Another day, another dollar. Another chance to live in squalor. Sorry--I was born sarcastic.
This work-week will be a short one, since I had both Monday and Tuesday off for my inscrutable purposes. The Fourth of July parade is a thing of the past, and was such an abysmally shameless panorama of propaganda that if Idaho Falls is really a self-respecting town it should consider cracking down on that aspect. Too bad I live on the parade route, and if I'm at home I will have to deal with the rampant degradation every year.
In other news, the basement finishing is slowly going forward, though the chaos remains. Good thing no one lives there now (our temporary renter having flown the coop in mid-June). I'm keeping up with the weeds and watering to some degree. The rainy spell appears to have past, and the smothering heat of a standard southeast Idaho July to have settled in, good and hard. I'll have to start getting up earlier to accomplish my home improvement/yardwork projects.
More later.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Crabface (Short story from a couple of years ago)
Good Morning, Crabface:
A Story of Love and Consequence
In the aftermath of breakfast, Crabface stared dreamily out the kitchen window. It was a cloudy day, and her faint reflection stared back at her—blond-haired, dark-eyed and not really living up to the implications of her name. In other words, she didn’t have the visage of a pincered crustacean, no matter what her husband might say. But she might as well pretend she did. Maybe it would be easier.
Crabface sighed. Her arms, up to the elbows in sudsy, lukewarm water, had not moved in the past seven minutes. She supposed she should be following through with her domestic duties—the dishes, then the kitchen floor, then the bedroom. But, although after three weeks she was reconciled to the sentence passed down by her lord and master, the weight of it had worn her down a little. She stared some more.
The phone jangled. Lackadaisically drying her hands, she caught up the receiver. “Hello. Crabface speaking.”
“Julie!” came the scandalized, ultra-familiar voice. “Stop that! I think you’ve done enough penance by now.”
“Mother,” she said patiently, “I’m sorry, but the name is still Crabface. Ben thinks we should make it a full month before we go back to normal, so that the message will really sink in.”
“Ben, Shmen. He should go soak his head in soy milk—it might smarten him up.”
“Oh, Mom. Just let me deal with this in my own way, all right? After all, I am the one who wrecked the car.”
“Julie, I just don’t know about you.”
“Sometimes I don’t know about me either, Mom. But I’ve just been inspired. Maybe by washing the dishes, I don’t know. I have a feeling that it’s all going to be just fine.”
“Stop being such a cross-eyed optimist.”
“Mom, I think the song says ‘cockeyed’—“
“It doesn’t matter. Just wake up and smell the . . . the dishwater, for heaven’s sake. Your Ben is an arrogant son of a polliwog.”
“Oh, he just needs a little educating, Mom. My time will come.”
Having hung up, Crabface reflected on the conversation and wondered if she wasn’t being overly optimistic. She and Ben had just come back from their long-awaited South American vacation, and she had landed a much-needed teaching position, and everything had seemed the next step up from hunky-dory—until a little miscalculation in the Riteway parking lot on her part changed not only the complexion of her little world but her name as well. Two and a half more weeks. Just two and a half more weeks as Crabface. Somehow the thought failed to comfort her.
That afternoon, Crabface went out for a light luncheon with her friend Bibi. They ran into Bibi’s friend Allison, and Crabface duly introduced herself.
Allison stared. Of course. “What was that again?” she asked.
Crabface repeated it.
Snorting, Bibi jumped in and clarified, “Her name is really Julie, but her husband’s being a real twit since she crashed their car.”
“We have an agreement,” said Crabface. “I get to be known by Crabface for a full month, because I did a pretty good number on his Porsche. But if—and he thinks it’s a really remote ‘if’—if he damages something that I value as much as he did the car, the shoe is on the other foot. Then I get to think up a name for him. Of course, he’s very smug about it all. But we’ll see.”
Allison looked dubious. “Hm. Well, I wish you the best.”
“On to more uplifting topics,” Bibi said. “Julie, why don’t you show Ally your wonderful new acquisition?”
Crabface said steadfastly, “Who’s Julie?”
“Oh, knock it off,” Bibi fumed. “He’s your husband, not your lord and master.”
“But I’m a purist,” Crabface explained. “I have to adhere to our agreement and introduce myself that way to everyone, or I won’t feel as triumphant when I get to turn the tables.”
“All right, then. Crabface, why don’t you show my friend Allison your thing of beauty, which, being as crabbishly deformed as you are, looks all the more beautiful when shown by you?”
Crabface reached in her purse and unfolded an exquisite white confection. It was in the form of a flattened flower, with intricately tatted designs that looked like flower-children taking refuge within the petals of the flower-mother. It was large enough to use as a tablecloth for a medium-sized table.
“Ah,” said Allison. “That is beautiful. Where did you get it?”
“Paraguay, in South America. Ben and I were there just the week before last. It’s called nanduti lace—that translates to ‘spiderweb,’ or so I was told. But what a lovely, lovely spiderweb.”
There was much oohing and ahhing from Allison until the lunch order arrived. Just as Crabface was about to put the lace away, however, Allison pointed out, “Oh, but there’s a little stain on it. There on the side.”
