Tonight We're Gonna Gossip Like It's 1899!

...see, that was an eighties' song reference...

So the old bats at the thrift store are really starting to get on my nerves.

They are volunteers, little old ladies who spend one or two days a week selling old faded crap to us poor inner city folk. I don't know any of them personally, but I pop in there so often I've given them all secret pet names (Old Bat #1, Old Bat #2, etc.,) and have come to fondly regard them as an extension of my family. Well no, that's not even slightly true. If I had a family filled with old hags like them I would have definitely thrown myself off a building a long time ago. And this is ME saying this, ME, a girl who, two years ago for Christmas, received not one, not two, but THREE copies of Douglas Copeland's Every Family is Psychotic because everyone who had to buy me a gift that year, including my parents, knew it was just so appropriate. I did not grow up with the Waltons, that's for sure. I'm not sorry though. If I had been raised a Walton, my name would be Whippersnapper Walton. I would have been teased at school and had my ego stomped into the ground. That would have sucked.

Every time you turn on the news these days there's a story about some violent incident occurring in my part of town. Just last week, the local high school had a big lock-down because of some gun thing, and I sense the old volunteer ladies are getting more and more freaked out about hanging out for a day in the "ghetto" slumming with us "junkies." They don't have to worry about me, though, I'm certainly not packing a gun when I go out. Diapers, yes. And wipes. A receiving blanket or two. Plastic spoons, plastic bags. Extra clothes. Paper. Pens. Tylenol. Gripe water. Giant, moon-sized sedatives for the kids. A mortar and pestle to crush them with. Mushy snacks to slip them into. A book, in case I get "lucky" and the kids pass out somewhere en route. When we leave the house to go for a walk, we're so loaded down with stuff we look like 19th century peddlers, shuffling down the street selling our wares. But there's certainly no gun on us. Never a gun!

Of course, the part of the West End I live in is perfectly respectable, all the violence happens east of here, but for good folks who fled to the suburbs a long time ago, this is the Scary Inner City where crime and immorality reign supreme.Those old blue-haired old ladies think I'm a low-bred, drug-addicted criminal. As I was saying, they're all getting on my nerves a bit.

First, way back in January, Old Bat #6 said I was orange. Frankly, I thought that was a little personal. But this week they took it up a notch which has left me wondering: how much crap am I expected to take from my local purveyors of cheap, second-hand goods?

It seemed so innocent. Old Bat #4 said to me, "Nice ring!" I was immediately pleased, because the ring I wear is my great-grandmother's wedding ring. I have seven girl cousins on that side of the family and I got the ring because I have her middle name.

"Thanks!" I said, "It was my great-grandmother's ring. She was from West Virginia, but they moved to Indiana soon af...." My voice faded off when I realized she wasn't looking at my ring. She was looking pointedly at my ring-less LEFT hand, i.e., my naked wedding ring finger. Then she looked over at my kids. What the hell? Had I climbed into a time machine and found myself unhappily transported back to 1943? I couldn't believe this was happening.

"Uh, anyway," I said, a little flustered. That's when Old Bat #11 decided to enter the conversation.

"Your daughters, they look SO different from each other, SO different!" she said. It's true, they do, and maybe, MAYBE I was being paranoid, but really I don't think so. She said it a little too slyly, her beady eyes grasping for information. So I gave her what she wanted, why not, I thought, I don't know her.

"Well, they have different fathers," I said smoothly lying.

"Oh really?" she asked eagerly, rubbing her nasty little claws together in an excited greedy motion.

"Yes," I said, and then furrowed my brow and pretended to think about it a bit. "At least... I think they do..."

No I didn't say that last part, damn it: Typically, I thought of it after I left. For the next few days I stomped around the house kicking myself, feeling almost physically sick that I hadn't been quick on the mark with that one. No worries though. Next week I'm going to go in with Mr. IQ and while he's perusing the book section I'm going to slink over to the Old Bat Patrol and hiss, "Hey, see that guy over there with the glasses? Don't mention the girls having different fathers, OK? Poor fool, I have him so totally duped..."

Yah, that's what I'm going to do! It's gonna be GREAT!

I'll give 'em something to gossip about.