I am going to utilize this space by blathering on about two silly sagas for your reading pleasure, or pain. I shall begin.
The season is upon us in which many an area lady morphs into a fishing widow, for lack of a better description. Attention feminists: I clearly realize that women also participate in this activity. Therefore, I would appreciate it if you would just stop with those thoughts right now. Thank you and stop again.
Perpetual (life long something) bombards me with hook and scale “tails” on a nightly basis. He does so with speed, agility and great enthusiasm. As he speaks I generally try to plot some kind of quick getaway strategy but it hasn't worked thus far.
Sometimes I nod politely whilst fantasizing about moving to Canada (if Trump wins) and/or I basically feign great interest. I'm pretty good at that jazz—just ask Mother. (I have inherited this ability from her. When in doubt she simply says, “uh huh,” over and over again.)
One theme seems to run through these captivating narratives, no matter what the season. That would be the topic of the now infamous “fishing spot.” I've never in my days seen or heard anything quite like it.
I do realize that all “fisher people” seem to be obsessed with favorite body of water domains. Not only but they all seem to think that they have some sort of legal claim to said territory.
I listened with rapt attention this very morning as P imparted something disastrous that unfolded last night—or was it two nights ago? Anyhow, a group of goobers—I mean fishermen, were all gathered in their personal spots when strong winds reared their ugly heads putting P's boat in the direct path of another. He found himself drifting hopelessly away from his allotted section. In other words, he was on the verge of trespassing. Good gravy.
He ended up almost colliding with the other craft because his anchors don't work well in strong wind scenarios. P dramatically attempted to stop the madness by putting his hands out to brace for impact. All at once the operator of the other vessel freaked and yelled, “DO NOT TOUCH MY BOAT!” What in the *&%$# was P to do?
If I remember correctly there was some additional back and forth because they noticed P was catching fish even though he had drifted from his precious post. Murmuring, cussing and other acts of good sportsmanship filled the air.
As the others attempted to reel them in, P continued to shock all by loading his boat with fish galore. He did so even though he had moved WAY beyond his very own region of Pymatuning Lake. (OK, I'm not even sure if that's true but I had to jazz up that ridiculous story to hold your attention. Much to your delight, I am moving on now.)
As promised, here is another cockamamie life account. Mother is at it again with her hilarity. Several weeks ago we were all gathered around in her home having some kind of major discussion. She was speaking to The Child (my kid) about his future plans, etc. The Child indicated that he was interested in a career with the airlines as a steward, or whatever one calls it these days. I've been told that they are all called “flight attendants.” Can you tell it has been eons since I have flown?
At any rate, she suddenly took on an expression of complete concern and in a super serious tone asked the question we had all been awaiting: “Aren't you too tall?” She did so whilst clutching the neckline of her sweater because her pearls were in the shop. Just let that sink in for one moment please. Time is up. WHAT??
Of course we all began to let loose with total mockery and laughter as we are so very charming as a family. We love picking on that darling woman. To her credit, she takes it all in stride. (She has gotten used to this over the years. I mean if one makes statements like the above-mentioned, one must be prepared to be ridiculed and teased. Sorry but those are the harsh facts of life. If only my father were alive for added fun. I think I'm digressing. Should I continue in these brackets or move on?)
I think those in the room collectively visualized people over 5'5” boarding planes across the land while stooping over as to avoid contact with the “ceiling.”
Of all criticisms pertaining to that of a mile high server, I believe that was the most original.
As I type this I am picturing basketball players crawling to assigned seats as vertically challenged attendants attempt to fumble luggage into overhead compartments.
The two tales above should help to unpack the reasons for my particular insanity. Throw cats into the mixture and you might have a clearer vision as to just what makes Lisa Houserman tick.
Honestly, I have no clever way in which to end this bizarre piece so I will just casually cease in my typing activities.
THE END.