“I know,” said Crabface. “I got it at a better price because of that. I’m confident of my abilities to get the mark out, since you’re looking at the Laundress Extraordinaire, but I haven’t had much time lately.”
“Good morning, Crabface,” said Ben. He kissed her just under the left eyestalk.
“Hello, dear,” she said. “Off to work so soon?” He was spit-polished and bushy-tailed.
“Even so,” he beamed. “It’s great to be the boss’s pet.”
“Go get ‘em,” she said. “Here’s an apple and a yogurt.”
When he was gone, she stared into space for a while. She started her new job next week. How could she introduce herself as “Crabface” to the students? Actually, she would be “Mrs. Rundle?,” wouldn’t she? Problem solved. Until she started dealing extensively with the faculty. Maybe it was one of those formal-style schools where everyone called one another ‘Mr.’ and ‘Mrs.” It certainly hadn’t seemed such, though, back when she’d had her interview with Principal Gooding, who had invited her to call him “Foozle” because most people did. Of course, Crabface was only a notch or two beneath Foozle in lack of dignity, so maybe she’d survive the month . . .
Today, meanwhile, she had her precious nanduti lace to occupy her attention. She would take that stain out, and it would look wonderful on the living room coffee table.
Ben Rundle came home early, whistling. “I have a special meeting with the boss,” he announced.
“Good for you,” she returned. “When will you be back for dinner?”
“Around seven. Meanwhile, I have a few details that need looking after. Can you do a little laundry for me? My two white shirts are dirty.”
“Not right now. I have to run to the dry cleaner’s and pick up your suit, remember? I’ll try to wash later. In the meantime, don’t touch that washing machine. Okay?”
He turned his attention to the day’s mail, whistling the next bar of his happy tune.
Crabface returned from the dry cleaner’s—and walked straight into a triumph. Ben was standing in the kitchen, looking absolutely aghast. “Uhhhhhhh . . .” he said, clear as usual in his communication.
“What?” she asked.
“Uhhhh . . . your Paraguay lace, Julie.” He held up a bedraggled looking piece of what couldn’t possibly once have been someone’s exquisite tatting. “I figured I’d get a jump on things and wash my own shirts. You had this in the machine, and it was white . . . I thought it wouldn’t matter if I changed the settings just a little.”
“You ruined my nanduti lace,” Crabface said very carefully. “It was only soaking in the washer, Ben. And it might be just a few threads to you, but to me it is—was—a gem of perfection. I may never own anything that magnificent again.”
The significance slowly sank into his expression. His complexion actually paled.
Late that afternoon, they went into Masterson’s department store to set up a credit account. The clerk was a balding redhead with smooth-as-silk manners and only a slight lisp. “How may I thurve you?” he asked.
Well into the process, the clerk asked if it would be a joint account.
“Yes,” said Julie Rundle. “This is my husband.”
“Your name, Thir?”
“Uhhhhhh . . .” He cast an agonized look across at her. “Uhhhh . . . Buzzard-breath. My name is Buzzard-breath.”
A Story of Love and Consequence
In the aftermath of breakfast, Crabface stared dreamily out the kitchen window. It was a cloudy day, and her faint reflection stared back at her—blond-haired, dark-eyed and not really living up to the implications of her name. In other words, she didn’t have the visage of a pincered crustacean, no matter what her husband might say. But she might as well pretend she did. Maybe it would be easier.
Crabface sighed. Her arms, up to the elbows in sudsy, lukewarm water, had not moved in the past seven minutes. She supposed she should be following through with her domestic duties—the dishes, then the kitchen floor, then the bedroom. But, although after three weeks she was reconciled to the sentence passed down by her lord and master, the weight of it had worn her down a little. She stared some more.
The phone jangled. Lackadaisically drying her hands, she caught up the receiver. “Hello. Crabface speaking.”
“Julie!” came the scandalized, ultra-familiar voice. “Stop that! I think you’ve done enough penance by now.”
“Mother,” she said patiently, “I’m sorry, but the name is still Crabface. Ben thinks we should make it a full month before we go back to normal, so that the message will really sink in.”
“Ben, Shmen. He should go soak his head in soy milk—it might smarten him up.”
“Oh, Mom. Just let me deal with this in my own way, all right? After all, I am the one who wrecked the car.”
“Julie, I just don’t know about you.”
“Sometimes I don’t know about me either, Mom. But I’ve just been inspired. Maybe by washing the dishes, I don’t know. I have a feeling that it’s all going to be just fine.”
“Stop being such a cross-eyed optimist.”
“Mom, I think the song says ‘cockeyed’—“
“It doesn’t matter. Just wake up and smell the . . . the dishwater, for heaven’s sake. Your Ben is an arrogant son of a polliwog.”
“Oh, he just needs a little educating, Mom. My time will come.”
Having hung up, Crabface reflected on the conversation and wondered if she wasn’t being overly optimistic. She and Ben had just come back from their long-awaited South American vacation, and she had landed a much-needed teaching position, and everything had seemed the next step up from hunky-dory—until a little miscalculation in the Riteway parking lot on her part changed not only the complexion of her little world but her name as well. Two and a half more weeks. Just two and a half more weeks as Crabface. Somehow the thought failed to comfort her.
