I have a history of driving my family crazy. My parents swear I am personally responsible for every single gray hair atop their two heads. I readily admit that I was a child from hell. Every parent's worse nightmare come true. I was famous for doing things and going places I knew I had no business doing and being. So much so that sometime shortly after my sixteenth birthday my mother tossed up her hands and declared she was too through with me. She announced that she didn’t care what I did as long as I adhered to three rules: Don’t get pregnant, don’t do drugs, and don’t call her from jail. Life was too sweet from that moment on.
I’m not one to follow but so many rules anyway and most who know me well will tell you that I often dance to a different beat. And, that drives my husband right up a wall! He’s very much a traditionalist and far too conservative for his own good. My poor dear didn’t have a clue what he was in for when he married me. Even after discovering that I could be a challenge, the man honestly believed he could reel me in and keep me on a short leash. (Oh, please!)
Years ago we moved from the metropolis of Fairfield County, Connecticut to a very rural, very small country town renowned for its historical contributions to the Civil War. Needless to say I’ve been acting right up ever since. The community is small enough where you can actually get to know most folks by name, as well as their ‘bizness’, if one is so inclined. It’s also one of those OLD Southern communities where some folks still think other folks should know their place and stay in it.
Today, I stepped my very wide, very brown behind into what is lovingly referred to as the “redneck” pool hall. (Their own description, not mine.) My son and I wanted to play pool and we’d discovered, quite accidentally, that this billiards room has some of the best food around. (The cook is an elderly black man, well in his 80’s, who is descended from the slaves that built this area. His storytelling is phenomenal and he has three sons that are drop dead gorgeous. Dem boys put the cute in cute!). But I digress. Anyway, I was welcomed in typical Southern fashion: wide smiles and a gregarious greeting. There were a few rough and tumble biker boys who stared like I might be their next meal but I was quite comfortable and had a great time.
I swear I couldn’t have been there ten minutes before telephones were ringing and by my fifteenth minute my husband knew where I was and everyone I’d spoken to. He’s still ranting and raving about what COULD have happened and how I need to make better choices. (The poor soul has delusions of grandeur, swearing every man walking God's green earth wants his wife. But that's a story for another day.) Now, I would understand if I’d actually danced topless on the bar or something but let’s be real. I played pool. Badly. Ate a great lunch. Just blew my diet all to hell. And reminded some folks that where I belong is wherever I choose to be.
I’ll let him rant until he tires himself out. If he gets on my nerves, there’s no telling where I might go tomorrow or what in the world I might do. And then I’ll remind him that I did follow the rules. I didn’t come home pregnant, or on drugs, nor did I call him from the jail. What more does he want?
See you again soon!
I’m not one to follow but so many rules anyway and most who know me well will tell you that I often dance to a different beat. And, that drives my husband right up a wall! He’s very much a traditionalist and far too conservative for his own good. My poor dear didn’t have a clue what he was in for when he married me. Even after discovering that I could be a challenge, the man honestly believed he could reel me in and keep me on a short leash. (Oh, please!)
Years ago we moved from the metropolis of Fairfield County, Connecticut to a very rural, very small country town renowned for its historical contributions to the Civil War. Needless to say I’ve been acting right up ever since. The community is small enough where you can actually get to know most folks by name, as well as their ‘bizness’, if one is so inclined. It’s also one of those OLD Southern communities where some folks still think other folks should know their place and stay in it.
Today, I stepped my very wide, very brown behind into what is lovingly referred to as the “redneck” pool hall. (Their own description, not mine.) My son and I wanted to play pool and we’d discovered, quite accidentally, that this billiards room has some of the best food around. (The cook is an elderly black man, well in his 80’s, who is descended from the slaves that built this area. His storytelling is phenomenal and he has three sons that are drop dead gorgeous. Dem boys put the cute in cute!). But I digress. Anyway, I was welcomed in typical Southern fashion: wide smiles and a gregarious greeting. There were a few rough and tumble biker boys who stared like I might be their next meal but I was quite comfortable and had a great time.
I swear I couldn’t have been there ten minutes before telephones were ringing and by my fifteenth minute my husband knew where I was and everyone I’d spoken to. He’s still ranting and raving about what COULD have happened and how I need to make better choices. (The poor soul has delusions of grandeur, swearing every man walking God's green earth wants his wife. But that's a story for another day.) Now, I would understand if I’d actually danced topless on the bar or something but let’s be real. I played pool. Badly. Ate a great lunch. Just blew my diet all to hell. And reminded some folks that where I belong is wherever I choose to be.
I’ll let him rant until he tires himself out. If he gets on my nerves, there’s no telling where I might go tomorrow or what in the world I might do. And then I’ll remind him that I did follow the rules. I didn’t come home pregnant, or on drugs, nor did I call him from the jail. What more does he want?
See you again soon!
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