the first room they entered was called a crafeteria in central phoenix. in the back gravel parking lot, goldi and theo picked over the tables of handmade goods. holding overpriced beaded bracelets up to the blinding floodlights, goldi would declare she was "bookmarking" something if it met her approval. such as wood press calendars:
and funky doll head jewelry:
however, after an hour, she declared, "this place is TOO SIMILAR to my real life. we need to get out of here before i actually start buying some of this crap". and so off they fled, the little girl and her silly puppy, across the dark and shady intersection into the next part of the cottage.
through this cheery red door, goldilewis and theobent entered a room they would never forget.
no matter how hard they tried. it would haunt them in their weakest hours. forever. and ever.
it's called the cherry bar and it's full of more despair than an elephant's graveyard. theobent was the one holding the leash on this one. this is a special place where old married men go to hang out with other old married men. there are no games playing on the tv's. only an ashton kutcher flick where he might as well have been shoving his fist in his mouth. we were the only women. we might as well have worn shirts saying "prop 8 is great" or "i choo, choo, choose prop 102's". they knew we weren't lesbo's and i don't think we were dressed cute enough to be confused for trannies. they knew we were there to spy and pass judgement and pollute their space with our foul boob scent.
goldilewis, through nervous giggles, whispered, "this place is TOO DIFFERENT from my everyday existence. let's get out of here, bathe ourselves in bleach, and find a happier retreat". and so off they sped, through a parking lot full of american made mini trucks, to the last room in the cottage.
based on previous experiences with the restaurant, fez, goldilewis and theobent were nervous this last stop would be a cherry bar repeat. it wasn't. the little girl and her puppy pal ate phyllo dough pockets, amazing pesto salads and bittered diet cokes while nestled snuggley in a table between two gorgeous men sharing an appletini and a table full of japanese kids fresh off a tour bus. ahhhh. mecca. the two sat happily and discussed art, high school stories and the occasional mention of our husbands and children.
with a clink from the glasses, "this place is JUST RIGHT".
3 comments:
You are such a wise story teller. You might want to copyright this story. I'm thinking something along the lines of a book like Jenny McCarthy. She did talk about pooping when she delivered but I think some of your material tops hers. It can be called Heather's Bloggisms of Life. Hopefully, you are feeding that child a bottle every once in a while so we can go out for a fancy, real meal in the Tri-Cities when you come. See ya soon!
My palms got uncomfortably sweaty just reading that sad fairy-tale. The Cherry bar? so ironic...so gloomy...so handy when searching for a weekend existence that sucks worse than chapped nursing nips. Way to be brave girls.
I've been reading this to Calvin every night before bed. It makes him cry and then sleep. Thanks for the best re-telling of a story that ever was.
Can we hang out again soon? I promise I'll keep it on the up and up.
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