I love Lucy

When you run out of coffee and barge into your neighbor’s kitchen uninvited, it’s not polite to question her attire. There might be millions of women in America enjoying breakfast in a flowered bathrobe and matching blindfold this very morning.

“Who’s there?” Lucy asked, exploring the room with outstretched arms like an extra from The Walking Dead.

“Just me,” I whispered, pouring myself a cup of her organic hazelnut. “I’ll take it to go.”

I was hoping to sneak out without a monologue on what inspired her getup, but she tracked my voice toward the door. It was almost a clean getaway when she picked up speed and tripped on her robe, sandwiching me to the wall when she crashed. Still blindfolded, of course. 

“I’m echolocating,” she said, clicking her teeth. “It’s what bats do.” (Well, she is batty.)

Truth be told, Lucy is the best friend any imagination could have. When I’m uninspired and deadlines are looming, five minutes at her house is my antidote.

Lucy is the one who introduced me to vampire face lifts. Another bat thing. Her whole face turned bright red and splotchy after she paid a doctor (with a medical license, she says) to inject her very own blood into every crevice he spotted. It didn’t change her looks, but she did abandon Google Maps for echolocating and her next car might be a Batmobile.

When she studied Rumpology, Lucy offered me a free fanny forecast. Every bump, fold and mole on your derriere is a clue to your past and future. Who knew? Sylvester Stallone’s mom is “the world’s foremost American Rumpologist,” according to her website. She charges $300 per cheek. (Lucy would do it for $25.)

I never heard of a Flat Earther until Lucy held a meeting at her house. She’s open to anything, including the possibility that people on the other side of the planet are lucky they don’t fall off. 

When there are breakthroughs in the food world, like that 1-ton German schnitzel, she makes sure I know about it. Without her, I would have totally missed the Guinness World Record for artichoke salad assembled by 200 volunteers in Peru. Weighing over 1,720 pounds, it was 16 feet long and 5 feet across. Let’s hope everybody brought Tupperware.

I also learned that 2,344 thirsty Ohioans shattered another world record by simultaneously popping soda cans. Without Lucy, I would not have realized people can get that bored.

Whenever I start kvetching about ruthless Carolina mosquitoes, Lucy reminds me to be grateful that I’m not a Siberian moose herder. Sometimes I forget.

Most of my moose perceptions are based on Bullwinkle, a congenial fellow who wouldn’t harm a squirrel. Since I live in South Carolina, that’s enough. But according to Lucy, climate change could cause mass moose migration, so we should familiarize ourselves, just in case. 

Guess what? Bullwinkle is a dwarf. All his relatives are bigger than SUVs. They can hit 30 mph on a dead run and their hobbies include stomping stuff. These are a few reliable signs of an impending moose attack, in case you want to post them on your fridge:

1 - The moose or moosette will stop grazing to stare menacingly at you. 

2 - Ears will flatten back and one hoof may stomp.

3 - It will start licking its chops. (Don’t believe that stuff about them being vegan.)

4 - A short Russian guy in a black trench coat will be lurking behind a tree.

Don’t worry just yet. Moose don’t like beach sand, so South Carolina isn’t their ideal vacation spot. But Peru should worry. Bullwinkle would love that artichoke salad.

Jan A. Igoe loves most animals, but she keeps a safe distance from the ones with antlers who happen to be charging. Especially if they’re echolocating. Join her tribe at HumorMe@SCLiving.coop.