Sophia's choice
An excerpt from my forthcoming tome of "Golden Girls" fan fiction, to be entitled "Zbornaks in Space":
III
Rose was especially famished the next morning. As she entered the kitchen, she glanced down at her green, blue, purple and red silk blouse, which shimmered slightly in the early Miami sun, its jeweled buttons glittering across her shoulder like pomegranate seeds. How she loved when her clothes sparkled in the morning light! In fact, Rose was so enthralled by the twinkling colors that she almost ran smack dab into Blanche, who was furtively stuffing perfectly manicured handfuls of Cracklin' Oat Bran into her mouth.
"Oh, Blanche!" Rose hollered, stumbling against the counter.
"Ooh, Wose!" Blanche hollered simultaneously, showering Rose's shiny blouse with bits of brown cereal. She swallowed and dug her hand into the box, offering, "I was just looking for the prize in the cereal! Someone must have taken it already." Blanche jammed the box back into the cabinet, shutting the door quickly and smoothing the lace ruffles on her peach terrycloth tunic. Rose headed for the refrigerator, not wanting to draw further attention to Blanche's "secret eating."
"Boy, after all of Dorothy's and Sophia's arguing last night, I hardly slept a wink," said Rose as she extracted fixings for toast and jam. "I don't think I've had such little sleep since Charlie took in that boarder. When he said he was in the philharmonic, we didn't think he was a kettle drum specialist."
"I knew a kettle drum specialist," Blanche replied dreamily as she took a seat at the table. "I didn't sleep very much when he was in my house, either."
"Yeah, thump, thump, thump all night," said Rose.
"You don't know the half of it," said Blanche with a lascivious grin. "He completely wore out his mallets by morning!"
Just then, Dorothy came through the kitchen door. From the sharp clacks of her slouch ankle boot heels and the way her iridescent shawl was hastily arranged over her brocaded mauve sweater, it was clear that she was in a stormy mood. As Dorothy plopped her lanky frame upon the chair opposite Blanche, Rose decided that she should try to cheer Dorothy up.
"Good morning, Dorothy," she chirped hopefully. "Do you feel like eating something? I'm making toast."
"Oh, good," barked Dorothy, fixing Rose with a withering glare. "Then I could get dysentery on top of no sleep."
"Lighten up, Dorothy," cooed Blanche, "it's a new day and the sun is shining. Why, on days like this, Big Daddy always told me, 'You can't frown when the sun is smiling for you.'"
"Yeah, well, I don't feel like smiling," sulked Dorothy. "My mother is driving me crazy! I should have sent her back to Shady Pines when she tried to mail that horse to Italy."
"People mailed horses to St. Olaf all the time," Rose said as she sat down and spread jam on her toast, her thoughts sailing back to her Minnesotan childhood. "Of course, the most came in around Hestkjærtegne."
Dorothy considered Rose for a moment, her mouth hanging open in incredulity. "Should I?" she asked herself out loud. "Oh, why not? Rose, what's Hestkjærtegne?"
"Well," Rose brightened, sitting up straight and shoving her toast aside. "Hestkjærtegne was an old Norwegian tradition that celebrated our love for horses. All throughout the month of April, friends and relatives sent the finest mares and stallions to their loved ones in St. Olaf, and we would groom and feed them in preparation for Hestkjærtegne. It continued every year until poor Sven Torbold, the postmaster, got so mixed up by all the horses that all of the Sears catalogs ended up at the glue factory."
"Oh, that's preposterous, Rose!" Blanche chortled.
"You're telling me," said Rose. "Have you ever seen a horse in Tuff-Skin jeans? Once they ate their fill of coconuts, we could hardly fit the saddles on them!"
"I'm sorry I asked," Dorothy hissed coldly. She leapt up and stalked over to the teapot, her heels clacking angrily all the while.
Rose fidgeted, glancing at the clock. "Oh," she exclaimed, "I still have an hour until Miles comes to pick me up. He's taking me to the mall to shop for walking shoes."
"You know, I was thinking about going down to the mall myself this afternoon," Blanche said to Dorothy, who fussed with a bag of decaffeinated orange pekoe. "I hear there's a new security guard stationed outside Thom McAn. Maybe you'd like to come with and do a little window shopping?"
