Sunday, August 22, 2010
See where peer pressure will get you?
Oh, no. I'm not allowed to toss them off the terrace now, noooo. That would be bad, and nasty, and mean, and un-ethi-everything.
They are eating. my. parsley.
But that's fine. I can let go. Perkyvoice. Live and let live.
Note. This parsley is right beside my strawberries. So far, they don't like strawberries.
Sure, I can let it go. But all my parsley has been taken over. And I like parsley. Raw, in salad. With raw onion. Chopped and stuffed under chicken skin with lemon. Etcetera.
My left wing tolerance will dry up when they finish the parsley, and the dread right winger will come storming from behind the clipped shrubs. I'm mad as hell and I just can't take it anymore. Off! All of you, Off off off!
Sh-kerboom, mushroom cloud, caterpillar parts, green rain.
Speaking of which, some years ago someone (who did not know me very well) told me she took me to be the opposite of what I in fact was, politically. She thought I was the opposition. It floored me. So I have had to come to terms with the fact that I am basket of conservative and liberal contradictions. But to be taken for one of those when I seem far closer to one of them? Sobering. And then you wonder how different they are, anyway.
Then I was told by someone else that I play my cards very close to my chest, that I am enigmatic and hard to read. And I think to myself, what is this red thing pumping messily gushing blood promiscuously, situated smack in the middle of my rib cage behind plexiglass? I thought it was my heart! Apparently not.
Then there's the friend, attached by law, mind you, to the friend who says I'm the aforesaid poker player; the friend, alleged, who describes me in her post-40 memoirs as - as my chica the Latina paraphrases it - 'an impeccably dressed Eskimo stirring the bouillabaisse.' In other words, Cold. But making really good bouillabaisse. And in the same breath suggests that I do not like men. And then details the blow-by-blow break up of a relationship of mine, years ago. I am mentioned by name, but is the dude? No. Her friend (?) V gets a rather more detailed dragging through the mud, so I guess I'm lucky.
Friends don't call friends Eskimos, for sooooo many different reasons. Doesn't matter if you say nice things about their bouillabaisse. And then the underhand outing? You don't think we might have had a conversation about this before I saw it in print? And no, the compliments do not make the spiteful comments OK.
You see where talking about caterpillars will get you?
It's about perceptions. And relative worth.
About who gets to stay, and who gets tossed off the terrace. And why.
I feel better now.
Sometimes I need to ruminate on a thing. And I have ruminated.
The caterpillars can stay.