This week I get to be in two places at once, sort of like politicians when they’re making the rounds of the Sunday talk shows. I’m here, of course, but also over at The Kitchen Witch blog… invited guest, thank you very much. You’re invited, too. Be neighborly. Mosey on over. She features wonderful recipes, but I’d read her blog even if I had my jaws broken, no teeth, and was on a liquid diet the rest of my life. Her stories are that good. She’s wickedly funny, but occasionally writes one that is guaranteed to open up your chest and squeeze your heart. She’s something special, that woman.
AND NOW BACK TO OUR REGULAR PROGRAMMING:
Every year after the Christmas decorations come down and I spend a week on the sofa to recover from the holidays, I get an urge to spring clean. It has more to do with the days getting longer and the robins singing, I think, and the projects usually last longer than my energy, but I do make progress.
Housework is just not my thing.
This time, after having granddog Ivy with us for two months, the windows are on the critical care list. Because we have storm windows, windows are not usually a problem. Now, Ivy’s nose prints are on every window and glass door multiple times. Our own Miss Piggy’s interests lie toward her food bowl or the kitchen floor. Truly, the dog has no interest in looking outside. (I must say, she’s looking quite trim these days. Since Ivy doesn’t get table food, we weren’t inclined to slip Miss Piggy any either and she lost four pounds during Ivy’s visit.)
Back to the housework… I venture into dark places which haven’t seen the light of day in a long time and invariably, I toss things I shouldn’t. Months later, I realize it and regret it. (Not exactly a poster child for organization or mental health, huh?) It isn’t just our junk here. Our kids, long grown and gone, still have left stuff that I try to get them to take. Finally, it becomes fair game in the great spring purge. Which, as I’ve told you in an earlier post, is how I happened to dispose of my grandsons’ college fund.
Oh, I don’t mean a bank account or actual money. The items in question were two magazines featuring a buck naked Brad Pitt in them. These were way before Angelina and even Jennifer. This was during his Gwyneth Paltrow period and some photographer had taken telescopic photos of them romping on some exotic island in their birthday suits.
I didn’t buy the magazines. They weren’t even my magazines. My mother, with her odd sense of humor, had obtained two copies. Shortly afterwards, Brad sued the magazine publisher for invasion of privacy and the judge ordered the magazines be recalled. Not my mother’s. She stuck them in my suitcase on my next visit and told me they were for her granddaughters. Not to show off Brad’s endowment, but as an endowment for the girls. She believed they’d be valuable someday.
My mother was… unusual.
I tried to pass the magazines on to our daughters, but they were shocked when I tried to insist they take them to their own homes. What would their husbands say? What did they think their Dad would say?
The magazines remained on my closet shelf for several years, but finally, at about this time of year, I gave fair warning and threw them away. Yes, I sent Brad’s image in all its naked glory off to a landfill somewhere in Memphis. At the time, I pictured myself doing a noble thing for Brad, not to mention saving myself from possible arrest. Until one of the girls laughingly informed me that I had thrown away her son’s college fund.
Now I’ve never looked to see if there are copies of the magazine available on eBay. If there are, don’t tell me.
That was years ago and any thoughts that Brad would be a flash in the pan are long gone. I always blush slightly when I see him because believe me, I have seen him! When the movie, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button was in theatres, one of the older widows in our neighborhood saw it and told Dearly Beloved how much she had enjoyed the movie and how much he reminded her of Brad Pitt. Not as a young man, but not as the geezer, either.
She asked me if I saw a resemblance.
I (blush) didn’t say a word.