Tuesday, January 22, at home in Arizona
I prepare the drawers in the new dresser with a non-stick liner of red roses on white background. An easy, fun task.
I go to place my socks and undies in the drawers and every rose on the pretty lining screams . . .
“Oh, no you don’t! You’re not thinking of putting those dingy, old things on us, are you?!!”
You know, my pretties, you’re right. You deserve better. I deserve better.
I’m going shopping . . . .
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Two new throw pillows for the living room, $4 each, thrift store
Um, RVSue? About the epiphany?
I’m getting to it!
You know how two males, complete strangers, meet and within a minute they’re going on and on about sports? If left on their own for too long, they’re putting their feet up, cracking open beers, and ignoring jobs and families in order to discuss and debate who is going to the Super Bowl this year or was that ref in the third quarter blind or what?
It’s quite a confounding thing to witness.
I never understood the sports bond, not having ever been a player or spectator of any sport myself. Quite the contrary. Mention sports within my earshot and I go into spastic eye roll and my flight response kicks in.
Well, after all these years being baffled by that “How ’bout them Dawgs, eh?” (Georgia football fans are insane) phenomena between males and even some mutant females, I receive insight into what it’s all about.
Love your ears, Reg.
The setting for this mind-altering moment is Walmart.
I think of it as “My Epiphany Between Ladies’ Socks and Panties.”
I’m rolling my cart through ladies’ undergarments when a female voice announces, “Something for the birds, something for the dogs, but nothing for you?”
I turn to the voice.
It’s a fifty-something woman sitting at the desk in front of the changing rooms. You know, the guard who counts what you have in hand in order to make sure you don’t leave the store wearing four brassieres.
Kind of like the TSA of garments.
Snacking on a pecan
Realizing she’s referring to the birdseed and dog food in my cart, I hold up my 6-pack of socks and my 6-pack of panties and reply,
” . . . and something for me.”
She smiles and then she’s off to the races, so to speak.
“I spend about forty bucks a month on my birds. Those things can eat! Mostly I get finches and cardinals and — ”
“You get cardinals?” I exclaim.
“Oh yeah. We have a whole family of them. They’re so sweet. Also doves. Those damn doves eat a lot of seed.”
“Tell me about it. I have this pedestal feeder about this tall. It’s really a birdbath but I use it as a feeder. Well, I’m sitting on my porch and here come the doves in pairs. At one point there are ten doves in the feeder, shoulder-to-shoulder, chowing down . . . . Mostly I get sparrows though. They’re fun to watch but they nest in the porch roof. ”
“Yeah, and poop all over. I like the finches. I wish thistle seed wasn’t so expensive though.”
“I have a curve billed thrasher. I like that guy. Seems wherever I go, I look around and there he is, pecking the ground or looking at me with one red eye. Now I see he has a girlfriend!”
“We have roadrunners!”
“No! Really? I LOVE roadrunners. I never see a roadrunner that I don’t laugh.”
“Yeah, they’re so funny. They live on our property. They had a nest with eggs and all and I was hoping for babies but the eggs disappeared. (Sad face.) Maybe a lizard got ’em or they moved them.”
“Oh, too bad,” I commiserate.
She continues undaunted. I listen with 100 percent focus. I no longer know where I am.
“I like to watch them catch lizards. They chase ’em on the railroad ties — we live on a slope so we have railroad ties. A roadrunner will run on the railroad ties, catch a lizard, and flip it over . . . .”
Reggie and Roger stick together.
And so it goes.
Inane as any two guys lobbing batting averages or debating who is the greatest boxer of all time. My bird-feeding BFF and I could go on until the end of her shift, without pausing for air, food, or water, except a phone call breaks in, demanding her attention.
I cruise my cart over to the grocery side of Wal-Mart.
Ah, so that’s how men talk sports with strangers . . . .
“How ’bout them roadrunners, eh?”
rvsue
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