The Interruption of Everything Read Online Free PDF Page A

tiresome, if you don’t mind my saying so. He’s a good brother, so you ought to stop with the whining. And get your feet off the back of my couch.”
    I don’t move them. “I think I might actually be starting to hate him. No. ‘Hate’ is too strong. I don’t like him anymore.”
    “Okay, Cruella, take a chill pill for a minute. We’ll be right out.”
    “You’re welcome. I’ll have my ‘Sex on the Beach’ now. I’m serious. I’m bored to death with Leon.”
    “What makes you think you landed on ‘I’m So Interesting Avenue,’ Miss Thang, huh?” Paulette asks. “Give us one good reason Leon couldn’t say the same about you, even though we know you’re not as dull as you can be on any given day…”
    “Sugar, there’s a whole lot of single women out there that would love to get next to a brother who’s head honcho at an engineering firm, still looks somewhat presentable, can still get it up, his kids are grown and out of the house, which means no child support or alimony payments. Leon is a dream come true.”
    “Who said he could still get it up?”
    “You did. Remember the engine and engineer jokes?” Paulette says.
    “I lied. The engine needs to be at least eight cylinders and have four-wheel drive and cruise control and the engineer should know not to rev the engine and not get his rpm’s so high that he burns up his engine just because he likes to accelerate to prove that his engine can go from zero to sixty in six seconds but if he were to look up or down at the passenger from time to time he might realize that he is not in a race so there’s no need to slam on the brakes when he comes to an unexpected curve or when trying to get up a steep hill. After twenty-two years, he should know when to put it in low, when to downshift, when to put it in fourth gear, cruise control, or neutral, and how to steer smoothly. He should also know when it’s time to pull over and put it in park…This isn’t part of my time, is it?”
    “No, but Marilyn I hope you know you’ve lost a few ounces of estrogen somewhere.”
    “Yeah, are you PMSing, too? Is that what made you bring this ugly attitude in here with you this evening?”
    “No. For your information, I didn’t have a period last month and am hoping I skip the next hundred.”
    “Did you go to the doctor and get that blood test like I suggested?” Paulette asks.
    “I did. I see the doctor on Monday. However…”
    “What?”
    “There are a lot of things your blood can tell about you, but there are a lot of things it can’t even begin to detect.”
    “We know you’re going to explain what you mean by this, so just wait a minute while we get situated. I’ve gotta go to the bathroom first.”
    “And I need to call Aretha to make sure she fed the dogs,” Paulette says. “Give us four minutes. And for the record: you still PMS after your periods stop.”
    I do not remember reading that in any of the books, but then again, I haven’t gotten past “Symptoms.”
    We started this, what we ordained as our Private Pity Party four years ago. It’s not a woe-is-me whining party, but because we never seemed to have an hour when we didn’t feel like we should be doing something else, or had to be somewhere else, or were already thinking about what we had to do as soon as we cut out, we decided that one evening out of every month we would get together—even if it just meant venting, bitching, or lamenting—but mostly to help each other see ourselves more clearly. Where we can even ’fess up to our mistakes and misjudgments. Or admit stupid or embarrassing things we’ve done, should’ve done differently, or not at all.
    You don’t want to get labeled a “repeater”: complaining about the same thing over and over and never making a genuine attempt to do anything to fix it, resolve it, or improve your situation, or playing the blame game in that whatever our problems are it’s always someone else’s fault. We want to rise above that,