"I have to find a way to stop Ma from going on this ridiculous lark, or I'll be shopping for a coffin," Dorothy retorted.
"Can't you just talk to Sophia's doctor?" Rose asked. "I'm sure if you explained to him that your mother isn't fit to be sent into space, he'd do something."
"It was the doctor's idea!" sputtered Dorothy, slamming down her teacup. "Some sort of nonsense about staving off aging and cognitive deterioration. NASA just wants a civilian senior citizen for a public relations stunt, and for some reason they think Ma is their best option."
"I would think that Sophia would say no," said Rose. "I know I couldn't stand to be so far away from my home and the people I love, even if they let me bring Fernando."
"I know," intoned Blanche, pressing a stiff-fingered hand to her leathery bosom. "Just think about being up there, all alone with those lonely astronauts. Brave, intrepid men in peak physical condition who are boldly going where no man has gone before!" Blanche shuddered.
"Oh, they'd be going where plenty of men have gone before," Dorothy cracked dryly, returning to her tea. Blanche looked embarassed, then slightly proud.
"Maybe she'll change her mind when she sees how much she'll have to go through to be on the space shuttle," Rose mused. "Why, with her arthritis, she'd have a heck of a time getting into one of those space suits."
Just then, a loud voice boomed from the living room, "3... 2... 1... LIFTOFF!" The women turned to see Sophia enter the kitchen, wearing what was obviously an astronaut Halloween costume. Her rheumy eyes glistened behind her giant glasses, which themselves seemed magnified behind the domed plastic helmet. A plastic bag dangled from one silver-gloved hand.
"Ma! What are you doing in that ludicrous get-up!" Dorothy shrieked, putting a giant hand to her forehead.
"I wanted to practice for my big space flight, so I picked it up at the costume shop," replied Sophia, shuffling toward her housemates. Arriving at the table, she held out the bag to Dorothy. "Here, they had a two-for-one special. All they had in your size was cavewoman or flapper. I figured cavewoman was more believable."
"Well, practice all you want, because you are not going on the space shuttle!" fumed Dorothy. "At your age? Do you want another stroke?"
"Dorothy, we've been over this already," Sophia answered, softening. "Dr. Rubenstein says I am not at risk for any medical problems. Can't you see that this is something that I've always wanted? Picture it: Sicily, 1913. A beautiful olive skinned girl stood on her roof overlooking the alley behind her father's house. Up there, she could see further than she ever had before, and not just the drunk passed out under the neighbor's window. No, there she could see the stars, the moon, the great expanse of space. How she longed to be up there. But she was stuck on Earth, dating a man who could never satisfy her. Dorothy, that girl was me. And that man was Neil Armstrong."
"Come on, Ma," groaned Dorothy. "You expect me to believe you dated Neil Armstrong? He wasn't even alive in 1913!"
"Not Neil Armstrong the astronaut," Sophia said. "Neil Armstrong the fishmonger! We had a whale of a time, but I had to send him up the pike."
"I had an affair with a fishmonger once," Blanche piped in. "It was sweet but brief. I loved the feel of those rough hands, but I just couldn't take the smell of him."
"He smelled of the sea?" asked Rose.
"No, English Leather," replied Blanche.
Sophia removed her helmet and looked at Dorothy. "Look, Pussycat," she cajoled. "I'm an old woman. I don't have that long to live. This is my dream. Can't you let me have my dream just this once?"
"Ma," Dorothy growled impatiently, "you said starting a spaghetti sauce company was your dream. You said going back to Sicily was your dream. Now going on a space shuttle mission is your dream? I've given in on a lot of your so-called dreams, but this one is out of the question."
"Well, you know I'm going to go anyway," Sophia retorted.
"If you do, don't expect to come back here when - if - you get back down to Earth," Dorothy spat, standing up violently and clacking out of the room, her shawl billowing imperiously.
"Well, what are you going to do," Sophia sighed. She turned to Rose and Blanche. "Do we have any cereal left?"
"Uh, I think there's some Cracklin' Oat Bran," Blanche said sheepishly, looking at no one.
"Perfect!" exclaimed Sophia. "I've been blocked up for three days!"
