Last Monday Mom didn't get the noisy, rug-eating monster out. She didn't wash stuff and make the house smell like bleach. She sat at the computer, instead—working, nice and quiet all day. Nice.
The Saturday before that, Mom had friends in. They started out poking fun at how a lady I’ll call Mrs. Rude cuz I forget her name, was really rude to Mom. Wow. I couldn't believe all the things three women could do to make Mrs. Rude wish she hadn't been tacky. I was thinking the next time Mrs. Rude saw them, she might wish she’d never been born.
But then they got serious and agreed the witch was in worse shape than a soggy kitten caught in a storm drain. Poor thing was not creative, not too smart, not pretty, not ever dressed nice, not from a happy home, and if her husband is nice, for sure the one before him wasn't Poor Mrs. Rude. Sad, really. Worse. Pah – thet – ic. They said.
They might have joined hands and prayed for the poor woman, but Mom spoke up. “All those nots are not an excuse to act the way she does.”
As fast as I was thinking the talk was swinging back, it speeds forward. Or maybe “up” is a better word, cuz Mom added something about being thankful for blessings. Next thing I hear is how they can take the “high road.” It took me a bit, but I learned it was different from a highway, and “no more barbs” didn't mean dolls. Get this—they would be nice if they saw Poor Thing again. In fact they were finished with jibes (they’re not dances) and all forms of being catty about anybody, anytime.
When I heard “catty,” I took it as a pass for me. If catty is not so nice, but that’s how folks say cats are, I asked myself why I was on the floor instead of checking out the goodies on the coffee table. Oops! Guess I didn't catch on 100%. The “paws off the edge of the coffee table” message filled the air pretty much not-so-nice.
Well, except for Mom’s comment about my paws, she’s been real nice lately. I think she didn't trust herself, though, cuz she didn't get out much last week. She sat by the computer all day a week ago Monday, so I didn't get to write anything. Then later, she thought the computer got a germ, so she couldn't write tacky emails. As it turned out, the computer was OK, but the telephone company had gone crazy.
I didn't get to write yesterday cuz Mom had to call about the computer. She was nice on the phone, nice to the guy who came out, even nice to me when I sat on her best printer paper.
Nice. Nice. Nice. Wanna know what nice really is? --Boring. Boring, boring, boring.
(c) 2012, Bernice W. Simpson