Car Keys and Hair Conditioner

An exerpt from Chronicles from the Swing, by Madam Truefire

We sat in a swing: two women of two genres: One a diva in her early 50s, the other an aging dame in her first year of 70.

They sat in an ancient swing and drank good Shiraz after having walked a mile or so for aerobics.

The younger babe was in a crisis of sorts: living with an abusive man who called her various unattractive words in the alphabet beginning with C and or F. She flipped an F back in true Italian style. I call it the game of alphabetic jousting.

I said: “OK. Let’s find a solution.”
“Should I smother him?”
“No, for Gods sake. You would go to prison.
You can’t sustain bras without pushups and drab cotton prison garb. Plus you look hideous in orange.
MOST important, it’s your hair.”
“What do you mean?” She asked.
“You wouldn’t be able to sustain incarceration with roots and no hair conditioner.
“No you can’t off him,.This is the deal. It’s about car keys.”
“What?”
“Car Keys. You hold them in your hand or as an ancient Sufi master counseled me,
Get a chain or something, but have them in your Levis or around your neck. You never know when you have to take a sudden road trip.”

“I’m not following you.” she said. Divas can be dense at times.

“Listen up. I nearly bought the cancer thing with my left breast three years ago. A medical intuitive reminded me that I had a certain life style that had to be ended. It was “doormat”. So now I keep my keys in my hand and ready myself for escape. I don’t need to say a thing, except, I DON”T need to put up with mental or verbal abuse. The first time I tried this method, it was a roaring success. My darling first born was loudly and offensively accusing me of some error in my behavior. I quietly picked up the keys and walked out and equally quietly closed the door behind myself. She called me on the cell in less than five minutes. “Where in hell are you?” She queried somewhat shrilly. I peacefully answered, “I’m taking a drive. I don’t need to continue with that particular conversation. Have a good evening.” I went to a friend’s house and then came back much later. The air had cleared. I don’t want to say that shrill sessions don’t arise any more. They do, but I just walk or drive away. It’s a choice,I can assure you.

.Trust me. When he calls you names, he doesn’t get to do that any more unless you allow it. DRIVE AWAY, and don’t tell him where you are going. When you return, politely explain that you will do it again if he ever calls you ANY names AND MEAN IT.

I’m 70, girlfriend, I wish I had learned this at 50.”

We sat and swang, is that the proper verb, swang? Swinged, oh who in heck cares, but we were sisters in solution mode. She had been raised by poodles; I had been born of wolves. Who Knew?
When she left, I called out: “Remember, your roots. They won’t look good in prison garb.”’