So. Today was going to be a wonderful day. I have many things to be happy about and I’m man enough to admit them.
At breakfast just now, I was sitting with Gram, Aunt Hilda and Mother, Gnat (she’s my trusty assistant out to Mooner’s Compost Plant), Gram’s best buddy P-cubed, and this young guy in a Texas A&M tee shirt and boxer shorts The Squirt was sitting on a stool at my side.
P-cubed is Penelope Paxton-Parades, a retired librarian, and mightily pissed puppy over the AISD’s plans to fire librarians to save money. The young man is quiet, and looks scared.
Mother says to Gram, she says,“Oh for Pete sakes, Gram, tell this boy to go put his clothes on. He’s not properly dressed for dining at my table.”
“Can’t find them,” Gram said around a mouthful of oatmeal with fresh figs and honey from someplace in Tennessee. It sounded like she said, “Pfanf phin nuumm.”
Squirt started snickering and whispered in my ear, “Tu grandmamacita es muy fucking funny, Bwana Mooner.”
“Shh,” I whispered back. “If we’re not careful we’re gonna reach the critical mass required to put Mother into full martyr lock-down.”
My mother has already anointed herself “Saint Mother”, and cast her role to be long suffering at the hands of her family. The race to be Saint Mother’s number one cross to bear would end in a tie between Gram and me.
I needed to save the day, so I say, “Hey everybody, I’ve got loads of good news. I got my bloggie comment dealie fixed, well that is to say that Ben the computer genius fixed it, I got finished with my first rewrite of the edit on my book, and look– most of the important women in my life are here with me for breakfast. I’m a very lucky boy!”
I held a hand to my heart and lifted the other skyward to emphasize my luck and good news.
I did, of course, neglect to mention the laundry list of important women not present– SAC Ellen, Reckmonster, Thundercat832, Wonderella, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, and more.
Then, I wondered if I might be making real progress when I realized that Wonderella made a fourth place finish in my important-ladies-in-my-life derby mop-up race.
“I’ve got a robe I can give this child,” I said. “Squirt, run back to my closet and bring back one of my UT robes.”
“Si, Senor Mooner. I shall return muy pronto.” Off she raced.
Gram swallowed another mouth full of tasty oatmeal and said, “Well, ya little shitbird, iffn ya’s so happy with yer stuff, whyn’t cha say a prayer a thanks?”
Oh for God sakes, I think to myself. This old gasbag is going to start getting all Baptist lady on my ass. Give me a fucking break.
“I’ll break yer fucking face iffn ya don’t stop taking the Lord’s name to Maine,” Gram said.
Holy shit am I thinking out loud to myself a lot. “That’s taking His name in “vain” Gram. Maine’s a state,” I say. Maybe that will end this discussion.
Instead, this gets me a case of the evil eye from my grandmother. But I feel too good to be effected much, and I find it hard to take Gram seriously when one of her hopefully-eighteen-tear-old boyfriends is sitting half naked at my breakfast table. This is technically my house, not Mother’s
“Who gives a shit, Mooner. I’m gonna Maine ya fer being all sacroplasty.”
Why bother telling her it’s “sacrilegious”?
Gram drains her glass of grapefruit juice with a hardy slurp, plunks the glass down too sharply and it almost breaks. “Look here Mooner. Little Tinker Bell over there is a diminity student from Switzerland er somewheres, and he a takin a rematical down to Aggie country. I want ya ta be nice to im.”
What in the world have I ever done to deserve this shit. I’ve got a foreign exchange student on sabatical, sitting at my breakfast table in his underwear, and poking his spoon at a bowl of grade-A number one oatmeal, with this look on his face that says, “What planet did I wake up on?”.
“Gram?” I asked “Did you dose this boy with a little something?”
“Well a course I did. You don’t spect me ta go ta all this trouble fer a quickie do ya?”
I started drinking Carta Blanca beer at 8:30 this morning. It’s 8:00 at night now and I’ve finally washed the memory of breakfast from my brain.
Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson asked me in my telephone therapy session this afternoon, “Are you drinking, Mooner?”
“Does the Pope wear ladies clothes and protect child rapists?” I replied.
We spent the fifty-minutes that mark an hour’s passing on a psycho therapy clock discussing why I get all tangled up with so many women.
No Wonderella I’m so fucking crazy. Manana, y’all.