That afternoon, Crabface went out for a light luncheon with her friend Bibi. They ran into Bibi’s friend Allison, and Crabface duly introduced herself.
Allison stared. Of course. “What was that again?” she asked.
Crabface repeated it.
Snorting, Bibi jumped in and clarified, “Her name is really Julie, but her husband’s being a real twit since she crashed their car.”
“We have an agreement,” said Crabface. “I get to be known by Crabface for a full month, because I did a pretty good number on his Porsche. But if—and he thinks it’s a really remote ‘if’—if he damages something that I value as much as he did the car, the shoe is on the other foot. Then I get to think up a name for him. Of course, he’s very smug about it all. But we’ll see.”
Allison looked dubious. “Hm. Well, I wish you the best.”
“On to more uplifting topics,” Bibi said. “Julie, why don’t you show Ally your wonderful new acquisition?”
Crabface said steadfastly, “Who’s Julie?”
“Oh, knock it off,” Bibi fumed. “He’s your husband, not your lord and master.”
“But I’m a purist,” Crabface explained. “I have to adhere to our agreement and introduce myself that way to everyone, or I won’t feel as triumphant when I get to turn the tables.”
“All right, then. Crabface, why don’t you show my friend Allison your thing of beauty, which, being as crabbishly deformed as you are, looks all the more beautiful when shown by you?”
Crabface reached in her purse and unfolded an exquisite white confection. It was in the form of a flattened flower, with intricately tatted designs that looked like flower-children taking refuge within the petals of the flower-mother. It was large enough to use as a tablecloth for a medium-sized table.
“Ah,” said Allison. “That is beautiful. Where did you get it?”
“Paraguay, in South America. Ben and I were there just the week before last. It’s called nanduti lace—that translates to ‘spiderweb,’ or so I was told. But what a lovely, lovely spiderweb.”
There was much oohing and ahhing from Allison until the lunch order arrived. Just as Crabface was about to put the lace away, however, Allison pointed out, “Oh, but there’s a little stain on it. There on the side.”
“I know,” said Crabface. “I got it at a better price because of that. I’m confident of my abilities to get the mark out, since you’re looking at the Laundress Extraordinaire, but I haven’t had much time lately.”
“Good morning, Crabface,” said Ben. He kissed her just under the left eyestalk.
“Hello, dear,” she said. “Off to work so soon?” He was spit-polished and bushy-tailed.
“Even so,” he beamed. “It’s great to be the boss’s pet.”
“Go get ‘em,” she said. “Here’s an apple and a yogurt.”
When he was gone, she stared into space for a while. She started her new job next week. How could she introduce herself as “Crabface” to the students? Actually, she would be “Mrs. Rundle?,” wouldn’t she? Problem solved. Until she started dealing extensively with the faculty. Maybe it was one of those formal-style schools where everyone called one another ‘Mr.’ and ‘Mrs.” It certainly hadn’t seemed such, though, back when she’d had her interview with Principal Gooding, who had invited her to call him “Foozle” because most people did. Of course, Crabface was only a notch or two beneath Foozle in lack of dignity, so maybe she’d survive the month . . .
Today, meanwhile, she had her precious nanduti lace to occupy her attention. She would take that stain out, and it would look wonderful on the living room coffee table.
Ben Rundle came home early, whistling. “I have a special meeting with the boss,” he announced.
“Good for you,” she returned. “When will you be back for dinner?”
“Around seven. Meanwhile, I have a few details that need looking after. Can you do a little laundry for me? My two white shirts are dirty.”
“Not right now. I have to run to the dry cleaner’s and pick up your suit, remember? I’ll try to wash later. In the meantime, don’t touch that washing machine. Okay?”
He turned his attention to the day’s mail, whistling the next bar of his happy tune.
Crabface returned from the dry cleaner’s—and walked straight into a triumph. Ben was standing in the kitchen, looking absolutely aghast. “Uhhhhhhh . . .” he said, clear as usual in his communication.
“What?” she asked.
“Uhhhh . . . your Paraguay lace, Julie.” He held up a bedraggled looking piece of what couldn’t possibly once have been someone’s exquisite tatting. “I figured I’d get a jump on things and wash my own shirts. You had this in the machine, and it was white . . . I thought it wouldn’t matter if I changed the settings just a little.”
“You ruined my nanduti lace,” Crabface said very carefully. “It was only soaking in the washer, Ben. And it might be just a few threads to you, but to me it is—was—a gem of perfection. I may never own anything that magnificent again.”
The significance slowly sank into his expression. His complexion actually paled.
Late that afternoon, they went into Masterson’s department store to set up a credit account. The clerk was a balding redhead with smooth-as-silk manners and only a slight lisp. “How may I thurve you?” he asked.
Well into the process, the clerk asked if it would be a joint account.
“Yes,” said Julie Rundle. “This is my husband.”
“Your name, Thir?”
“Uhhhhhh . . .” He cast an agonized look across at her. “Uhhhh . . . Buzzard-breath. My name is Buzzard-breath.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)