Dear Bah-Kaboo* and Wisteria,*
Forgive my delay in responding to your recent voice message serenade in honor of my birthday. It was timely, lovely and very much appreciated. As I’ve often noted, you ladies really do have dulcet, melodious voices that are genuinely agreeable to hear. I regret to inform you, however, that while your choice of song was thematically appropriate, it was, unfortunately, inaccurate at the time of its delivery.
Having been confined to my residence following the recent labor-relations breakdown which resulted in my cardiac organ briefly going on strike – an act I might add, that wreaked havoc on all the workers further down the circulatory stream – I had, in the weeks prior to my birth anniversary, had very few excursions away from the homestead.
The first such journey was Christmas, a cheerful holiday that I was able to enjoy in the warm embracing company of many members of my family: my dashing husband, my talented children, my hospitable parents, and my charming brother, his furry-toed wife, 3 of his overachievingly brainy kids, and one overachievingly brainy kid’s snarktastic husband. It was a grand and boisterous occasion, which is to say, it was quite loud.
The occasion brought unexpected bounty. I was able to convert several small packages of a feebly-made confection into items of actual pecuniary value. In exchange for what were essentially a few bits of chocolate haphazardly cut into pieces, I left the gala with bags full of food, home-made treats, hand-knitted warmness and a surprising amount of legal tender. Perhaps there are some benefits to an unruly labor force, after all! The resulting patheticism seems to uncork the bottles of compassion and munificence and lets them flow free. Generous gifting from elders and from relatives half your age for whom you used to place tuna salad sandwiches into paper sacks is both heartwarming and humbling.
But I do digress. It is the second of my non-medical-professional-related outings that I was going to address. On the evening of your call, my talented husband and dashing children were treating me to flavorsome nourishment followed by a trip to the cinema. The projections on the giant silver screen were quite engaging. I had thought from the title that we would be viewing a documentary film about Los Angeles, but in fact we were there to see a delightful – if confusing – work of fiction.
In this moving picture, Dr. Watson, disguised in period garb, was traveling with a group of bearded men, one of whom is the vampire responsible for the Bristol Box Tunnel murders, but who seems to be effectively camouflaged since he is the sexy leather kind of vampire, not the sparkly stalker variety. I don’t want to spoil anything for you if you have not yet seen it, but it is quite exciting and even features an appearance by a Time Lord, albeit an old one, inexplicably covered with avian excrement.
In preparation for this major entertainment-filled sojourn, for the first time in what seemed like years, I availed myself of some of the myriad options for ablution existing in my humble abode. I was washed and powdered and even donned a “proper” pair of leg coverings instead of my customary flannel pajamas. So, while your song was certainly in the spirit of the occasion, I no longer resembled a Simian Anthropoid, nor did I emanate the odiferous bouquet of one. If you had only called 2 hours earlier, however, you would have been spot on. The bit about the Zoo, by the way, I presumed was a gag as I heard one of you release an inadvertent giggle that betrayed your jocular jest.
Accurate or no, I was pleased and honored that you thought to telephone me to send me your good wishes. It contributed to what was an altogether satisfactory birthday.
Affectionately,
Patricia
* In the course of my writing, I often have occasion to mention or refer to real people in my life. Out of respect for their privacy and because I am way too lazy to consult them about appearing in my blog and potentially achieving Internet Celebrity, I construct pseudonyms for them. (Except for my husband, The Buddhist. Even with pseudonym, he gets editorial review. I think we’ve covered before the fact that he, as the family cook, is my sole source of sustenance, right?).
For these two ladies, I employed that brilliant Liverpudlian technique of linguistics that makes most Cockney words and names utterly incomprehensible: You take a common word or nickname for a piece of language and replace it with completely unrelated words that happen to rhyme. For example, “apples and pears” rhymes with and is an expression for “stairs.” (Advanced linguists go a step further and drop off the extra words. Thus, in the example above, “stairs” may simply become “apples.”) Similarly, “Oily rag” rhymes with “fag,” which is British slang for “cigarette.”
Used in a sentence: I’ll be right back, I’ve gotta hit the apples and fetch an oily rag.
Genius.
