Fleeting Blonds

     Dear Reader, do you remember the post titled "My Fleeting Labor Day" posted September 6, 2010? If not, I encourage you to go back and read it, for the following story is about the same person. Her identity is hidden for her own protection because my friend is more blond than she pays to be.  Take for instance, her recent trip to the mountains. I would not have discovered this if her husband wasn't such an eavesdropping pea-ninny.

My friend and I were having casual conversation over coffee one Saturday morning, talking about our experimental container gardening, pets and the problems inherent with them, husbands and the problems inherent with them. Somehow talk of husbands led into getting away from it all. My friend expressed her desire to see Europe on $100.00 a day, I want to see the northeast U.S. in the fall. The talk turned to driving through mountain passes when her husband entered the room with a wicked look on his face. We didn't realize he was eavesdropping this whole time. Blood rushed to my friend's face as she saw him; she began to laugh most uncontrollably. Her husband joined her and I was left with my slack jaw trying to figure out what on earth was so funny about driving through the mountains. I think, as they say, the cat was about to be let out of the bag.

It seems that last fall, my friend and her family took one of those fall trips in the Northeast U.S. They drove through hill country and flat-lands, seeing all sorts of unfamiliar sites and signs. They passed a military installation, and my friend's husband having a military background himself interpreted the alphabet soup on all the signs. You know, things like AP, USAG, MP. It was all very fascinating I'm sure.

After the military base, the family found themselves in a forest-like landscape, the leaves were just turning, the colors varied from all hues of gold to deep red. Just what they came for! Rounding a corner on this beautiful road they saw a sign that read SPA and an arrow pointing to the right. "What is that?" my friend asked her oh-so-knowledgeable husband.

"What?"

"That sign. It read S-P-A. What does that stand for?"

"Are you serious?"

"Well, I thought it might have something to do with the ASPCA, maybe a local chapter or something. But, I don't know."

"Are you serious?"

"Quit asking that question. Especially in that tone of voice. Of course I'm serious."

"Sweetie, what does S-P-A spell?"

"It spells spa, but what does it stand for . . . oh . . . Never mind - and you had better not tell anyone about this."

As I said before, my friend is blonder than she pays to be.


© 2013 Carol Phares