* * * To be fair, regarding yesterday’s entry, I don’t think the new neighbor was prying or trying to get information out of me or intending to be rude when she suggested that we might be good christian folk. I think it was just a way of segueing into the information she wished to talk about, which is that she’s come back to The Lawd recently, after a praying session in her bedroom one night* and she had lost her way for a while, but now she’s back in good with The Lawd. I also kind of got the feeling that she was trying to feel me out – figuratively speaking – as to whether I’d come stomping over and lecture her about The Lawd if I saw her sitting on her back deck slurping down a beer. I can’t say why I got this impression, because it’s nothing I can put a finger on, but I did get the impression that her being in good with The Lawd doesn’t necessarily include attending church on her part, or preclude any of the fun stuff The Lawd supposedly frowns upon. However if I’m wrong, I might steal from Amanda and tell her that I’m a secular humanist, throw her the peace sign and shut the door. Or (more likely) I’ll tell her she should talk to my husband, because Fred KNOWS his bible and he’ll stun her with passages from the bible before he gently suggests she be on her way and closes the door. Having lived in the south for 11 years now, you’d think that people assuming I’m a churchgoer wouldn’t take me by surprise every single time – but it does. I find it kind of intrusive and a little embarrassing, as if they’d asked what color panties I’m wearing**. I understand they’re not intending to be intrusive – or maybe they’re just looking to drag me kicking and screaming back to The Lawd and don’t care if they’re intruding – but it feels intrusive nonetheless. In case it concerns anyone, I do believe in The Lawd. It might not be the way you believe in The Lawd and it might not be in an organized and approved fashion, but The Lawd knows how I feel and what I believe, and he said to tell you to shut the fuck up with all the praising and the prosthelytizing ’cause it gives The Lawd a headache. And they don’t make a Bayer Aspirin big enough to take away THAT headache. *I, myself, have also been known to praise The Lawd in my bedroom at night. ** Beige.
but then the more I thought about it, the more I decided I like the comparison. Because think of it – on The Brady Bunch, while those whiny Brady kids were wandering around howling about their broken noses (“Hey you guys! Ow, my nose!”) and putting on shows and fighting over the bathroom, who was there cooking up the pork chops and applesauce, making sure no one went hungry, and doing her best to make sure Mrs. Brady and her flip ‘do never found out about Mr. Brady and his predilection for the male gender?
Alice, that’s who.
When things were tense around the Brady household, when Greg and Marcia were battling over who got the attic for their bedroom, who remembered that not so long ago, that attic was actually only a crawlspace and Mr. Brady told Mrs. Brady that it would be perfect for a bedroom “If Greg was three feet tall!”, and there must have been some serious perm-haired voodoo going on to make it a full-height attic, but held her tongue and just made a wisecrack about the whole mess?
Alice, that’s who.
When Jan wished fervently that she was an only child and her siblings did their best to accommodate, when Peter and Bobby were screaming for Marcia to get her ass out of the no-toilet-having bathroom already, when Greg jettisoned his pesky brothers and sisters to become the one and only Johnny Bravo because he fit the suit, when Peter’s voice was cracking and throwing the entire Brady musical career into a tailspin (when it’s time to change, you’ve got to rearrange who you are and what you’re a-gonna be, after all), when Weird Cousin Oliver came to visit, when Jan wore that dead squirrel-looking brunette wig so that people would see her for the treasure she truly was, who did NOT go on a shooting rampage and tell those damn Brady kids that the next time one of them sashayed through the kitchen, drank a cup of milk, left the cup in the sink and then came back ten damn minutes later to get ANOTHER cup of milk, using a fresh cup the second time – and the third and fourth – she was going to cut their heads off and hang them from the front door?
Alice, that’s who.
Alice was always ready with the quick quip, the funny bon mot, the silly non sequitur, the humorous witticism, wandering through one Brady crisis or another, zinging them with a one-liner to break the tension, leaving them shaking their heads, smiling, and saying “Oh, Alice!” That silly, silly Alice. Always quick with the funny while we putter about with our goofy, unimportant issues. She feeds us, she watches after us, she makes sure we always have clean towels and horrible (but clean!) ’70s clothes, she lives in a room off the kitchen and always wears that damn uniform, I’m SURE she isn’t paid even a living wage, what ever would we do without our dear Alice?
Let me ask you this, my friends: every evening when Mom and Dad Brady were lobbing half-hearted flirty comments at each other, when they were giving each other the driest kisses this side of my grandmother, when they were snapping off the lights and turning their backs to each other, silent tears coursing down their cheeks as they each fantasized in their own way about Englebert Humperdink, who was sneaking out the back door? Who was visiting Sam the Butcher at his shop, toting a load of naughty sex toys in her Grandma purse? Who was taking it BUT GOOD out back in the cooler while unsuspecting customers browsed the racks of meat up front? Who, with her sexy shenanigans and pinned-up ‘do that never ever moved, was making Sam (that sexy beast) slap her on the ass and howl “I’VE GOT YOUR PRIME RIB RIGHT HERE, MISSY!”?
Why, that would be one Alice Nelson, that’s who.
So reader Jamie, thank you for your apt comparison. I AM more like Alice than I had ever considered, and I wear the comparison proudly.
And just like Alice, I get MY beefsteak wholesale, too.
“Oh, Alice!”
Tommy climbs into a cat bed. And he marches. And he marches. He marches some more. And when he’s done marching? A bit of marching. Marchmarchmarchmarch. March. March. MARCH. And the entire time, he’s shooting these heavy-lidded looks of love at whoever happens to be around. He marches to the tune of his own drummer, our Toms.
“I’LL GIVE YOU THE P&L STATEMENT!” (Probably only KATG listeners will get that. And only if they’ve listened to last week’s shows. I sure do love that Brother Love.)