After finishing my fourth pancake I am finally in the right state of mind to go over the events of this past week. I must say, I have not been my normal chipper self and I was ready to complain all up and down this page, but there’s something about four fluffy little pillows of dough blessed by none other than the Lord himself to take your temperature down from Amazonian to somewhere more pleasant.
But, this whole situation with the Memory Matrons, well, it threw me for a spell. Let me catch you up. The mayor had some extra money in his budget and Lemon thought she could impress Delia Ann by putting in a bid to reconstruct the old bridge over Jumping Frog Creek. I loved that bridge as much as anyone – I walked through it on my way to school as a girl, I even had my first kiss in there – but I knew this was an exercise in futility from the start. There would be no winning over Mayor Hayes, and there is no impressing that Delia Ann – no matter how delicious your scale model is.
Lemon refused to pull any stop, and ours had to be the most delicious, the most accurate, the most beautiful scale model of a bridge ever constructed by six women in south-western, coastal Alabama. Lemon is a friend, a confidante, and what I consider to be a big sister, but boy can she be a pain when she gets her sights set on something.
Crickett and I were assigned to the grocery list and if there ever was a woman with a shorter attention span, I have not met her. Instead of helping me with our list, I found her in the back of the store with a full pumpkin of Halloween candy, wearing a witch hat AND a nurse’s outfit. I was not the least bit amused. I really could’ve used the help and I personally don’t believe in mixing the health care industry with the occult.
Anyhow, we showed up with our groceries only to have Lemon throw them all out. The sugar cubes weren’t sturdy enough, the taffy not sticky enough, the graham crackers would never hold water in a BlueBell monsoon and the combination of it all tasted like a sweat sock left out in the sun. Four trips later (including one to a specialty shop in Mobile), Lemon finally approved the ingredients. We spent four hours building everything to scale only to hear that the mayor had canceled our pitch because George Tucker convinced him to widen the road during some chest-bumping, arm-wrestling, macho display at a basketball game.
Well, I’m sure my most faithful readers will not be surprised, but I let Mayor Hayes have it. I found him at the Rammer Jammer and gave him have a piece of my mind, and we are not talking about the many friendly parts. It was from the angry, graham cracker shopping for four hours with a woman who will only talk about what nail polish is best for her pet cat part of my mind. If you were there, I apologize for my outburst.
Oh, what’s this? I just heard the greatest news! I suppose my little rant has paid off because the mayor found some money in the budget for our little bridge after all. Hooray! The rumor is that it has something to do with jock itch? I’m not sure if I just heard that wrong, but I am darn sure that I do not want to know.