Dear Diary,
I am concerned about Ernestine, as any competent social worker, like myself, would be. Ernestine McCluskey, my neighbor and someone I happen to have an open case file on, is worrisome.
She hasn’t gotten dressed in a long time. Maybe for the past two years she has been in that same nightgown. Amazingly it is not a ratty, torn up old rag. Remarkably she doesn’t smell, in fact, she has a faint scent of lavender. That time I spent hovering under my covers in Brad’s old T shirt for weeks on end I started to smell, like an over ripe puddle of sad.
Maybe she changes her nightgown often, or has many in the same exact style. That must be it. And she does not comb her hair. Well, neither do I, really. I just let it air dry when I do wash it then I try to pin it into some semblance of order with bobby pins. Luckily, I wear a hat.
Nothing about Ernestine’s life seems to be in order. Her youngest child has disappeared. That child had been oddly upbeat all the time and truly believed that the father, James McCluskey Sr. was away at sleep away camp. No the father has been in prison.
Oh what a sad way for a couple to separate. Not as sad as how my husband, Brad separated from me. One night, Brad comes into our kitchen just as I got the potatoes mashed up in the most perfect way - with butter and a bit of milk - just perfect. In he bursts, talking a mile a minute, opening drawers, cabinets and then rustling around in the open junk drawer, still blabbing away about not being happy. More complaints about not being able to find the GD extra car key then suddenly he waves the GD key in front of my face and says “That’s it, Midge, I am leaving you.” And he stormed out. There I was, holding the potatoes masher and all I could say was “but dinner is ready.”
Oh My God. The nerve. I mean, butter and milk - just perfect. For him.
Oh Diary, oh crap. Focus Midge…
So back to the McCluskey’s and their angst. Their other wild child Tiffani Diamond, is 14 years old going on 32. She smokes. She does. I can smell her cigarettes when I peek over the hedge. Smoking. Soon she’ll be smoking marijuana. Then heroin.
And she seems to love alcohol too. I don’t think Ernestine has any control over Tiffani. Or if Ernestine even cares anymore. As a mother, that scares me. I know my daughter Megan idolizes Tiffani. So I am making sure that Megan has a strict curfew for the rest of her life. I never should have let Megan attend the sleep over. Who knows what crazy ideas those kids fed her? I bet they drank.
And that weird clown lady always seems to always be around. She flirts with James Senior so openly, at least when I was looking through the fence. I wonder if she knows the he and I had a wild flirtation over my mashed potatoes one Thanksgiving.
Oh Diary, I am distracted by a man. A man dressed in orange, the color of fall. Which might be what I am doing… Falling. Or failing? As a friend and a social worker… Oy.
Okay Dear Diary to clear my mood here’s a joke I thought up for the open mic I will attend: What do you get when you cross a nightgown with a microphone? Ernestine McCluskey doing stand up! Hee hee!
Dear Diary, it is so good to laugh. It helps.
Sincerely,
Midge Murphy
Should Midge worry?
Come find out at...
Fridays and Saturdays.
Remaining shows
November 5, 6,12 & 13
8:00-9:30pm
The Producers Club, 358 West 44th Street
Between 9th & 10th Ave
New York, NY
Tickets: $20 on-line, $25 cash only at the door
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