Inside the Mind of a Liberal

This is a bit long winded, but unless I set the stage and the characters nothing I write will make any sense.


Years and years ago, back when records were made of vinyl and - oh, hell, back in 1975, okay?  I was about one year into my career as a ballroom dance instructor, working with a bunch of gay guys at the Arthur Murray Dance Studio in The Colony Shopping Center, Toledo, Ohio.  One of my co-workers was an attractive college student majoring in English at the University of Toledo, whom we'll call Migraine One.  She and I got together and started going out, drinking, dancing, and doing wild and obnoxious things in public.  We had a relationship like gunpowder and strike anywhere matches.  Eventually we called it quits and Migraine One went West to California.

In those days Migraine One would drink wine, go nuts and start fights.  These days she has a bad case of fibromyalgia (she says) and takes pain killers of one sort or another.  And then, feeling the effects of pain pills and wine, she calls people up and talks to them.  The conversations are a bit disjointed, but there you have it.

Migraine One has a younger brother, Sticks.  Sticks is a percussionist in a rock band, and a sometime writer.  He makes ends meet with odd jobs, and is a very good-natured, affable sort who rarely has a harsh word to say about anyone.  Sticks has an S.O., Sweetheart, who loves him very much, and in fact the two of them go together like gin and vermouth, or peanut butter and jelly, or roses and thorns.  Right now, as I write this, Sweetheart is in a bad way, having fallen and broken a hip about a week ago.  She's in a nursing home right now, and will in that nursing home for the next two months.

When I learned about this, I made an effort to learn Sweetheart's new mailing address and sent her a plant (violets) and a card, trying to brighten things up a little for her.  I also called Migraine One and emailed her Sweetheart's contact information so that she could send the poor lady a card or something.

All okay so far?

Last Friday night I headed out to an underground club in Temperance, Michigan where I knew Sticks and the band were playing.  I took along a few potables, and a good time was had by all.  In the middle of all the festivities the band took a break, and I got a chance to talk to Sticks.  I told him that Migraine One was no longer pissed off at me (the election - I voted the wrong way and she held me personally responsible for Trump's victory, and damned me to the eighth circle of Hades for most of eternity.  Periodically she calls to remind me of my damnation.), as I was saying, no longer pissed off at me, and I was glad Sweetheart liked the plant.

Sticks put me wise.

"Yeah, I talked to her too.  She says that you only did that to make her look bad."

I'm speechless.  I take a drink and collect myself.

"You can't be serious."
"No, man, that's what she says.  Like this is all about her."
"Sticks, I honestly just wanted to try and cheer Sweetheart up a little bit."
"Yeah, I know.  Migraine One says you know how to push all her buttons."

I start to laugh.  I can't help myself.  The whole business is so completely ridiculous.

When I sobered up a little - or a lot, depending - I really gave it some thought.  This is actually how Migraine One thinks.  How she arrived at this conclusion I can't say, but this is the end result.  I did something nice for a friend's S.O., and the reason I did it was to get under Migraine One's skin.  Clever me.

Sometimes I really wish that I were that smart, that manipulative.  I'm not and never have been.  Oh well, I suppose I'm better off the way I am.

I'm going to send Sweetheart a book of crossword puzzles and maybe a bodice ripper or two.  I hear a lot of women like them (bodice rippers).  Then I'll send her another get well card or two.

For anyone reading this, please pray for Sweetheart, for her comfort and recovery, and the comfort of her family.  The Lord will know who you're praying about.