Chunky Monkey

There's meatloaf in the oven, the dishwasher is going and Wallace and Gromit: Curse of the Were-Rabbit is on for the umpteenth time. I've been washing bedspreads, blankets and sheets all day. I just went to take the last load from the dryer, I never heard the buzzer and it had been a long time since I'd put the load in. When I got there, I found out why. I never turned it on.

I think it's time for a break.

I'm out of coffee, but I just do not want to go to the dollar store. It's not far, you can see it from my yard, well sort of, if you go to the curb and stick your head out in the road and crick your neck just right... and squint through the trees. I'd have to put on a bra and either change from shorts to pants.. or shave my legs, lest my unkept gams become the hot topic of discussion at the Sunday night church service. It seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to just for coffee. I also know that if I go to the dollar store, Sue will appear as if from nowhere, like an imp from the forest, sneaking up behind me, poking my fleshy bits, chanting in my ear, "chunky monkey, chunky monkey, you're a chunky monkey."

Sue is another of the developmentally challenged adults here in Frog Pond Holler. She never attended the work center where Ma was assistant director, but she could have. Sue couldn't be bothered with such things. She always managed to find work around town either cleaning houses or washing dishes down at the diner. She lives in a double-wide behind the dollar store with her mother and although normally I smile when I see her coming, I just really would rather not have to deal with people today. She sees the hippy van pulling up in the parking lot and she comes bopping over to tell me her ailments or to ask me to read something for her. You can't deny her anything, grinning at you from ear to ear, nary a tooth in her head. She always calls me "youngin," I don't think she knows my name. Well, that is, when she's not calling me Chunky Monkey.

She always follows me back out to the van when I leave the store, after following me around the whole time I'm there, commenting on everything I put in my cart. As I'm pulling out, she always hollers, "You be good youngin, take care of your mama and if you need me, you just holler, you know where I'm at."

I know that it sounds all quite friendly and quaint, the way everyone knows everyone here. But some days, I'd just like to be able to go to the store and get some Folgers and come home, without having to stop and talk to everyone on the way. "How's yer mama? You'uns gittin' along ok? How many more years has that girl of yours got in college? Where's she goin' again? She ain't a'comin' back here when she gits done is she? I remember when your granny had that place, laaaaaaaw it looked a mess back then, but .... blah blah blah."

I know, I sound really cold hearted. Most days, I go with the flow and I do like hearing stories about my family, most of the time.

Just not today.

Maybe I'll just fill my thermos with instant in the morning. If I dump enough powdered creamer in there, it'll be okay.