There’s an Italian expression my grandmother liked, when lettuce ceases to be edible…fachadda...meaning, the leaves are dead, shriveled…salad history, if you will.
I had a week that left me, let’s just say, fachadda, in every area.
It began with a job…a good one, money wise, but it’s theme…CANCER…which is like winning a cruise aboard the Titanic.
I had to pretend to be a woman on her way out with waxed eyebrows and head scarves, IVs and a husband who was already mentally making funeral arrangements.
Yes, I’ll repeat, the pay was good, but at great emotional cost.
I came home after two days so down and dazed, I couldn’t even eat. I thought of all the people who actually go through this, feeling terribly humbled…incredibly guilty to be able to just pretend.
Then I get an email with photos a girl took of me. Someone I’ve been very kind and supportive of, that made me look as if I truly had cancer.
“Did you bother to even remotely retouch these, even a little?” I asked her, more than a bit bewildered.
“Oh, I worked on them for an hour.”
“An hour? Was the TV on? Were you also ironing and having sex? Excuse me, while I bind the bullet wound you’ve just inflicted.”
I looked like Georgia O’Keefe, just with gloss.
When I finally took my head out of the oven, I donned a pair of shorts to venture to the park where hopefully the green would comfort and soothe, not to mention put all this into prospective, when I find a note stuck in my door from my new neighbor.
They finally, after a year, rented Mimi’s apartment, to a young couple with two small children. I had met the husband earlier in the week, inviting him in for a cup of coffee. His missus with their little girls had yet to arrive, so I was more than happy to be simply neighborly.
The note said…are you sitting down?
Stay away from my husband or I will contact management.
I read it three times to make sure I got it right. Suddenly I’m Mrs. Robinson with a Mellita.
First cancer, then a face like a map that could lead you out west, and now a threat from a woman I hadn’t met yet.
I don’t even know how to end this except to say, I just hope your week was a whole lot better than mine.