I was my father’s favorite.
“What’s that Louisa?”
Let me rephrase that.
My Dad liked me best.
“Hey, this is my story.”
The first words that I can remember my dad sing, went like this.
“Down by the station, early in the mornin’.”
I was sitting cross legged in the bathtub and was up to my chin in bubbles, with my two younger sisters, Louisa and Kiki, on either side.
“See the little puffer-bellies all in row.”
I’m not sure how old we were, but, it has been five decades since we all three fit in a tub together.
“See the station master pull the little lever.”
Boy could my dad sing.
“Millie, the name is pronounced Rah-chester. Not Rock-chester.”
“No it isn’t. It’s Rock-chester.”
“There’s no K.”
“Just because there isn’t a K, doesn’t mean you don’t pronounce it.”
“What is wrong with you?” she says.
“There are lots of words like that,” I say.
It was one AM and Giselle and I were safely back in our hotel room via, the cab and we were having a night cap.
I should have known better than to argue about this with Giselle. She makes her living by correcting the misuse of punctuation and circling misspelled words.
My son is married to Giselle’s daughter. They have four children. One being thirteen year old, Iris. Iris happens to be a dancer.
A very good dancer.
Lobster Night is special.
It is one evening a year that a certain gang of friends convene at Chez Maggie’s to enjoy sisterhood, laughter and lobster.
It is a time to rehash old stories, bitch about class reunions and to roast our unsuspecting husbands.
This year’s Lobster Night, which really happened to be last year’s Lobster Night, because last year’s Lobster night didn’t make the cut of events before the end of 2016, which was actually 2015’s Lobster Night, because that year we missed it entirely, was coincidentally on the same day that the American Red Cross was stationed at my work.
I am merely stating these facts in order to prove that none of this was my fault.
Because I, being the good samaritan that I am, had dutifully signed up for a 10:15 AM appointment.
Ninety-seven percent of the time, giving blood doesn’t affect me, except for that one exception when I ended up lying unnoticed on the floor in my little office cubical for twenty minutes, before crawling back into my chair, which was not that easy because it is on wheels and it swivels.
I finally made it up there.
I rolled my way over to my desk, shut my computer off and went home.
But that’s okay.
Giving blood saves lives.
And I like to save lives.
That is just that way I am.
Especially when The American Red Cross is conveniently parked in our cafeteria, during my shift.
I have been dating Sherri for a couple of months now and I really like her. Do you think it is appropriate to give her a bouquet of flowers for Valentine’s Day? I don’t want to scare her away by giving her something too serious and I don’t want to piss her off by not giving her enough.
Please Help. I can’t blow it.
I believe a bouquet of flowers is the ticket. You are correct that it may be too early to dangle shiny jewels in front of her face. If I were you, I would also take her out for dinner.
Now, as far as those flowers go, be careful with your selection.
Did I ever tell you about that one Valentine’s Day, many years ago? The one where I came home from work and the kitchen table was buried under foliage?
I was speechless.
My sixteen year old step daughter walked into the room.
“Holy balls,” I said. “This is amazing!”
“Oh, I know it,” she says. “See that bouquet of roses? It was delivered to me in my Spanish class. It was hilarious! Right to my class.”