By Kathleen Hoy Foley
Rumor has it that a fancy country singer is on the hunt for the old lady, the one who scrawled her name across the dotted line of an important document—that would be adoption papers for those of you who can’t read between the lines—some forty plus, plus years ago. Back when the old lady was a broken doll of a girl frantic to find a way to keep breathing, never imagining her future involved being chased down by a twanging guitar and rhinestone boots.
I feel for Fancy Country Singer, I really do. It is so hard when life isn’t perfect. Really. It is. A gorgeous voice, a legendary career, a cool husband, talented and beautiful kids, mansions, hot cars, pimped-out tour buses, and loads of cash are all over-rated. I guess Fancy Country Singer’s life won’t be truly perfect until she digs up the old lady, wraps her in homespun, pushes her into a rocking chair, jumps on her lap, and demands a Vagina Fairytale, country style.
I could be wrong about this, but I’m betting that Fancy Country Singer will include a decent incentive in exchange for the old lady’s submission to Fancy Country Singer’s Vagina Fairytale that she’s been concocting since she could spell the word A.D.O.P.T.I.O.N and now wants to put to music and sing at her sold out concerts. Personally, I hope the old lady holds out for a substantial upgrade to the life that Fancy Country Singer with her gorgeous voice, legendary career, cool husband, talented and beautiful kids, mansions, hot cars, and pimped-out tour buses is poised to destroy. The old lady will need loads of cash to rebuild once Fancy Country Singer bursts onto the scene with her rhinestone meat cleaver.
Therapy is expensive, after all. So is a cushy retirement. I’m thinking Florida. Sun is good. Or Arizona if the old lady develops stress related asthma and favors golf. Or even Hawaii where she could live out her girlhood fantasies of body surfing with dim-witted, looker dudes once she ditches the walker and sentimental ties to her former times. I’m pulling for Hawaii. And, of course, cash. Lots of it.
Naturally, I am partial to the old lady, being a hunted-down-old-lady myself, which has left me with a very bad humor. Very bad. Not that the old lady being stalked by Fancy Country Singer shares my nasty attitude. She might not object to a stranger hiring oily detectives to burrow into her past and tail her to the grocery store where she buys disposable senior unmentionables. Maybe the old lady views panting dogs tracking her as motivation to keep her biceps buffed for the wheelchair races she competes in. Chances are that the old lady’s life is miserable and pathetic anyway and the intrusion of a Fancy Country Singer stalker could bring thrills that bingo and card games just can’t provide. Plus all the rhinestones the old lady ever dreamed about. Excuse me while I imagine the possibilities: rhinestone-studded granny pants; a rhinestone bib to complement a rhinestone cane. Rhinestone bowling shoes if the old lady can balance long enough to push a rhinestone ball down a long alley to knock over a few pins adorned with, what else? Rhinestones. Endless promise of dazzle…
Take it from me, what a hunted-down old lady wants more than public exposure of the catastrophic pregnancy she secretly endured a lifetime ago and a Fancy Country Singer parked on her doorstep whining about the unfairness of life is rhinestones. True, rhinestones are not in the same category as diamonds—which the old lady should insist upon—but being pursued by a stalker adoptee and a merciless private eye makes an old woman weak, willing to settle, given to fake smiles and big lies, like: I love you Fancy Country Singer, which Fancy Country Singer will believe. Because Fancy Country Singer is pretty dumb. And pretty desperate. And does not understand that the old lady too is desperate, but not dumb, and will spin anything, anything, including a Vagina Fairytale, just to get Fancy Country Singer with her gorgeous voice, legendary career, cool husband, talented and beautiful kids, mansions, hot cars, and pimped-out tour buses to GO AWAY.
But that’s not going to happen for the old lady, is it? Stalkers and private eyes just don’t go away. Neither do rat dogs once they catch the scent. And believers in Vagina Fairytales, even if they are fancy and famous, are impervious to reason and impossible to shake.
Still, I’m pulling for the old lady. But I hope she likes rhinestones.
I feel for Fancy Country Singer, I really do. It is so hard when life isn’t perfect. Really. It is. A gorgeous voice, a legendary career, a cool husband, talented and beautiful kids, mansions, hot cars, pimped-out tour buses, and loads of cash are all over-rated. I guess Fancy Country Singer’s life won’t be truly perfect until she digs up the old lady, wraps her in homespun, pushes her into a rocking chair, jumps on her lap, and demands a Vagina Fairytale, country style.
I could be wrong about this, but I’m betting that Fancy Country Singer will include a decent incentive in exchange for the old lady’s submission to Fancy Country Singer’s Vagina Fairytale that she’s been concocting since she could spell the word A.D.O.P.T.I.O.N and now wants to put to music and sing at her sold out concerts. Personally, I hope the old lady holds out for a substantial upgrade to the life that Fancy Country Singer with her gorgeous voice, legendary career, cool husband, talented and beautiful kids, mansions, hot cars, and pimped-out tour buses is poised to destroy. The old lady will need loads of cash to rebuild once Fancy Country Singer bursts onto the scene with her rhinestone meat cleaver.
Therapy is expensive, after all. So is a cushy retirement. I’m thinking Florida. Sun is good. Or Arizona if the old lady develops stress related asthma and favors golf. Or even Hawaii where she could live out her girlhood fantasies of body surfing with dim-witted, looker dudes once she ditches the walker and sentimental ties to her former times. I’m pulling for Hawaii. And, of course, cash. Lots of it.
Naturally, I am partial to the old lady, being a hunted-down-old-lady myself, which has left me with a very bad humor. Very bad. Not that the old lady being stalked by Fancy Country Singer shares my nasty attitude. She might not object to a stranger hiring oily detectives to burrow into her past and tail her to the grocery store where she buys disposable senior unmentionables. Maybe the old lady views panting dogs tracking her as motivation to keep her biceps buffed for the wheelchair races she competes in. Chances are that the old lady’s life is miserable and pathetic anyway and the intrusion of a Fancy Country Singer stalker could bring thrills that bingo and card games just can’t provide. Plus all the rhinestones the old lady ever dreamed about. Excuse me while I imagine the possibilities: rhinestone-studded granny pants; a rhinestone bib to complement a rhinestone cane. Rhinestone bowling shoes if the old lady can balance long enough to push a rhinestone ball down a long alley to knock over a few pins adorned with, what else? Rhinestones. Endless promise of dazzle…
Take it from me, what a hunted-down old lady wants more than public exposure of the catastrophic pregnancy she secretly endured a lifetime ago and a Fancy Country Singer parked on her doorstep whining about the unfairness of life is rhinestones. True, rhinestones are not in the same category as diamonds—which the old lady should insist upon—but being pursued by a stalker adoptee and a merciless private eye makes an old woman weak, willing to settle, given to fake smiles and big lies, like: I love you Fancy Country Singer, which Fancy Country Singer will believe. Because Fancy Country Singer is pretty dumb. And pretty desperate. And does not understand that the old lady too is desperate, but not dumb, and will spin anything, anything, including a Vagina Fairytale, just to get Fancy Country Singer with her gorgeous voice, legendary career, cool husband, talented and beautiful kids, mansions, hot cars, and pimped-out tour buses to GO AWAY.
But that’s not going to happen for the old lady, is it? Stalkers and private eyes just don’t go away. Neither do rat dogs once they catch the scent. And believers in Vagina Fairytales, even if they are fancy and famous, are impervious to reason and impossible to shake.
Still, I’m pulling for the old lady. But I hope she likes rhinestones.
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