February 15 – This is not about Twiggy

I’m going to try to come up with relevant pictures now and then because I have been listening to nothing but Sly and the Family Stone (a slight exaggeration), and I still have tons to say about him and the gang (another exaggeration), particularly with recent events concerning Sly himself. But I am aware that you’ve not been all that interested. I will write more about them at another time and will spare you now. Besides, I am in a kind of mood, and have that kind of ability to dredge up old memories and replay them in my head like old movies (probably why I have an ample forehead), and have no problem writing another story about Vicki and Amy.

So, you know about my problem with procrastination – this isn’t the story, just more backstory, maybe an early tangent. I bought a scanner… oh I’m thinking sometime before last summer, with points I had built up without even knowing I was doing so, and it’s still sitting in the box. Not even opened. This is why you’re seeing a picture of ’60s model Twiggy, who if you’ve been paying attention has been mentioned before, instead of a picture of me, Vicki and the ex. Vicki, her father and oldest brother had just run the marathon. I know! You’re just dying to see it, aren’t you? It’s really cute. And I am still well aware I owe you a current progress photo as the two that are posted, the big belly and my squatting picture, are about a year and a half old. I’ve said it before, but I’ve not changed that much except I cannot figure out what to do with my hair.

Vicki and Amy and I knew each other since high school and hung out together along with a few other girls, which included Vicki’s sister. Vicki and I grew closer after high school and by the time she moved back to New York when we were all in our mid-20s, we were like sisters. We all remained in touch on some level, and a couple of us have recently reconnected, I am happy to say.

Vicki and I lived together for a year and a half in my apartment in Bayside, along with my cat Bubba, who you will remember from a previous post because he was named after Gladys Knight’s brother. Amy, who still lived on the Island with her husband, was hanging out with us one day. Bubba was a very smart cat, so after a while the water pistol I had to keep him from picking on the rug became moot. I often recommend training a cat with a water pistol, so when they are climbing up the drapes you just give a little shot. It doesn’t hurt them, but they don’t like it. Bubba figured it out and would just look at me after getting spritzed a few times as if to say “Really? Is that all you got?” But the pistol remained filled just in case. I don’t recall how it started, but I imagine that I picked up the gun and shot Vicki that day because the next thing I remember was being backed into a dining room chair after Vicki had responded by picking up the plant sprayer, also full and which could eat my little orange plastic pistol for breakfast, lunch and dinner. The pistol let out one quick, thin stream of water, and the plant sprayer, well let’s just say I was getting creamed. I could see Amy laughing along with us, and looking like she so wished she could join in. Then suddenly Vicki stops and hands me the spray bottle. What a kind gesture. Just like her. Idiot. I tossed Amy the gun. Wait. Please let me say that again. How many times in my life do I think I’m going to have the opportunity to use a line like that and have it be true? I tossed Amy the gun and we chased Vicki, who looked surprisingly surprised, into the bathroom. She managed to shut the door on us, but we waited her out. “Okay, I’m coming out now,” she’d say. “Truce.” She’d open the door and we’d nail her. Happened a couple of times and then Vicki started complaining about the paint on the door peeling and the wallpaper getting wet. In all fairness, when she moved in she did put a lot of time and effort into wallpapering the bathroom and painting the trim. I didn’t care about that sort of thing, but she did. You might think though that if she were that concerned about how the bathroom looked, she would have been less oblivious to the glob of toothpaste she would always leave in the sink, particularly right after I had cleaned it.

She was let out of the bathroom eventually. I needed a towel to dry off.