Rose was especially famished the next morning. As she entered the kitchen, she glanced down at her green, blue, purple and red silk blouse, which shimmered slightly in the early Miami sun, its jeweled buttons glittering across her shoulder like pomegranate seeds. How she loved when her clothes sparkled in the morning light! In fact, Rose was so enthralled by the twinkling colors that she almost ran smack dab into Blanche, who was furtively stuffing perfectly manicured handfuls of Cracklin' Oat Bran into her mouth.
"Oh, Blanche!" Rose hollered, stumbling against the counter.
"Ooh, Wose!" Blanche hollered simultaneously, showering Rose's shiny blouse with bits of brown cereal. She swallowed and dug her hand into the box, offering, "I was just looking for the prize in the cereal! Someone must have taken it already." Blanche jammed the box back into the cabinet, shutting the door quickly and smoothing the lace ruffles on her peach terrycloth tunic. Rose headed for the refrigerator, not wanting to draw further attention to Blanche's "secret eating."
"Boy, after all of Dorothy's and Sophia's arguing last night, I hardly slept a wink," said Rose as she extracted fixings for toast and jam. "I don't think I've had such little sleep since Charlie took in that boarder. When he said he was in the philharmonic, we didn't think he was a kettle drum specialist."
"I knew a kettle drum specialist," Blanche replied dreamily as she took a seat at the table. "I didn't sleep very much when he was in my house, either."
"Yeah, thump, thump, thump all night," said Rose.
"You don't know the half of it," said Blanche with a lascivious grin. "He completely wore out his mallets by morning!"
Just then, Dorothy came through the kitchen door. From the sharp clacks of her slouch ankle boot heels and the way her iridescent shawl was hastily arranged over her brocaded mauve sweater, it was clear that she was in a stormy mood. As Dorothy plopped her lanky frame upon the chair opposite Blanche, Rose decided that she should try to cheer Dorothy up.
"Good morning, Dorothy," she chirped hopefully. "Do you feel like eating something? I'm making toast."
"Oh, good," barked Dorothy, fixing Rose with a withering glare. "Then I could get dysentery on top of no sleep."
"Lighten up, Dorothy," cooed Blanche, "it's a new day and the sun is shining. Why, on days like this, Big Daddy always told me, 'You can't frown when the sun is smiling for you.'"
"Yeah, well, I don't feel like smiling," sulked Dorothy. "My mother is driving me crazy! I should have sent her back to Shady Pines when she tried to mail that horse to Italy."
"People mailed horses to St. Olaf all the time," Rose said as she sat down and spread jam on her toast, her thoughts sailing back to her Minnesotan childhood. "Of course, the most came in around Hestkjærtegne."
Dorothy considered Rose for a moment, her mouth hanging open in incredulity. "Should I?" she asked herself out loud. "Oh, why not? Rose, what's Hestkjærtegne?"
"Well," Rose brightened, sitting up straight and shoving her toast aside. "Hestkjærtegne was an old Norwegian tradition that celebrated our love for horses. All throughout the month of April, friends and relatives sent the finest mares and stallions to their loved ones in St. Olaf, and we would groom and feed them in preparation for Hestkjærtegne. It continued every year until poor Sven Torbold, the postmaster, got so mixed up by all the horses that all of the Sears catalogs ended up at the glue factory."
"Oh, that's preposterous, Rose!" Blanche chortled.
"You're telling me," said Rose. "Have you ever seen a horse in Tuff-Skin jeans? Once they ate their fill of coconuts, we could hardly fit the saddles on them!"
"I'm sorry I asked," Dorothy hissed coldly. She leapt up and stalked over to the teapot, her heels clacking angrily all the while.
Rose fidgeted, glancing at the clock. "Oh," she exclaimed, "I still have an hour until Miles comes to pick me up. He's taking me to the mall to shop for walking shoes."
"You know, I was thinking about going down to the mall myself this afternoon," Blanche said to Dorothy, who fussed with a bag of decaffeinated orange pekoe. "I hear there's a new security guard stationed outside Thom McAn. Maybe you'd like to come with and do a little window shopping?"
