Pole Dancer or Hooter's Waitress?

November 13, 2009

Sometimes, when Phillip and I are bored, we discuss what I'm going to be when I grow up. We've narrowed the field down to two possibilities: Pole dancer or Hooter's waitress.

I could wear one of those thong-a-long thingies and drape scarves over strategic areas.

Lots of scarves.

Minimum age at Hooters is 17. I'm okay there. Nothing is said about a maximum age which works to my advantage since I will be 74 if I live 'til next June.

Pole dancing is something I'm sure I could do well if only my knees were bendable. The simple fact is that before I can even begin to practice for a new and exciting career, I must first be cured of Rheumatoid Arthritis. Every joint in my arms and legs will be required to move, and since they haven't moved freely in seven years, I am going to need a prayer package to get me started.

Let me explain the prayer package.

Make yourself comfortable. It's a long story.

Sometimes Phillip and I are awake in the middle of the night snacking on left-over fish or ritz crackers or popsicles, and we roll through the TV channels until we land on what has to be the most entertaining man known to modern televangelism. His dark robes and stiff white collar are absolute proof that he's a member of christian clergy. He has a name. Pastor somebody. But Phillip and I call him "E-Coli" because each time invisible lightening bolts hit the man he screams "E-COLI!" (Just like the germ we've all heard about.) Then he yells, "GAWWWWDDD!" before falling into a litany of loopy voodoo gibberish that is so sacredly sincere it compels God to speak directly back to E-Coli. Phillip and I, a rapt audience of two, put our breathing on hold. We can't hear the voice of God, you understand, but E-Coli is kind enough to take the message and pass it on to us mere mortals.

It's a riveting experience. It makes people want to write a hefty check right then and there.

Some people.

Almost.

E-Coli peddles prayer handkerchiefs. Red or green or both. I'd need both. I know I'd need both. All a person has to do is send a little love offering, and E-Coli will immediately put handkerchiefs in the mail and begin praying . For anyone. About anything. Personally. That's why it's called a personal prayer package. It's the deal of a lifetime. I don't understand why Phillip won't open his checkbook and start writing.

At our house, the daily dialogue goes something like this:

Phillip from his hospital bed: "So, Jonelle, when are you gonna start practicing your dance routine?"

Me from the comfortable depths of my automatic lift recliner: "Just as soon as the red and green, miraculous, power-prayer handkerchiefs arrive in the mail."

Phillip: "When they gonna get here?"

Me: "When you write the man a check, Phillip."

"How much you think I ought to send?"

"Well ... Five hundred dollars would probably bring about a complete and immediate, head-to-toe cure, Phillip, but even a 50.00 love offering might loosen up my left kneecap and unlock my right elbow."

"You gotta have that elbow to dance?"

"Phillip, trust me, I'm gonna have to have everything I own. You want me to get your checkbook out of the drawer?"

"Not right now. Maybe, tomorrow."

Long silence from the hospital bed. Finally, Phillip says, "How much praying you think E-Coli would do for five bucks cash?"

Long silence from the recliner. "Not enough to repair the joints in my littlest finger."

"Is your heart really set on being a dancer, Jonelle?"

"Quit stalling, Phillip! Send the man a check! I need those magic handkerchiefs! Right now!"

"Maybe tomorrow."

Gentle snoring begins.

Conversation has ended.