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I was fairly new on the job. I’d been there just long enough to know there was a woman, my manager who would come downstairs, jump on her broom and terrorize the entire wing. 

She was a pretty woman, which made her more frightening. You could hear her coming, stomping along in her high heeled shoes. If her pace was quick, you knew she was coming for someone.

When she launched into a tirade, everyone would stop to listen. And after she left, no one worked, they were all busy talking about her.

I was located in the furthest cubicle from the elevator. One day the doors opened and the click, clack of her high heels echoed on the floor.

I knew she was coming for me.

She snapped around the corner, her skirt swishing with each step as she quickly narrowed the distance between us.

Her entire face was pursed, on the verge of venomous explosion.

“Deidra,” She spit out my name like my Dad did when I used his stamp collection to post Valentines Day cards in grade school.

“Wait,” I cut in, “I know you have a problem and I’m here to help you. But you need to go somewhere else and wipe that look off your face and get control of yourself before you speak to me again.”

She gasped.You could hear a pen drop and none did.

She started laughing. “Am I really that bad?” she asked.

“Yeah, you scare grown men.”

That year I dressed up like her for Halloween. Hey, I can ride a broom too.

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Common Sense, Where?


I received a text from an old friend. 

It read – I want to call you, what’s your phone number?

I replied – I think you just texted it.

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I have recipes from my great aunts, grandmothers and even great grandmothers. Many are really good. I don’t use those. Just as may are a bit weird if not down right crazy. 

For all of you foodies, I would like to introduce a recipe from my great aunt who was quite the entertainer.

WARNING: Do not try this at home. But if you do, let me know how it turns out.

She called this little ditty the Backwoods Sandwich Loaf. I found it in her What to Serve Men section.

It starts with a loaf of unsliced bread. Cut lengthwise into 7 layers.

On the bottom layer, spread mayonnaise and cheese spread. Place bread layer on top.

On this layer spread tuna salad. Place bread layer on top.

On the next layer spread mayonnaise, tomato slices, salt, pepper and, you got it, next bread layer on top.

Next layer, egg salad. I think you’ve got the hang of the next bread layer …

Add mayonnaise and deviled ham.

Up until now you’re thinking – What up with you, Dee? It’s a little weird but still edible. 

But wait, there’s more.

On the last later, add mayonnaise and peanut butter. Yikes.

Though I’ve laid eyes on this wonder, I’ve never tasted it. You wouldn’t catch me eating a cheese spread, tuna, egg, tomato, deviled ham, peanut butter sandwich. 

 

Besides, it was served to the men in the wood paneled den.

And as a young female, I was served in the pale blue formal livingroom. We dined on Melon Americans or Frosted Sandwiches. 

I don’t know where she came up with the names.

 

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What would you write.

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Every morning my obnoxious alarm goes off. Blinded by daylight, I slap it a couple of times and stumble to the kitchen. I stand in front of the open refrigerator door, drink milk straight from the carton, and grab a hard boiled egg. 

I love cold hard boiled eggs so I make them on Sunday afternoon and put them in a container ready for the week. It adds to my mindless routine. I love mindless in the morning. 

But one day it was different. Saturday morning, my siblings decided to get together. Early. Really early. They know I don’t do early, especially not on Saturday. Early Saturday in Deidra time means I’ll be 2 hours late. Whatever time you set.

To help me with this, they decided to meet at my house and for my convenience, they let themselves in. They’re really thoughtful that way.

An issue arose during the early morning gathering which has forced me to issue the following warning.

To the person who replaced my boiled egg with a frozen egg,

I’m narrowing the suspect pool. The noose is tightening. Feel my breath on the back of your neck as I close in. In the words of the immortal wicked witch of Oz.

“I will get you and your little dog too.”

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But, I don’t see it.

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- (6)

I was in an accident yesterday and hurt my side. If I turn the wrong way, I feel like I can’t breath. When asked, the doctor suggested that I not wear a bra for a while, YEAH BABY!

How to sum up the first day post accident?

The codeine’s …   …   …   …   …   …

That pretty much says it.

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What did I last post? Have you ever had that thought? You couldn’t quite remember the last entry on your blog.

I thought, Maybe I haven’t been posting as often as I should.

I mulled this over for a while and started to feel little queasy. No, surely not, That was preposterous.

There must be some other reason  for my memory lapse.

Perhaps I was ill. Yes, of course that must be it.

I toddled to the bathroom cabinet and took my temperature. No no fever. I rubbed my hands against the sides of my neck. No, no swollen glands, no sore throat, stuffiness, or aches and pains. Nothing to indicate illness.

But if not illness, then what?

It must be those airport scanners. I fly twice a week. The scanners probably wiped my memory.

What did I have for dinner last night? Trick question, I didn’t have dinner I had a giant peanut butter chocolate Easter egg. 

I remember my Mother’s maiden name, the French I learned in 5th grade, and the color of my first tricycle. Damn it. Memory intact.

What else could it be? Was I neglectful? No. Was I lazy? We’ll come back to that one. Did I loose my snappy repartee? No, it couldn’t be. I dismissed them all.

By now you might be thinking – “Why doesn’t she just look at the date stamp on the post?”

No, I won’t. I refuse. It’s like time traveling and seeing yourself. It might rip the space-time continuum apart. No I must figure this out for myself. 

Then it hit me. My new best friend, Bernie, she works in the bar at the hotel where I stay. She was shocked that I can drink whiskey straight up. I start every evening with a complimentary whiskey. That’s it. It doesn’t have anything to do with time. Of course I posted often enough. Of course I’m responsible. Of course I honor my commitments.

I must have been drunk when I last posted. That’s why I can’t remember what it was about.

P. S. I’m still refusing to look at the time stamp.

 

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