Call of the Wild: Guess Who’s Back Again?

After sixteen years of waiting, all the boys are old enough for themselves to decide to go out for the night, or overnight, leaving me to my own devices in a big house.   Alone, in it’s relaxing and romantic peacefulness, I turn to my beloved soulmate, take her hand in mine, lean close and lovingly whisper …


(Oh, no! No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no, it can’t be … her! Not now!).

“Who is that?” asked MiLady.
“The Call of the Wild,” I said. “Quick, lock the door!

(MANTRA: Don’t let it be her! Don’t let it be her! Don’t …)

“Who is she?” my wife asked again, a little annoyed I didn’t answer.

Carefully peering out the window, I spotted the banshee … it was Nostalgia, a pin-up girl beauty with the most questionable fashion sense in the last fifty years: Fire red stilettos overpower skin-tight zebra-print leotards, hot pink short-shorts and matching leg warmers. A bright tie-dyed PINK FLOYD t-shirt, a floppy emerald green bonnet with ugly yellow flowers and an oversized pair of sunglasses (which she probably stole from one of Elton John’s concerts during the ’70s) completes her eyesore ensemble.

“I certainly hope the Devil wears Prada,” I whispered to my wife, “because I wouldn’t want to see her in any of that.”

MiLady stifled a laugh after sneaking a peek, got up from the love seat and walked to the staircase. “She’s here to see you,” she told me, “Go let her in; I’ll be having a bath.”

Cautiously, I stepped outside and looked around the neighbourhood fearful that everyone was watching.
As she waved her free hand high over her head, she beamed, “Your lock must be broken, Dearie, I cannot get in!”

I thought you were in Australia!” I called out trying to be cordial, as I removed the small hex-bolt that I had slipped in the open eyelet under the latch, to re-enforce the gate.
“Ohh, I was!” she announced, staggering in like a lame peacock on her ankles. “Your uncle says, Hello!”

“You should take those stupid things off before you kill yourself,” I warned regarding her poor choice in footwear.

“But they’re my absolute favourites,” she pouted. “Don’t you like them?” Then as she approached the house, she sensed the silence. “Where is everyone?  I came to see the children.”

“Captain and Chef both work after school, remember? And Junior is on a camping trip with friends.”

“Oh.” She sounded so rejected. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Oh, no. No, not at all,” I answered, biting my lip.

“Fine, I’ll visit with you!” 

(Oh, lucky me.).

Once inside, I put the kettle on for tea and started up MiLady’s coffeemaker.

“So, tell me,” she starts. “What have you been doing? It’s been ages since we last sat down and talked.”

“What?” I snap, “You were only gone a few weeks!”

She looked sharply at me, “Really? It seems so much longer than that.”

I shake my head as I put the sugar bowl and creamer on the table.  I could only wish.

“Are you returning from a costume party?” I asked her.

“Oh, this?” she replies coyly, “No, Dearie, I threw this on for your benefit.”

“To give me a heart attack and frighten the children?” I paused, “It’s working very well in both circumstances.”

“No, Silly!” as she gestured to shoo me away, “Some of your fondest memories are represented by what I have on.”

“Fondest memories?” I questioned. “When you could single-handedly create fearful riots in the fashion world dressed like that? I certainly wouldn’t call that fond.”

“Olivia Newton-John,” Nostalgia said, pulling off a leg warmer and tossing it at me.

“What about her?” I asked, throwing her article of clothing right back at her.

The one thing about Nostalgia that I always forget is her bravado.  She is afraid of nothing. Embarrassment, Shame, Ridicule, Humiliation … nothing phases her.

Climbing upon her dining chair, she turned to face the back it. Bending at the waist, she grabbed the back of the chair for balance. With a sharp breath and a deep knee bend, she started bouncing her bottom in the air — all while singing the chorus to Olivia’s hit from the ’80s, “Physical.”

[Note to self: Nostalgia CANNOT sing or dance!].

“You are really here to wake the dead!” I yell at her. “AND torture me!”

Giggling, she stops and sits down. “I seem to have forgotten the words except for the chorus.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I comment, “That song is still annoying.”

“You didn’t think like that in high school,” she chided, “With all those girls bouncing around to it.”

(Oh, that.  They didn’t stand on any chairs.  Weren’t allowed to, unless you wanted a confrontation with a teacher or one of the principals — yea, principals, my school had three.  All of them re-enforcing dress codes:

  • No tight-fitting leotards.  
  • No cut-off jeans or jeans with holes (in the knees, legs, backside or elsewhere “providing easy opportunities to explore inside.”).
  • No cut-off T-shirts revealing mid-sections.  
  • No T-shirts with logos, terms or pictures of alcoholic beverages, cigarette brands or promoting smoking, illegal substances or promoting its use, sexual acts or references to any of the afore-mentioned.).

“Remember Andy’s baseball hat?” she quipped. “How long was he suspended from school for wearing it?”

I nodded. “Yes, he got two weeks for bringing it into the school. He took it off indoors, but he carried it with him and showed it to everyone.”

“He got two weeks for that?!?” Nostalgia screeched. “That’s a little severe, don’t you think?”

“The entire graduating class thought so, too.  The hat wasn’t derogatory, it had two words on it; but is was … very suggestive.”

“Well?” she asked, leaning closer to me, “What did it say?”

My smile grew wider. “Party naked.”

“Oh, my!” Nostalgia straightened in her chair, covering her mouth from the surprise, before looking around the room. “Where’s MiLady?” she asked.

“In the bath.”

“Ohhhh, I am interrupting something!” she fumed, punching my arm. Then gathering her belongings, she scrambles out the door.  “Next time, just tell me!”

“OWWWWW!” I whine loudly after her, cradling my injured limb. “Can’t tell you anything, Nostalgia! You never stay still!”


1 Comment

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.