Conversing with my Sweet Deifiúr this afternoon I found muse in me to, once more, regale the masses with words of wit and wisdom. This being the middle of the week, I am not accustomed to the luxury of losing myself to my thoughts and the page before you. I work most of the time, and it is good work, but it tends to dampen the mood for words. Once I arrive at that most sacred of places, the six or seven hundred square foot piece of the universe that I claim ownership over (well…okay…rent) it is about all I can do to just negotiate food and the evenings entertainment found within the electronic contrivance controlling the mysterious world of phantasmagoria made by Panasonic Corporation. To be inspired to write is a distinct gift this twentieth day of May.
I was speaking to my homegirl about something having to do with my financial condition, and how it might improve in the near future when she spouted “I want Lobster!” This term, being a standard gag between us, made me realize the absurdity of what was said. First illogicality, that I would soon be rich due to some reason I’ll remember as I write, and because she does not like to eat lobster.
Back in the ancient days of my secondary education there was this lassie who granted me the honor of her company at my Senior Prom. I do not remember her name, vaguely remember her face, and probably never will. The event was less then joyous for me, and I probably could have lived the rest of my life without recalling that infamous night, but for the hilarity of the situation. We went to the ball and did everything we were supposed to do; tangoed, fox-trotted, waltzed and rumbaed. We drank the spiked punch, smoked the appropriate amount of weed out back of the building, and went to a fancy restaurant afterwards. At the time, I had what had to of been the worst toothache and cold in history. I could not hold down the spiked punch, or the Pagan Pink Ripple Wine my buddy had in his back pocket. Had it not been for the cost incurred for the tuxedo and the wrist flower, I would have told the girl to stay home. I did not, and had a terrible time.
At the restaurant, an overpriced culinary mill with a South Sea motif my companion for the evening, not being the most cosmopolitan of ladies I had (or have) ever met, upon perusing the menu, asked me how much money I had brought with me. Thinking to impress her in the hopes of engaging in some rather physical extracurricular activity later in the evening, I proclaimed for all to know that I had “One Hundred Dollars!” Her swift reply came out as if from a bullhorn, “I WANT LOBSTER!!!
Now, the retelling of this incident at the family table that Sunday, elicited a cacophony of laughter, and a howling from my family pet that, quite honestly, I have never lived down. I long since have surrendered to the fact that it gives my Sweet Deifiúr joy to repeat this phrase, and that is more important then the irritation I feel when recollection of this event comes my way. I love my sibling with all my heart and soul, and I am more then happy to offer her some delight at the expense of letting me know that at the tender age of seventeen, I once made a poor choice in picking a dinner companion on what should have been a night to fondly remember.
The other point I make this evening is the “One Hundred Dollar!” thing. To the best of my aged and feeble mind, that Ben Franklin constituted my entire savings account, and delayed the purchase of a car which I desperately wanted more then the extracurricular activity I never got from that winsome lass with the mercenary appetite. As a matter of fact, it was several years later before I was able to purchase a vehicle that would allow me the Kerouacian delight of the open road. The idea of a hundred dollars has always been a pivotal amount of cash for me. An acquaintance of my once lamented the fact that we (himself and I) could not keep a “f___ng damn hundred dollars in our pocket. This turned out to be a universal truth in my life. I am, and do make many hundreds of dollars in the course of my business in the academic and literary discipline, but I spend most of my time without any more then twenty dollars to my name. “It’s Mommy’s fault.”
I have written of my acumen at shopping as learned at the skirt of my Dear Sainted Mother, and my affinity (addiction?) to the Bentonville, Arkansas based retail Goliath. I must go and spend money there. It is almost as if something calls to me in my sleep. I received payment for a piece of writing today, a massive sum of money…$38.53. My truck drove to Wal-Mart as if drawn by some cosmic magnet, and I proceeded to spend thirty three dollars of that money for items I already possessed but would have need eventually anyway. There were the toiletries that I needed, but had not run out of. There was a new book; well okay that is a necessity. And the gooey chocolate cake by that famous Food Channel chef with the big smile and the deep sexy southern accent who works with her two sons. (I have a cooking fork with her name on it that my sister probably paid too much for…spend more time in Wal-Mart, sweetheart, they cost half what they do in the mall, Mía) I did buy some groceries that I needed, but the gooey cake wasn’t one of them. Along the way, I noticed some comic books. They were/are EIGHT DOLLARS AND NINETY FIVE CENTS!!!!!!! On what strange planet did I land? When did superheroes start charging for their services?!?!?!? And here I sat with only five dollars left to my name!
I was left with only the true shopper’s mantra; I do not have a problem with shopping. I can stop anytime I want, I do not have a problem with shopping, I can stop anytime I want, I do not have a problem with shopping, I can stop anytime I want, I do not have a problem with shopping, I can stop anytime I want! It is not a problem in my life, It is not a problem in my life, It is not a problem in my life, It is not a problem in my life, It is not a problem in my life! So, now you know, and if you disagree, just remember…It’s Mommy’s Fault!