Jordan rolled her eyes.  “I think Petronella will get tired of her little game as soon as she finds a new girlfriend.  That’s how she works.”

“Rubbish,” Irma said, joining them in the back of the house.  She wagged her brush at Jordan.  Jordan dodged the flying paint spatters as Irma said, “Petronella is gorgeous, sexy, smart woman.  She could have any person she choose.  She choose to not have girlfriend because she is not done with you.”

Edison spoke up, “You sound like you have a crush on Petronella.”

Irma said, “Irma recognize beauty and brains when she see it.”

Edison made a barfing sound.

“Maybe I should hook you two up,” Jordan said to Irma.  “You could divert Petronella’s attention away from me.”

“Yeah, right,” Edison muttered.  “That would never work.”

“You are only jealous,” Irma said to Edison.  “You do not want to share your Irma.”

“Your Irma?”  Jordan couldn’t believe her ears.  “What are you talking about?”

Her question was met with silence.  Irma and Edison painted furiously, both concentrating on their brush strokes.

“You two have slept together!” Jordan accused.

“It was an accident,” Edison sputtered.  “Completely unplanned.”

“Yes, a most unfortunate accident,” Irma said, slapping more paint than the brush could handle on the side of the house, splattering green globs everywhere.

“Unfortunate?  You didn’t seem to think it was unfortunate at the time,” Edison snapped.

“Irma was drunk on juice of potato,” Irma said.

“Where was I?” Jordan said.  “Why didn’t I know about this?”

“You were on your museum date with Amy,” Edison said.

“Edison was depressed.  Irma cheered her up,” Irma said.

“How sweet of you,” Jordan said.

Irma didn’t hear the sarcasm in Jordan’s voice.  “Irma has hardened shell of a Soviet, yes, but under the armor Irma has beating heart of black wolf howling for mate.”

“So you mated with Edison?”  Jordan was still trying to process this.  She had always operated under the assumption that they barely tolerated each other – and now she finds out they slept together.  It was a lot to swallow.

“It was one time bedding,” Irma said, dismissively.

“Were you all right…afterwards?” Jordan asked Edison who was avoiding her gaze.

“Well…” Edison muttered.  She averted her eyes. “My you-know-where was a little you-know-what.”

“Huh?”

“Please don’t make me say it again.”

Irma answered for her, “Edison had smagina. Irma cured her.”

“She had what?” Jordan asked.

“Smagina,” Irma said again.  “Is word I create.  Means small vagina.  Two words smoosh together into one word.  Small vagina.  Smagina.  Is funny, no?”

Nobody laughed.  They all resumed painting.  In silence.  For a long time.  Finally, Irma broke the silence.  “Is like cold war.”

Irma put down her brush and marched over to Edison.  Edison froze.  “You have nice vagina, Edison.  Irma apologizes for remark.  Is small and cozy vagina.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Edison muttered.

Irma continued, “The lining of vagina is stretchable.  It is written that one vagina can stretch so far as to completely envelope the planet.”

Edison shuddered.  “Well, if I ever want to hug the world with my vagina, I’ll let you know.”

“Well, as touching as this scene is, I need more paint.  I’ll be right back.”  Jordan walked around the house to the front porch where the rest of the paint was stored.  She walked up the steps and stopped.

She screamed.

Painted on the porch was one giant word:  WHORE.

Someone had opened one of the many cans of paint stacked on the porch and painted the word in huge block letters centered directly in front of the door.

Irma and Edison came running.  They skidded to a stop when they saw the painted word.

“Well, I wonder who did this?” Jordan said, pacing back and forth in front of the word.  She considered herself a pacifist but right now she wanted to strangle Petronella.

“Perhaps is joke,” Irma suggested.  “Funny, no?”

“No!” Jordan and Edison yelled.

“Irma did not think so,” Irma said.

“Nah, there’s only one person who despises Jordan enough to do this,” Edison said.

“I’m going to finish painting,” Jordan said.  She stomped up on the porch and grabbed the open paint can.  She stalked down the steps and across the front yard.

“Do you think she’s having a delayed reaction?” Edison asked Irma.

“It would seem so,” Irma said.

They both eyed Jordan who was trudging back to the painting site.  Suddenly, Jordan spun back around and said, “Remember what I said about the poetry reading and your revenge plan?  Cancel that.  I want to go.”

