NEWSWORTHY
This section of the LA POWERS site is dedicated to news, information, humor, and local interest of the author's.
Pantie-PalsSo let me tell you about Daisy May.
Daisy is my faithful best friend, side kick, confidant. If two women were virtual opposites, yet exact matches, it is us.
Country gals from two dissimilar states, relocated in good ol' Southern Georgia, trying to find a place, found it, lost it along with our marriages, standing back-to-back, prayer-partners, laughing-mischief-making Lucy and Ethel, or crying on each other's shoulders, and in general; blood-sisters and best friends.
Daisy is Kentucky born and bred, 5' (maybe) 2, delicate and lady-like glides on tiny little graceful feet, her hair is white-corn yellow, her eyes bright sky blue. She says “weary” for wary, “wiener” for hot dog, “commode” for toilet, and the ever-popular “Ya done gone crazy!” for, well nearly everything I do as far as she is concerned. She is pure sunshine. “The good one.” Or so she claims.
And here I am, upstate New York, with a leather-booted strut, 5'11, red-headed, blue-green eyes. I say, “Hot dawg” for a frankfurter, “Cawfee” for coffee, and the ever-not popular: “Pardon me, I'll be back momentarily, I need to use the facilities,” for excusing myself for finding a bathroom. I absolutely will not be saying “I need to go take a p—s.” Sorry, no prude here, but no-can-do, using sound effects for describing a normal private bodily function.
And yet I am “the bad one” according to her. I am . . . “bold,” she says. This is why: I simply speak up, and ask for a clean fork in a restaurant when hers comes with a piece of food stuck to it from out of the napkin. Daisy doesn't want to make waves. I do not want to be poisoned. (The site of green-brown against shiny silver makes me want to vomit. We are going to have a bigger problem in a minute if that disgusting thing isn't taken out of my sight!) Living wins over embarrassment. (Well except for Daisy wanting to kill me from saving her from being killed by the plague or something.)
We are different.
A typical day with Daisy goes like this:Daisy: “I need a cigarette. I'm out.”
Me: “And?”
“Ya need ta drive me to the QT.”
“Why do I have to drive you to the GQ?” (My usual gas-station name mix up.)Yes I know I am suppose to be an intelligent writer, but sometimes I am just a country hick and get the simple things all discombobulated, much to the snickering amusement of those I call my friends. Hmm. Well, moving on . . .
Daisy: “You have yar car.”
Me: “I needed my car to drive to your house. Use your car! It's your cigarettes!”
“My car's in the garage. Yours is already warmed up in the driveway.”
Yes, so she does have a point. Dang her blond-plotting brain. And off I go: the chauffeur.
We get to the gas station.
Daisy: “I think we should go shopping.” (This announced as I fill my gas tank to save on extra trips and count my pennies.) I just give her a bored look and a sigh.“I need panties,” says Daisy.
“You have more underwear than a brothel,” I point out.
Her answer: “I don't think they use underwear there. So that means there is probably a lot at the store, and I bet they're on sale because there's so many with them being stocked up because they're not needed then.”
Need I say any more dear reader?
There is no sense in going on to making a point of not wanting to go shopping for underwear. Once she gets a bee in her bonnet, Daisy just has this sun-shiny way about her, whereby no mater what logic I can come up with to stop the descent of me getting sister-manipulated into a fun-filled Daisy-Lynn unmentionables shopping-bonanza, she still manages to pull out the “Apply to Lynn's “save-a-dollar-by-investing-a-penny”” Scottish frugal side.
And I cave.
Even though it shall be sheer torture for me.
For I am a modest private person when it comes to . . . my “unmentionables.”
The torture commences something like this:
Daisy snapping a few bikini briefs through the air over the giant tub of $2 panties . . . like slingshot competition. She managed to hit the sales girl in the head with a blue and black lace thong.
Daisy: “No. . . No. No. Oh! this one's cute. Ya like these roses?”Me: (as I blush) “Pink roses on leopard and no crotch. Uh, no I don't have a need for them.”
“Ya will.”
(Like hell) I shall not elaborate on Daisy's desire for me to find a good decent man for which I may be wearing said “funsie-panties” as she likes to call them. That dear reader, is quite another story and I shall not be elaborating on any Daisy-advise of her quoting the Bible about the right man coming to me like it says . . .(And saying right along with it) but I should be prepared anyway and keep some panties on hand. “It is an act of faith,” she says, “showing God that you are ready for love . . .”
Okaaaaay
Daisy-logic. I can't win. So I don't even try any more.
After my purchase of what she deems as boring, (My taste reaches in the feminine lace dyed in all kinds of solid colors, like purple and royal blue, vibrant red! direction; not happy-faces and hearts and little bows to be untied. (Well, I wouldn't mind the bows, I do like ribbon, I wear ribbons at my throat in place of necklaces . . . and to Daisy, this is a major breakthrough as I grab solid silky black with little pink bows on the leg openings.)“If only ya will lighten up about talkin' in the bathroom stalls,”announces a half-happy-pleased Kentucian Sunshine fireball as she pays for funsie-panties.
I do not like talking whilst having a private moment in a bathroom stall. Daisy wants to discuss ways to save the world, or my opinion on white bread verses wheat while I need a moment to myself.
“ Dang! I don't know why ya can't done talk ta me from the next stall. I see yar feet anyways for God's sake!”
And that is as far as that dealing shall be relayed dear reader.
And this is the end of this Newsworthy rendering of “Life With Daisy May.”
This piece is dedicated to those whose own interest in manly-man speedos is a story which should not be repeated on any public site, but this author appreciates the encouragement from them to showing her readers a peek into the real life adventures of her true life. Just grin & bear it, you who know who you are! he he OO