"I have to find a way to stop Ma from going on this ridiculous lark, or I'll be shopping for a coffin," Dorothy retorted.
"Can't you just talk to Sophia's doctor?" Rose asked. "I'm sure if you explained to him that your mother isn't fit to be sent into space, he'd do something."
"It was the doctor's idea!" sputtered Dorothy, slamming down her teacup. "Some sort of nonsense about staving off aging and cognitive deterioration. NASA just wants a civilian senior citizen for a public relations stunt, and for some reason they think Ma is their best option."
"I would think that Sophia would say no," said Rose. "I know I couldn't stand to be so far away from my home and the people I love, even if they let me bring Fernando."
"I know," intoned Blanche, pressing a stiff-fingered hand to her leathery bosom. "Just think about being up there, all alone with those lonely astronauts. Brave, intrepid men in peak physical condition who are boldly going where no man has gone before!" Blanche shuddered.
"Oh, they'd be going where plenty of men have gone before," Dorothy cracked dryly, returning to her tea. Blanche looked embarassed, then slightly proud.
"Maybe she'll change her mind when she sees how much she'll have to go through to be on the space shuttle," Rose mused. "Why, with her arthritis, she'd have a heck of a time getting into one of those space suits."
Just then, a loud voice boomed from the living room, "3... 2... 1... LIFTOFF!" The women turned to see Sophia enter the kitchen, wearing what was obviously an astronaut Halloween costume. Her rheumy eyes glistened behind her giant glasses, which themselves seemed magnified behind the domed plastic helmet. A plastic bag dangled from one silver-gloved hand.
"Ma! What are you doing in that ludicrous get-up!" Dorothy shrieked, putting a giant hand to her forehead.
"I wanted to practice for my big space flight, so I picked it up at the costume shop," replied Sophia, shuffling toward her housemates. Arriving at the table, she held out the bag to Dorothy. "Here, they had a two-for-one special. All they had in your size was cavewoman or flapper. I figured cavewoman was more believable."
"Well, practice all you want, because you are not going on the space shuttle!" fumed Dorothy. "At your age? Do you want another stroke?"
"Dorothy, we've been over this already," Sophia answered, softening. "Dr. Rubenstein says I am not at risk for any medical problems. Can't you see that this is something that I've always wanted? Picture it: Sicily, 1913. A beautiful olive skinned girl stood on her roof overlooking the alley behind her father's house. Up there, she could see further than she ever had before, and not just the drunk passed out under the neighbor's window. No, there she could see the stars, the moon, the great expanse of space. How she longed to be up there. But she was stuck on Earth, dating a man who could never satisfy her. Dorothy, that girl was me. And that man was Neil Armstrong."
"Come on, Ma," groaned Dorothy. "You expect me to believe you dated Neil Armstrong? He wasn't even alive in 1913!"
"Not Neil Armstrong the astronaut," Sophia said. "Neil Armstrong the fishmonger! We had a whale of a time, but I had to send him up the pike."
"I had an affair with a fishmonger once," Blanche piped in. "It was sweet but brief. I loved the feel of those rough hands, but I just couldn't take the smell of him."
"He smelled of the sea?" asked Rose.
"No, English Leather," replied Blanche.
Sophia removed her helmet and looked at Dorothy. "Look, Pussycat," she cajoled. "I'm an old woman. I don't have that long to live. This is my dream. Can't you let me have my dream just this once?"
"Ma," Dorothy growled impatiently, "you said starting a spaghetti sauce company was your dream. You said going back to Sicily was your dream. Now going on a space shuttle mission is your dream? I've given in on a lot of your so-called dreams, but this one is out of the question."
"Well, you know I'm going to go anyway," Sophia retorted.
"If you do, don't expect to come back here when - if - you get back down to Earth," Dorothy spat, standing up violently and clacking out of the room, her shawl billowing imperiously.
"Well, what are you going to do," Sophia sighed. She turned to Rose and Blanche. "Do we have any cereal left?"
"Uh, I think there's some Cracklin' Oat Bran," Blanche said sheepishly, looking at no one.
"Perfect!" exclaimed Sophia. "I've been blocked up for three days!"
posted by SoulReaper at 11:19 AM
1 Comments:
I'm so disturbed.
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