As mentioned previously, my mother died in 2007, and Nana decided to divulge a particularly ugly secret right before Mom passed, which I talked about in this post:
http://tenaciousbitch.com/2011/03/10/as-my-mother-lay-dying/
However, that’s not the only shocking event that happened when mom was terminally ill. The emotional hurricane of losing my mother was bad enough. Then, after driving down to Huntington, West Virginia (my hometown/a 3-hour drive) and spending a week at the hospice facility while listening to my grandmother’s babbling complaints 24-7, I needed a break. So, I called my friend, Prissy, previously mentioned in this post:
http://tenaciousbitch.com/2011/08/29/blog-30-%E2%80%93-an-ode-to-barboursville-and-the-days-of-yore/ …which is the tale of my unfortunate teenaged incarceration.
“I’m so sorry to hear about your Mom,” Prissy said when she opened the door to her apartment, cluttered with books, magazines, junk mail strewn about and lots of crafty stuff – boxes of buttons and sequins and the like, skeins of yarn in odd places like in a basket on the back of the toilet. And there were as many cats as there were molecules of oxygen (almost).
I petted Jackson, one of her calicoes, who was sashaying around my legs and mewing.
“Thanks,” I said, stroking Jackson’s head. “Hi, Jackson, have you missed me?”
“Yeah, they are a little starved for company since I kicked Tommy to the curb,” Prissy replied while strolling toward her small, dark living room with its old but comfortable furniture, her tiny feet padding along the hardwood floor.
“Really? You’ll have to tell me all about it, but first-” I said, holding up a 12-pack of Amstel Light, Prissy’s favorite beer.
“Oh, thank you,” Prissy said smiling as she darted into her small but clean kitchen, which was completely awash in various shades of white and ivory, except the black handles on the cabinets.
Prissy began rummaging through the kitchen drawers. “I don’t usually have the money to buy beer, so a bottle opener might be a challenge,” she mumbled while shuffling through spatulas, measuring cups, and such.
Prissy had lost her job at the university library 4-5 years prior. She’d been living on disability since then (disability for what, I’m not certain), which she supplements by occasionally selling her Xanex.
“Dammit,” Prissy said, slamming a drawer. “I can’t find it.”
“No problem,” I said, grinning.
“How’s that?”
“Watch and learn, Grasshopper,” I said, grabbing a beer from the carton on the table. With the lip of the cap resting against the side of the counter top, I gave it a quick smack while rolling the beer upward and managed to dislodge the cap with a THWACK.
“Damn, that’s a handy skill,” Prissy said, giggling.
“Beer tricks 101 is a requirement in Catholic school,” I replied, smiling.
Prissy laughed. When we settled in on her couch, she immediately launched into a 40-minute monologue about life with Tommy. Though I’d never met him, being from a small town, I knew who he was. But I couldn’t have picked him out of lineup these days…and judging from her tales, his being in a lineup wasn’t entirely impossible.
“So, after his second DUI and the drug bust, he lost his apartment,” she said. “So, he moved in here. Things were going well for awhile, but then, he started getting on my nerves. His ex-wife called a lot, and then…when he made a huge mess in the kitchen, left the house with the oven on for the third time,” she said, lighting up a joint. “That was it.”
The foul stench immediately made my sinuses swell.
“Wanna hit?”
I shook my head, surprised she didn’t remember.
“Oh, yeah,” she said, giggling again. “You’re allergic.”
“Bingo,” I replied, smiling, and that whole story is fat to feast upon another day…
“So, he begged me to take him back,” Prissy continued. “But I said, no. I’m looking for, you know, a KEEPER this time. So, I went on a diet-”
“Yeah, I noticed you’d lost some weight.” Which was true, not that she’d given me a chance to bring it up.
“Yeah, almost 20 pounds.”
“That’s great. Good for you.”
“So, what do you think?” she asked, whipping her shirt up to her neck – and she wasn’t wearing a bra, so she basically flashed her bare breasts at me. Yeah, when I decided to call Prissy, I didn’t expect to be face-to-face with her Double D’s.
I was stunned, to say the least, and I kept thinking…my mother is DYING, and this is what we’re talking about?
“Uh, well, I guess if I were a lesbian, I’d go for it, but since I’m not, and – NOT that there’s anything wrong with being a lesbian, mind you…but-”
With a sheepish grin, she replaced her shirt over her ta ta’s and looked at me quizzically. “But what?”
I had no idea how to finish that sentence. I was double-dog flabbergasted. But I certainly didn’t want her to think she was unattractive. So, I said nothing, and, luckily, her weed-toked brain choked back into the fray, starting up where her own thoughts had been interrupted…
“So, if you were a guy, would you wanna, you know, do me?” she asked, giggling like a 12-year-old.
“Absolutely,” I said, rising in search of another beer. “You want another one?”
“Please,” Prissy replied.
The remainder of the evening, Prissy continued blathering on about Tommy and Jeff, an intermittent boyfriend, of five years or so. Jeff was currently back with his ex-wife, hence, Prissy’s diet and quest for a new man since her go-to guy was otherwise occupied.
After two hours and several beers, she finally asked, “So, how are you holding up?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t been to see your Mom. Hospitals, you know, they kind of…freak me out.”
I nodded, knowing this was a load of CA CA. Prissy’d had a falling out with a mutual friend and feared running into her while visiting Mom though I’d told her said friend was only in town for ONE weekend and had gone back home to Lexington.
I didn’t really care because there wasn’t any excuse good enough not to see Mom – in my book, unless Prissy, herself, was DYING – especially since the hospice was about 7 blocks from her place.
I’d known Prissy since I was 12, and we were also roommates for a couple years. Mom had always treated her better than her own mother. Mom even frequently referred to her as her “other” daughter”, but whatever…
REGARDLESS, having one of my oldest friends flash me like that was so strange – just thought I’d share! 
Over and out from fucked up central…where the truth is worn like a badge on one’s dirty underwear, LOL…or something like that…
Until next time, boys and girls…
TenaciousBITCH and company~
KS/TB
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