Week #1 - Gratitude Journal

Voila! Here is my first piece from the first week of the creative marathon! This short piece came to me while I was thinking about some of the older women in my life...

Dolores told me to start a gratitude journal. What a bitch. I’m writing this from the cafe below my apartment; the coffee is mediocre but I quite like the dogs that the outdoor space attracts. There is a very friendly poodle whose fur would make a nice coat. There Dolores - I can be grateful!

The conversation started when Dolores and myself had pastries the other day - the way we’ve been doing for 40 odd years. We went to Nello’s, a Greek place down the block, subpar food but nice seats. See - another precious kernel of gratitude!

I started talking about my useless son and my witless grandchildren when Dolores slammed her cup on the table, spraying droplets of coffee over her white blouse and linoleum table.

“Betty, you must stop this!” She exclaimed.

“Why, what are you getting so excited for?” I said, grabbing some napkins from the holder.

“You -” Her fists tightened.

“What? What?”

“Are-” Her eyes bugged out.

“Come on now, spit it out!”

“So ungrateful!” She sputtered. I sat back for a second.

“Really Dolores, it’s quite unbecoming when you lose your temper like that. Your forehead becomes far more pronounced when it goes all red.” I started wiping some of the coffee from the floor.

“Well, no use crying over spilled coffee.” I shrugged. “Especially when it’s tasteless.”

“This is exactly what I mean Dolores - you’ve become a….a….”

“A what?” I opened my mouth in false surprise. “Are you calling me a bitter Betty?”

Dolores got a funny look at her face that I would describe as I-would-never-call-you-a-bitter-betty-but-I-definitely-have-as-recently-as-yesterday-to-my-spineless-husband-Steven.

“Betty. I would never call you a bitter Betty! Never! You’ve been my best friend for forty years.” She took a deep breath. “And I have never talked behind your back once!” She slammed her hand on the table. I had a funny feeling Dolores had rehearsed this many times.

“Alright, calm down Dolores.” I patted her shoulder. “I believe you.” She gave herself a little shake and waved down the waiter for more coffee.

“How’s Markus?” She blew on her coffee to cool it.

“Oh you know. Still a piece of-”

“Betty!” Dolores waved her hands. She hated swearing.

“Shit.”

“Betty. Language.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Well have you tried talking to him since the… incident?”

“No Dolores, I didn’t much feel like talking to him.” I paused. “After the incident.”

“Well have you tried talking about the incident?”

“Stop saying incident! I hate that word!”

“So many men take Viagra, Steven and I-”

“I do not want to hear about Steven! I’m not like you-” I clapped my hand over my mouth. “I didn’t mean it like that-”

Dolores leaned back. “Now, what are you trying to insinuate exactly? That I’m some kind of…floozy?”

I shook my head but a smile was creeping on my face. “No darling, never.”

“That I’m some kind of harlot?” She demanded. I tried to keep the corners of my mouth firmly downtrodden and mournful.

“Never, never!”

“That I’m some kind of …..woman of the night?”

“Never Dolores, I love you!” I wrung my hands.

“Then you better wipe that dirty smile off of your face!” She pointed at me.

I started to laugh. “Excuse me - dirty?” Dolores hates filth. Despite what her living room might suggest.

“You better wipe that smile off of your face!” She repeated. I composed myself.

“Dolores darling.” I said. “You know I would never insinuate anything like that. You’re my best girlfriend” Dolores softened a bit. “You’ve been my best friend for forty years. What on earth would I do without you?” I gave her hand a tight squeeze.

“Oh stop -”

“Who else has stuck by my side all these years? Through all my troubles!” I cried out. Dolores tutted but gestured for me to keep going.

“Who would I go to for advice? Who would steer me the right way?” I pounded my hands on the table. Dolores beamed.

“Who would tell me the difference between a naturally erect phallus and viagra?” Her face turned bright purple.

“Betty!”

“What would I do without your extensive frame of reference? Your do’s and donts? Your handy dandy guides? No pun intended of course!”

“You, you-”She made a strangled noise

“Why, I could even call you the phallus prophet!

“That’s enough! You know what you need?”

“Viagra?” I responded.

“A gratitude journal.” And she stormed out, leaving the door swinging behind her.