with one hand. “I don’t need you to tell me how to protect myself, old man. And I got better aim than you, and don’t think I haven’t thought about aiming a gun in the direction of your ass many a time!”
Stash would hug me before he left, his eyes full of warmth, and admonish me to keep an eye on Lydia while he was in the city. They would kiss again, with Lydia barely pausing to stop giving him orders. “Drive slow. Don’t drive like the fires of hell are burning after your hide, Stash, you old man. I’ll see you Wednesday night for dinner. Do not be late!” She grabbed his face with both hands, tilting his head down. “Not one minute late!”
Aunt Lydia would stand with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, and Stash would honk his horn periodically as he drove down the road. When she couldn’t see him anymore, Lydia would semi-yell, “Stash! He will not leave me alone for a second. He is one ripe pain in the petoosy. Now, what needs to be done?”
And off we’d both charge. We’d fix a fence, clean out the Pigs Palace, as Lydia called Melinda’s pigpen, paint a shed lime green, cook up four different meals to be distributed to four needy families in town, sew new curtains, or hang flowers to dry to make bouquets and other pretty house things. Aunt Lydia let her art projects be auctioned off for various fund-raisers in the county, so she always had plenty to do.
“When you’re sad or depressed, you might as well get something done,” Lydia always said. “Pretty soon, you’re not sad or depressed, and darned if things aren’t done.”
We had spent about an hour in the kitchen getting the Cheers To Vaginas Tacos ready and making a fruit salad. She called it Fruit Salad For Fruitful Women. The green salad, with shredded cheese, dried berries, and nuts was called Greens For Clean Secretions Salad.
Like I said, it was Getting To Know Your Vagina Psychic Night.
So, as usual, the lights were turned down low, and pink candles dotted the room. The day was warm, so a couple of windows were open, cool breezes swirling through the house.
The dining room table was covered in a pink fabric. “Pink represents the inside of a healthy vagina,” Aunt Lydia had told me. Over the table was a centerpiece in the shape of a wreath made with red apples, dried flowers, leaves, a little hay, and a pink ribbon. Lydia had whipped it up in about an hour, and it was stunning, made more stunning by the fact that it hung by cranberry-red ribbons from the ceiling, coming to a stop about five inches from the table.
“We’re going to get half-naked and reawaken our vaginas,” Aunt Lydia announced to the four of us, who were happily relaxed in the overstuffed furniture, drinking our daiquiris to release the fiery woman who lives in all of us and is just waiting for a chance to escape and explore her sensuality. Aunt Lydia had poured all the daiquiris into these tall, pink, curvy glasses.
“We’re going to do what?” Katie asked, munching on another hors d’oeuvre of stuffed mushrooms wrapped in bacon. When everyone had arrived, Lydia had told us the stuffed mushroom was to represent our privacy, the bacon the outer shell of protection we all wear around our privates.
Lara sat next to me, again in a proper, red short-sleeved blouse, her blond hair piled in a bun on top of her head. She had dark circles under her eyes and a few flecks of purple paint on her face and hands. “Reawaken our vaginas? The way Jerry’s after me, mine hardly has any time to sleep,” she muttered, although not unhappily.
On the other couch, Caroline, whose eye seemed to be taking a break tonight, with no winking, laughed. She wore a jean skirt, a blue T-shirt, and white sandals. She had brought with her an enormous bouquet of flowers for each of us. Caroline was always, always giving.
I thought about all the times that I hadn’t given, and should have. The neighbors who were kind to me, the old lady across the hall in my apartment
Stash would hug me before he left, his eyes full of warmth, and admonish me to keep an eye on Lydia while he was in the city. They would kiss again, with Lydia barely pausing to stop giving him orders. “Drive slow. Don’t drive like the fires of hell are burning after your hide, Stash, you old man. I’ll see you Wednesday night for dinner. Do not be late!” She grabbed his face with both hands, tilting his head down. “Not one minute late!”
Aunt Lydia would stand with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, and Stash would honk his horn periodically as he drove down the road. When she couldn’t see him anymore, Lydia would semi-yell, “Stash! He will not leave me alone for a second. He is one ripe pain in the petoosy. Now, what needs to be done?”
And off we’d both charge. We’d fix a fence, clean out the Pigs Palace, as Lydia called Melinda’s pigpen, paint a shed lime green, cook up four different meals to be distributed to four needy families in town, sew new curtains, or hang flowers to dry to make bouquets and other pretty house things. Aunt Lydia let her art projects be auctioned off for various fund-raisers in the county, so she always had plenty to do.
“When you’re sad or depressed, you might as well get something done,” Lydia always said. “Pretty soon, you’re not sad or depressed, and darned if things aren’t done.”
We had spent about an hour in the kitchen getting the Cheers To Vaginas Tacos ready and making a fruit salad. She called it Fruit Salad For Fruitful Women. The green salad, with shredded cheese, dried berries, and nuts was called Greens For Clean Secretions Salad.
Like I said, it was Getting To Know Your Vagina Psychic Night.
So, as usual, the lights were turned down low, and pink candles dotted the room. The day was warm, so a couple of windows were open, cool breezes swirling through the house.
The dining room table was covered in a pink fabric. “Pink represents the inside of a healthy vagina,” Aunt Lydia had told me. Over the table was a centerpiece in the shape of a wreath made with red apples, dried flowers, leaves, a little hay, and a pink ribbon. Lydia had whipped it up in about an hour, and it was stunning, made more stunning by the fact that it hung by cranberry-red ribbons from the ceiling, coming to a stop about five inches from the table.
“We’re going to get half-naked and reawaken our vaginas,” Aunt Lydia announced to the four of us, who were happily relaxed in the overstuffed furniture, drinking our daiquiris to release the fiery woman who lives in all of us and is just waiting for a chance to escape and explore her sensuality. Aunt Lydia had poured all the daiquiris into these tall, pink, curvy glasses.
“We’re going to do what?” Katie asked, munching on another hors d’oeuvre of stuffed mushrooms wrapped in bacon. When everyone had arrived, Lydia had told us the stuffed mushroom was to represent our privacy, the bacon the outer shell of protection we all wear around our privates.
Lara sat next to me, again in a proper, red short-sleeved blouse, her blond hair piled in a bun on top of her head. She had dark circles under her eyes and a few flecks of purple paint on her face and hands. “Reawaken our vaginas? The way Jerry’s after me, mine hardly has any time to sleep,” she muttered, although not unhappily.
On the other couch, Caroline, whose eye seemed to be taking a break tonight, with no winking, laughed. She wore a jean skirt, a blue T-shirt, and white sandals. She had brought with her an enormous bouquet of flowers for each of us. Caroline was always, always giving.
I thought about all the times that I hadn’t given, and should have. The neighbors who were kind to me, the old lady across the hall in my apartment
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