Kudzu Queen

By Tamara Ducote

It seems I write an awful lot about darkness, immorality and decadence. I’d like to remedy that by writing a celebration. This column pays homage to girlfriends.

I love men, God knows. Especially good-looking ones. Particularly Sergei, the best-looking one of all (Oh shit, now I hear strains of that old blues tune, “Woman, Don’t Advertise Your Man” playing in my head.).

One sleepy-eyed glance from a tousled-hair Sergei, and I’m weak. I’m willing to sign over the bank account, the car, the house, and a kidney. Yes, he is that wonderful. But still, there are some spaces in a woman’s life that even a magnificently tousled man cannot fill.

Ya’ gotta’ have girlfriends, girlfriend. To make it in this world, you gotta’ have sisters.

I don’t even want to imagine my life without Edith and her wisdom.

Edith was a hip, hilarious, fun, compassionate veteran teacher at the school where I began my career. Edith saved my life many times, all without knowing it.

I’d come in upset. Some personal tragedy had rocked my self-centered little boat, and I was three-quarters of the way to hysteria before I’d even signed in. I’d spew out nine paragraphs of angst, and Edith would coolly answer: “He’s an asshole. Don’t take that kind of shit,” or “You’re grown. Act like it,” or “That’s bullshit. Don’t buy into that.” I’d take Edith’s advice and run with it. Tentatively, the first few times. But since it turned out that she was always right, I grew more and more confident taking her advice.

When my house got broken into, I started to call Edith.

“Mom! My God! Call the freakin’ cops, first!” my daughter advised.

“OK, OK, calm down,” I replied, and dutifully dialed 911. As soon as the pesky cops left, I called Edith for some real consolation.

I suffered a partial breakdown when my daughter asked me if she could call her stepmom (who is, I must admit, completely wonderful) “Mom” while she was up in Ohio visiting paternal family. Monday morning, I tearfully sought out Edith.

“Let your child call that woman whatever she wants to, honey. Veronica knows who her mother is. And thank God that you are blessed with a stepmother that good in your baby’s life.”

Hell, yeah.

Another Monday morning, I go seek Edith out at her duty station. I am tearful, as usual.

“Edith, Fist says he wants to break up with me. He says I use too much profanity,” I sniffle. Edith already knows I use too much profanity. She is, after all, the one who taught much of it to me. Especially the creative triple-combos. She also already knows Fist is a biker, and therefore no stranger to colorful colloquialisms.

“That’s bullshit, hon. He’s just not interested in you. Let it go. Don’t cast your pearls before swine.”

Hell, yeah.

Edith retired, and I was sad. I don’t think she retired solely so she could avoid dealing with my personal problems on a daily basis, but it probably was a factor. I could still call her and ask her advice, but I missed aggravating the hell out of her in person. Pestering your shrink on the phone is not nearly as gratifying as boring her in person. Particularly when you’ve trapped her at the end of the third grade hallway and she has to give you ALL of her attention.

Thank the blessed stars, Edith got bored with jetting down to her second home in the Caymans and sleeping in and living a life of well-earned leisure. She began to substitute teach. Most glorious of all, she began to sub at my school.

I tried to not wear her out, but by the time she came back to school, I had a LOT of trauma and drama saved up. I tried to parcel it out over a period of time, so I wouldn’t run Edith off (again).

I caught up with her at carpool duty recently and very nearly tackled her. After she heard my vituperative tirade about how some other school employee had done me wrong, she responded, in typical Edith fashion: “Just how long do you plan on letting that bitch live in your head rent-free?”

Hell, yeah. Thank you, Edith.

Then there’s Mindy.

Mindy mothers me. I appreciate the effort, even though I am leery of mothers in general. I already have one frighteningly dysfunctional mother (Thanks, Mom), and I’ve survived a whole series of dysfunctional stepmothers (Thanks, Dad), so I am wary of the whole motherhood thing. But I love Mindy for trying. I called her the other day with a litany of hysterics. She listened patiently and then said, authoritatively, “I know what your problem is, and I’m going to fix it tonight.”

“Really?” I sniffled hopefully. “You’re going to kill all of my enemies and forge a winning lottery ticket for me and kidnap this hateful little chihuahua I have been cursed with?”

All the while I was thinking, “Geez, Mindy is going to have one busy, busy night,” and, “I’ll alibi her, even if they put the thumb screws on me.”

“Uhhh, no,” Mindy said. “But your pantyline problem is terrible. I’m going to pick you up some line-less panties from my lingerie store when I go there tonight. Really, it’ll be a big improvement. What’s your size?”

What does one say to that, except, “Thanks.” And of course a panty size, which I certainly will not reveal here or anywhere else, except to Mindy’s ears.

It IS a single digit, OK?

Granted, it’s not a very small single digit, but it’s still ONE NUMERAL.

And as Edith would say, “Is somebody paying you to mind my business, or have you taken up volunteer work?”

Contact Tamara Ducote at TDDucote6@aol.com.

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