Douches, Anal Swabs and Razor Wire

Soooo… Lucia’s back from her six-month sabbatical with Gaspard. Myself, I can hardly believe they’re still together. He’s a gorgeous pussy and she’s well…. Lucia. I like him well enough; and God knows he’s easy on the eyes, but to put up with a woman who would eat the buttons off a remote because his cat shit in one of her Louis something-or-other ridiculously priced name-brand shoes is just plain stupid .

But…. I digress.

So, this is last night’s conversation when she called to say they’re at the airport.
Me: “Where you going this time?”
Lucia: “Nowhere.”
Me: “Are you between flights?”
Lucia: “Gaspard had to go to the men’s room and I haven’t seen him for over an hour, and someone just peed on my supply of instant noodles.”
Me: (rolling my eyes) “How unfortunate. Is there a point to this call?”
Lucia: “Hey, remember when I suffered in squirmy silence with that thing I was embarrassed about and threatened to slit your throat if you mentioned it to D’Arcy?”
Me: “I do,”
Lucia: “I have it again and I bet you told her when I had it before, didn’t you?”
Me: “Does a cat have an ass?”
Lucia: “Fuck you, Blanche; and by the way, we need a ride. And what’s up with sticking Q tips in peoples’ asses and razor wire around the Capitol?”
Me: “I ain’t ridin’ you anywhere. I bet that thing’s hollerin’ and screamin’ so loud it would knock a buzzard off a shit wagon.
Lucia: “Fine. Oh! There comes Gaspard! Whooooohooo… over here, darling!”
Gaspard: “Mon chérie! Zee Americans even have TV in the men’s rooms!”


Had a text from her this afternoon. They got a ride with “some guy” and they’re somewhere near Cazador, AL; but she isn’t exactly sure where.

 

Random Conversations

{Note: on occasion, Lucia or I will share random conversations we’re having. To be honest, it means that one or both of us are too busy or bored to write anything. Hopefully you’ll find them mildly amusing }

Place: my sitting room, flipping through magazines, critiquing everything.
D’arcy?
What, Lu?
Are we nice people?
I think we are. Why?
We’re pretty critical women. If you think about it, we don’t like anything or anybody.
That’s not true. We like a lot of things, but you’re right about not liking many people.
Is that normal? Are we somehow weird that we don’t like many people?
(At this point I put my magazine aside, took a healthy pull of my drink, and looked at her)
What has gotten into you? We don’t like a lot of people because they don’t offer much for us to like. Are you feeling guilty about something?
Well, you know Hannah, from my yoga class? She said she got the feeling you didn’t like her, and my immediate response was “Well, D’arcy doesn’t really like anybody. She barely likes me.” And of course I reassured her you thought she was quite nice, even if you told me her eyes looked like Adam Schiff’s. It made me think.
I stared at Lucia like she just announced she was entering a convent or giving all her money away to starving orphans in Biafra.
Lucia, we are simply the kind of people who appreciate the quality over the quantity. I have over 200 people at my annual Christmas party, and out of all of them, I might really like, I don’t know, 10 of them? And that’s a generous assessment. Furthermore, we really aren’t interested if little Peony has been accepted to The Dalton School or Pierre-Alphonse made the polo team. Those conversations make our eyes glaze over.
Okay.
Okay? That’s it? Feel better?
Yeah, sure. Want to go out to lunch?
You’re buying.