‘twas the last century when I visited one of my dearest friends, Alisha. Her mother had redecorated. Though this was long ago in the 1900s, in my mind’s eye, I recall a baroque style with fringes, tassels and tapestry prints; the colors were pinks, mauves, soft burgundys and creams. The glass lamps were pale pink hues and there was a chaise lounge. Ooo la la, Paree! I wanted to stay there forever. The room had enveloped me.
I went home and wrote a poem about it, a very bad poem (well maybe not that bad). Another dear friend, Chickie La Loca gave me the incentive to dig it out from a dusty old box of files. Here it is:
Your room looks like the inside of a vagina
Mauves so warm you
could slip inside an
under an overhead
soft tone lamp shaped
like a shell.
Stretch out on the cream
and breath in a deep
breath so deep;
let it out when
you feel like it,
in a burgundy mist chair…
Correction: My sister is MOROCCAN Debbie, not EGYPTIAN Debbie. She called to remind me. Something did seem off about “Egyptian Debbie.” My mind’s foggy. I don’t sleep, so I don’t remember properly. How could I forget she’s Moroccan Debbie? Sorry sis for confusing these North African regions and the origin of your make-up stylings. I was on the right continent though. She would never forget that I’m Kabuki Sandee.
People often ask why the area under my eyes is red. “What’s that there?” They say pointing. “Oh, it’s just some ‘ol rouge,” I tell them. It’s embarrassing but what am I supposed to do? I like rouge high on my face – never did really learn how to put make-up on. Rouge is all I wear, usually. I fell in love with it a very long time ago. My cousin Cheryl used to make my face up when I spent the night at her house. “Ohhhh, look at Sandee. Now what is that you have on there?” My Auntie Lillian said. I was six. “Cheryl put mascara, eye-liner, lipstick, blue eye shadow and some marouge on me,” I said. My hair was in cluster curls and I felt like Shirley Temple — Shirley Temple–black (tee hee!). They thought it was so cute that I’d said that. I found out later that you say rouge, not marouge. My little cousin once called a roach a roacher.
I bet I messed up a lot of words when I just learned how to talk. I remember when I was two and had my diaper changed on the sofa. I can’t recall who changed my diaper but whoever it was used powder. I also remember the same year that I waddled to my baby brother’s crib and snatched the bobo out of his mouth and he cried. I don’t remember saying anything during these two incidents, so I can’t tell you how I might have butchered up any words. These are very early memories and a lot of people don’t remember anything at all even from when they were six or seven. (Why is it that I remember being two but can’t remember Debbie being Moroccan Debbie?) It may seem odd that I remember being two, but my ex told me about a man who claims remembering coming out of his mother’s vagina. My ex is on the serious side and he said it with a straight face. I laughed so hard that I started to choke. I wish I had been there to hear it when the man said it. I wrote a poem called “Your Room Looks Like the Inside of a Vagina.” If I find it, maybe I’ll post it on my blog so you can tell me what you think.