Saturday, March 27, 2010

Nag, nag, nag.

All day yesterday I nagged my self.

Blog entry. Do it. Blog.


I’m worse than a honey dew list.

I did spend a time talking with this neighbor and that. The subject, of course, was Housekeeper and her tale.

Oh, not the direct kind of conversation, not really. I’d start out, like, you know that lady that was married to that guy that runs the xxx store, over in xxxx? And then I’d endure the sly grins and tiny smiles and half answers of “I think so. I went to school with . . . (and here I’d have to put on my sorting cap because they’d do something like: her sister and (their next door neighbor less one over that way – they’d point)) . . .  and I knew of her (if that’s the one you’re asking about) she was a grade ahead of/behind, me.

They’d listen to my identifier again and say; “Yup. That’s her. Why I knew her and him, and they were an item all through school – the folks never specify grade school or high school; just school. It’s all one and the same, you see. School. All the class mates are clumps and knots of various sorts and shapes on the crucifix of life, which is on, but not necessarily part of, the fabric of their life, but which defines the unspecified time before adulthood and life beginning.

All of which might be true to their way of thinking, that separation of periods, but it is certainly disconcerting to the outsider looking in – especially not one with a definable class to exchange relative age group or local. Rather, I suppose, like the Suburbanite that defines life by the town or the ‘Hood, and then the College. It doesn’t matter which college or where, the use of the term binds through experience levels, you see.

By extension, then, it’s not difficult to understand the divisions that define the Military from the Civilian and the career military from the part timer, then further the various grades of service and, extended further, the worker bee from the manager . . . fellow could get carried away with this, couldn’t he?

Anyhow, I’m drifting here. I was seeking information about that masseuse woman, not that I’m wanting a massage, having had one from time to time – why, I remember that time that little Thai woman climbed up on the table and commenced walking on my back . . . Yes, well, another time, maybe. . .



I found this neighbor and that all had tales of this and that, and all indicated this and that which supported the idea the giver of massages is a giver. Why, claimed one neighbor, her husband, the first one, mind, not this one she’s married to now, he’s the third – I think, can’t rightly . . yes, the third, the first one is the guy you asked about, they were an item all through school and then got married. She had a kid, a boy, before they married . . What? No, no. Not by her first husband. She’d had her son when they got married.

The neighbor’d try to explain and I’d gently remind them I’d sort some of it out in my head, later, and ask again, if the neighbor wouldn’t mind, you understand, it’s hard sometimes getting to know your neighbors. They’d generally agree, you see, it could be difficult, but would act, briefly, some put out their story wasn’t being told the way they were remembering it and these interruptions were putting them off their game, so to speak.

I’d have to spend some time nudging them back on subject and it’d take a bit of time.

Still, the facts appear to be the woman in question is a giver, for certain, and whether it’s in a car in the woods or out in the field or in the house of massage, giving is the rule – though, given the sly grins and sidewise eyes, receiving isn’t bad. Which makes her good, or . . . well, some more of that difficult rationalization. That’s bad.

As I was saying. The Housekeeper might have somewhat to worry over, for sure. As Housekeeper was saying, she went to school with the woman, she was three grades ahead of her, and she knows the woman.

I don’t think I’ll tell Housekeeper the story one of my neighbors told me about one of his neighbors, that he went to school with who’s married to one of his best friends, who was a grade mate: “All through school.”, and she told my neighbor that she wouldn’t mind her husband getting a massage, but if he came home smiling, she’d probably kill the son of a bitch.

The masseuse has other positive qualities. Why she . . . Well. . . I think I’ll save those for a later date, I’m not sure mixing metaphors here would serve me well. Good?/Bad?

I’ll think on it. 

*photo share/Mo/Butlerdidit


From the reaches,

Ten Mile

About tenwhiskey

User tenwhiskey is also the author of this blog. He currently lives in small town Kansas in a semi-retired condition. His kids are married and gone (thank you). An empty nester. Divorced. Very happy with life as it is. Ten Mile maintains a personal blog here, writing of events as they appear to him; commentary, and opinions abound. He deviates into fiction as the mood strikes and creates flash fiction stories and short stories. He will not warn the reader when he drifts from fact to fiction. He feels adults are, generally, smart enough to figure out which is which. He does, however, attempt to make his fiction sound as true to life as possible. You have been warned. He, as time permits, writes and occasionally sells writing. More often than not he gives it away to various non-paying publishers of Ether Magazines, forums or for entertainment on a wall for in need of a hand friends. He likes candy, pies and a certain amount of strife. In the matter of strife - in his yourth on the farm, he became embroiled in a slinging fight. The fight involved lath as a launcher, fresh cow patties as ammo and it was a six way free for all. A little mud only adds (Umm?) a certain taste to life.
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