Someones in the kitchen with Dinah

 I was asked to tell what place, if anywhere, on earth,  I would like to go. I said some farm somewhere, with a woman who can cook and takes care of all the business, and the man of the house comes home late and leaves early. I like the idea of that, but with a full days rain, soft lamp light, total privacy. I wouldn't mind a private bath, a private wing, hell, let them live downstairs. I'll be upstairs writing a gibberish novel that will read like Sunday comics and will taste as good going down as fresh baked bread and homemade jam from berries picked out back.

My grandfather had a farm, all my wild fantasies happened there, I even ran to the back there where the little creek was, and made it an everlasting life pool. There's a story on here somewhere. 

And nobody cares, and that's why us bookish people live in our own little minds. I just was talking about Bradbury? He wrote everyone crazy and he wrote himself normal. Everyone a flurry of talk. Weird shit. Like the hen girls at the coffee pot, in every diner in America. Who's the quiet one, oh she's weird. 

Just talk to her. 

Some do. Real interrogatively.

You listen to the women when they are talking, and you hear Mozart, La la LA

 la la 

       la la 

   la laaaaa...

Like its original?

But it happened to me. Yes me. I got a job at Shoney's and they made me the salad bar girl. I had never felt so separate from the group. And in my own little wing behind bubble glass, a brown shade of orange. There they all were, a whole five or something, grown women, saying things in a flurry so fast they were morning birds. My boss came to me and pulled me into a corner and asked me not to smile so much. Imagine that, and they looked to me then. Talking about their live-in boyfriends and how the hell they'll be picking their kids up from school and whatever else women complain to other women about. Sometimes you meet other bookish girls and they don't want to talk because they think you're one of the "them". It's a losing battle. 

No, I like being totally alone. I like the static of the air in my eyes, not someone prying me open to see if its worth eating. I feel like a can of meat sometimes, fish, with bones. Do I taste funny to you? 

The biggest complaint about me is that I look too hard at people. Followed by the "act of concern" when they look worried. No one realizes that concern is normal. It pisses off everyone who is in a bad mood. I cant believe I even care, either.

Today I played good taste/bad taste. I am thinking now about that modesty that dresses bad on purpose. It reminds me of my in-laws, who I have long suspected of being evil but wear the uniform of perfect simple folk, as if they shopped from great grandma's garage sale after her deaf dumb child passed on. What about that is modest?

Today, instead of wearing that old misshapen, turkey print cardigan, (It's fall enough right? It dipped below 80.) I dreamed up perfect camisole-like tanks, with thick straps and built-in bras, All ribbed thick and the color of blush shades, even lilac, with rounded hems, fitted but not clingy. I want things I can wear without bras. I always want things with and without bras. Built in is okay. But then we have to layer it. 

Wonder bra? Man, I hate men. Why do they have to pretend they're interested?  They know what happens when the wonder bra comes off. Its all flats from here. Say goodbye to your wing men. Girls, let your flops show, without a Brazilian booby lift.

 The one true sign that the world is ending is that bit from Daniel where he says, "And the men will no longer care for women" At least, I think that's what it says. It doesn't sound gay to me. It sounds like glory. Like killing your best homey for an Oscar. An Oscar you could get for being gay.

I don't think that's where the story ends. let's finish up the fashion bit. Clothes don't wear you, you wear clothes. Anyone who is hiding out, incognito about town in coveralls is probably knee deep in biscuits, if you know what I mean. I don't play. I like comfort at home and a little shine to show my age when I'm about town. Even a little goes a long way. Most kids wear tiny studs or daggers. Let me give an Amen to someone who dresses nice without telling a story. You grew up right, right for real.

I would have said it but I didn't, so I'm saying it now- I'm outta here.