Edison gave a little leap. “With my remote control car?”

“Definitely with the car,” Jordan said.

“Will you help, too, Irma?” Edison said.

Irma smiled and rubbed her hands together.  “Of course.  Irma loves lesbian poetry.”


Amy’s Big Coming Out

Amy was high.  She didn’t know if she was high on love or high on life, but whatever it was felt delicious.  Jordan had called her last night and asked her out on another date.  Amy said yes before even asking where they were going.  Jordan told her they were going to a lesbian poetry reading and she thought it was going to be quite the spectacle.  Amy didn’t care if she was inviting her to the dump to shoot BB guns at rats, she would go anywhere with Jordan.

Today was her day off and she had bounced out of bed and gone shopping.  She bought 47 different pair of panties with matching bras.  That should have been her first clue that she was in love.  Nothing says “I’m in love” like a woman buying new underwear.

On her way back from the mall, Amy slammed on her brakes when she saw a familiar pair of shoes sticking out of a dumpster.  They were turquoise cowboy boots with pleather snakeskin uppers.  She would have known those boots anywhere.

Amy pulled her car up next to the dumpster and honked the horn.  The boots wiggled but didn’t come out.  Sighing dramatically, Amy got out of her car and approached the dumpster.

“Mom, it’s me,” Amy said.  “Your daughter.  Remember me?”

The boots wiggled in response.

“Can you please come out of the dumpster for a moment?  I need to tell you something.”

To be continued…

Claire’s Story

Long before she dove headfirst into dumpsters, Amy’s mother, Claire, was a sorority girl dating a frat boy at an Ivy League college.  They fell in love, graduated and married.  Everyone thought them the perfect couple until Amy’s father, Brent, discovered the two true loves of his life:  Golf and Philandering.  Amy often wondered if her father had always been a philanderer.  Did he also cheat on her mother when they were in college?   She liked to think that he’d been madly in love with her mother once and cared for her deeply before he turned into the Brent-the Fuck-o-rama Man.

The part that Amy despised the most was how her mother didn’t do anything about it.  Claire had to have known she was being cheated on.  If Amy had figured it out, then surely Claire had.  But instead of leaving him, Claire enabled him.  She made excuses for him not showing up at Amy’s seventh birthday party.  She laughed over the telephone with other women and told jokes about being a golf widow.  Amy swore that she would never be like her mother.

Then the unthinkable happened.  Brent didn’t come home one day.  A week went by and Claire received divorce papers.  Amy was helpless to do anything but watch her mother go off the deep end.  Claire became a hippie artist who dumpster-dived to gather her art materials. She filled their house to overflowing with smelly objects rescued from dumpsters.  Amy was embarrassed to bring friends home.  Then the backyard filled up with junk that was welded together to form totem poles.  And wind chimes.  And windmills.  And anything else imaginable.

Amy graduated high school and left home.  She went to med school on her father’s dime and didn’t feel guilty about it.

She visited her mother occasionally.  Two or three times a year they would get together at a local restaurant.  (Amy never went to the junk house.)  Claire called Amy occasionally and they would chat about Claire’s art.  Claire had become a locally famous avant-garde bohemian type artist whose art shows embodied buzzwords like “upcycle,” “recycle,” and “unicycle.”

So when Amy saw her mother’s trademark turquoise boots sticking out of the dumpster, she thought it was fate interceding.  Now was the time to tell her mother she was in love with a woman.  If she couldn’t deal with it, that was her fault.


Amy’s Big Coming Out, Continued

 

“If you don’t come out of there, I’m coming in,” Amy said.

The boots wiggled again, but made no move to right themselves and come out.

“Okay, I lied,” Amy said.  “I’m not coming into that stinky dumpster.  But I am going to tell you what I need to tell you and if you don’t like it, then… well then you don’t like it, that’s all.  So there.  I’m a lesbian.  At least I think I am.  I mean, I’m pretty sure I am.  I mean, I am. I’m in love with a woman.  And we’ve kissed.  Several times.  And I liked it.  I’m going to kiss her again.  I’m going to kiss her as much as possible and I even bought new underwear.  I hope you won’t disown me or be embarrassed by me.  It is my wish that you will accept Jordan – that’s her name – I want you to accept Jordan as my significant other.  That’s all.”

There was no answer from the dumpster.