Maddie and I went to dinner a few weeks ago with a friend of ours. He’s married, older than we are, and Mormon–which would explain why I refer to him as my Bishop. He hates it, which only encourages me further.
After dinner we headed back to my place for some Girl Scout cookies. I’d like to point out I am not in the habit of taking married men home with me. He invited himself, I promise.
I was busy trying to talk my neurotic one-eyed dog out of jumping off the balcony because I invited a stranger into our home, that I didn’t notice the Bishop walk upstairs into my bedroom. I never, ever walk into someone’s bedroom without asking because I know what people keep in bedrooms! I’m a single girl living alone so I’m not exactly in the habit of putting away my… ahem, “unmentionables” or the batteries that go along with them.
When I finally realized he was upstairs my face went white, my jaw dropped. Maddie knew exactly what my reaction meant. Her eyes doubled in size as she whispered, “Sarah, where is your you know what?” “Laying in the middle of my unmade bed,” I whispered back. We both remained silent hoping he would walk back down the stairs and without making his way to my bed. Suddenly a booming voice from above hollered, “Hey what’s the story behind this poem above your bed?”
It was everything I could do to not scream: get the fuck out of my bedroom! Instead I took a deep breath and rose above my humiliation and answered, “It’s a Dorothy Parker poem.”
The good Bishop has not mentioned it to me, but if I get struck by lightening anytime soon I’ll know he mentioned it to god.