    Liked by 2 people

    • Some day, we’ll be together, on that Beach. Everyone will be happy (well, the decent people will be) and we’ll sing songs late into the night, clustered around a bonfire that smells like redemption. Which is an artsy way of saying that I don’t know where the beach is, but I know it’s out there…

      Liked by 1 person

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