If you’ve been coming to the Quail the last couple of weeks, you know I’m trying hard not to project my past issues with men onto all men.
And that I should probably clean the mirror.
Unfortunately, it takes practice to get this right, but I’ve definitely been making progress.
Have I stopped loudly and publicly yelling at men who aren’t there like I was last winter?
(I’m pretty sure, at least. But then again, we haven’t been through the exact same season yet. The short, cold days can just make me so mad. . . I mean, are you fucking kidding me?! Pull THAT shit, THEN hog the blanket. Wait, no. No. I don’t care anymore.)
Anyways, I finally, hopefully learned my lesson about that after I was almost attacked by dogs three times when yelling aggressively at a man who wasn’t there, and the dogs thought I was being aggressive toward them, which is only natural. So after the first time I was like, get your shit together, Ronnie. Then the second time, I was like, Ronnie, seriously, get your shit together. Then the THIRD time when a rottweiller made a running leap at the cyclone fence I was walking by because I happened to be on-the-go yelling at a man who wasn’t there, I was like, yeah, that one would’ve really hurt, and I worked on cutting that shit out.
I had a small relapse in spring, hanging out at the river with a friend and some wild horses. I started to get a little riley about a memory, and the leader of the horse crew tapped his front hoof ever so softly but authoritatively as if to say, hey, get your shit together, Ronnie . . or I will stomp you. And I was like, yeah, you’re right. I don’t need to be stomped by your majestic body in this incredible setting because of anger over that dude, so I cut that shit out.
I’d like to say I’ve completely learned that lesson, but sometimes it’s hard to tell.
I did discover I was still projecting my dude issues onto other dudes this morning though when I told this dude cat I was petting (an actual feline, not hip new slang, but I kinda like the sound of that), I ain’t falling for your crooked, manipulative dude cat ways.
But then -- the thing is -- he was KINDA fucking with me.
Like, he wanted my attention, and I gave it to him, but then as soon as I’m right there with him, he starts walking away. But not just walking away, walking away and doing that thing dude cats do where they walk reeeaaal slow and drag each one of their hind legs out behind them in succession to entice you because they’re not REALLY walking away yet, they just want you to follow them and pet them wherever they wanna be, and I’m like, nu-uh man. Are you kidding me? I ain’t doing that.
So sure, maaaybe I shouldn’t be projecting like this onto a cat, but hey, at least I didn’t call him a MOTHER FUCKER like I would have last fall.
Looks like someone’s growing up.
*sticks lollipop self-righteously in mouth and skips off*
Not for Sally.
To the rest of the world walking by, she had everything: feathery eyelashes, luscious lips, a chic hairstyle that flowed seamlessly from generation to generation; shit, she'd been wearing the same style since 1985.
How many years was that?
Too many for Sally to count.
Yeah, stability's nice, Sally thought to herself, and wasn't it kind -- yet also very disturbing -- of the old shopowner to throw her yet another birthday party, a reminder of yet another year behind glass. Another year of the shopowner baking her a cake and putting candles on it and asking her to blow out her candles as if to mock her.
"Blow em out, sweetie! Blow em out!!"
Then he'd laugh, and the frosting from the cake he hadn't quite swallowed yet would sometimes fly in her face.
But today, on this birthday, when that warm, sloppy sugar hit her cheek, Sally finally said to herself, ""This is it. This is the last year I've lived on display. This is the year I'm going to live BEYOND the glass."
And so, Sally made a wish. . .
Excuse me, ma'am. . .
And so, Sally made a wish. . .
Ma'am? Excuse me. . . What are you doing?
Ummm. . . talking.
To whom? The mannequin?
Nooo. That's just silly. I wasn't talking TO the mannequin; I was talking as if I were the mannequin talking if she happened to be talking to herself but inside her own head. I don't know how long you were standing there -- so I don't know how caught up you are on the story -- but the whole thing is inspired by the 1987 retail romance hit, Mannequin, starring Kim Cattrall and Andrew McCarthy, you know, the weasly guy from Weekend at Bernie's.
Have you seen it? Not Weekend at Bernie's, I think everyone's seen that. But Mannequin? It's pretty eye-opening. You should check it out. I bet you can get it on Netflix or whatever these days. So what you're seeing here -- again, I don't know how long you've been standing there, so I don't know how caught up you are on the story -- has that whole Mannequin thing going on, but more like an Eat, Pray, Love vibe where the woman finds HERSELF. I'm assuming that was the theme of Eat, Pray, Love, right? I've never seen it, but I kiiinda feel like I'm on this Eat, Pray, Love vibe myself right now. Now Mannequin 2? I've seen that, and uhhh, I just don't have the time to get into that right now.
. . .
And so, Sally made a wish. . . .
That this year she would finally come ALIVE.
That this year, she'd no longer dress up the way everyone else wanted her to be.
Do you wanna be a lady, or do you wanna be a witch?
(#LADYMOOD 9: Witch's Brew OUT NOW! Slurp it up before it's gone.)
Local spinster Ronnie D takes us to her living room for dinner.
Ronnie, tell us what you chose.
Well, guy -- sweet vest, by the way -- I had the The I Cut These Veggies Instead of Myself Vegan Bagel Sandwich.
We're also joined by Sarah. Sarah, what were your impressions?
I have no idea how someone could live like that. I mean, at the very least, just clean off the table before you eat. . . And put some pants on while you're cooking.
We're also joined by Other Sarah. Other Sarah, what did you think?
I think the Downward Spiral was playing at a level far too loud for casual dining.
Well, looks like that's it until next time. Join us as Ronnie D goes out to eat, but just ends up sitting in her car and staring at the restaurant instead.
(These people aren't real; I was dining alone -- well -- the cat was here. She had Sheba.)
In Case You Were Wondering . . .
Sometimes Ronnie D writes funny stuff. Sometimes she writes desperate teenage prose. Most times she just slams her feeble, little woman-hand onto the keyboard in an attempt to feel something, anything.