Squee is defined as a noise primarily made by a rabid fan girl. It originated with Anime. The term has expanded in the lexicon to express all encompassing, exciting news that makes one want to scream, squeal and bust out in happiness all at once. Very little, excepting shoes and dresses, makes me squee. Never really been a squee kind of girl unless I’m with the YaYas and we spy pearls, pumps, dresses or wine. When you’ve lost a husband, your money, your home and all remnants of what was your life, squee feels a bit out of place, am I right? Well, last night a squee moment presented itself–right there in the Scottsdale Safeway.
I am on the hunt for my favorite Pinot Grigio. It was hot yesterday. I need refreshment and there in the Safeway liquor aisle are two women, about my age, don’t know them. They keep looking at me. People who write spend lots of time locked in their own heads frequently forgetting things like makeup, the high pony encased in a ten-year-old scrunchie and occasionally, pants. Check myself; none apply. They are still looking but now they see me look back and they smile. I smile, grab an Ecco Domani or two–there’s your tip for the day girlfriends. Best Pinot Grigio on earth and it’s cheap. And Italian. Amore! I have to pass by the ladies and so say a small “hi” as I approach. Not overly friendly. We’ve made eye contact. I can’t ignore fellow wine buyers.
“Are you Linda?” says one. My wary face emerges. “Yes?” say I. They must be moms of Chicken friends that I don’t recognize. “We read your blog,” says the other, pointing her finger back and forth between the two of them. And we know so-and-so, who knows so-and-so, who knows you.”
“Oh hi,” say I and we exchange pleasantries. Like you do when strangers approach you in the grocery store and creep you out just a little bit.
The mind reels. Wait, two strangers know my name and they read the blog? Whaaaa? Is this good or bad? Do they like it or hate it? Are they friends of the bitches and they want to slit my throat out back by the dumpsters? Who knew I had readers I don’t know?
“We love it.” Little squee. “Can I ask you something?” says the other. The girls pepper me with questions. This is kind of exciting news, the kind that elicits a call to Middle Chicken as soon as I get in the car. For those who lose a spouse, all that everyday conversation has to find a new home. Middle Chicken is where most of mine travels. And poor Sisterella, who is the recipient of much over sharing. Oldest Chicken gets changing light bulbs and occasional bug killing in exchange for Sunday dinner and Baby Chicken throws the Roll Tide into our little group. Poor Middle Chicken is the listener.
She says, “If those ladies wondered, other people probably have questions too. You should write about it.” Ecco Domani and I ponder this all night. We decide halfway through the Saturday Night Live rerun with Justin Timberlake to jot down the answers.
Here goes. The things the ladies in Safeway are curious about:
How many readers do you have?
Do you have any guy readers?
I do but I’m not sure how many. Not too many guys want to join in conversations about thongs, dead husband sex and what’s on the runway. The guys I know about are mostly friends and mostly mentioned now and again. Even the ones I know really don’t want to know about me not wearing underwear or finding the perfect black pump with gold toe. By the way, found it. Ordered it online. Will be here Tuesday! Small squee.
Why did you start it?
When The Norwegian died, there was nowhere for all this emotion to go. I’ve always been writing in some form or another, so it was natural that that’s where it would go. Then it kind of snowballed and got bigger. And I’ve always been a blabbermouth.
How old are you? (What are you girls, CIA?)
Do the bitches know who they are?
Are you afraid to write about them?
I tell the stories of the bitches the way they happened. I say happened because I hope I’ve got them out of my life. Asshats. If I was someone else looking in, I would never believe these women picked on a widow. I don’t feel sorry for myself–it just doesn’t compute with me that you kick people when they’re down. They are picking on another widow in that same group right now. But here’s the thing. The bitches can never reveal themselves because they would have to let everyone know it’s them I’m talking about. Clever, non? They would also have to admit they read the blog and they are way to proud for that shit. Most chicks don’t want others to know the depths of their bitchery. I never wrote about them when they were just picking at me. I didn’t write about them ’til they were mean to Middle Chicken. That’s when my Mama Lion came out and said, “Oh, hell no.” Can you see me wagging my finger back and forth?
Will you tell us who they are?
Nope. But, if you live in Scottsdale, you can probably make a good guess. I’m not the only one to find myself in their cross hairs.
Is anything off limits?
No. But I will never say your name. I give everyone a name. Except for Goddess Trish–that’s her real name and she keeps her name because everyone on earth should know about this amazing, spectacular, beautiful and extraordinary woman. It seems mean to me to talk about someone publicly and use their name. Yeah, so instead I call them out with a different name? Makes sense to me. I won’t reveal the names of The Norwegian or The Chickens. It’s not their fault I write about our lives. The Norwegian would hate, hate, hate it. And besides, nobody goes under the bus more than me. I just don’t give a shit anymore.
What about the book? What’s it about?
Lots of people have asked this one. Here’s the update. It is with agents right now. Has not been picked up by one yet. Sad face. It’s about meandering through the hell of widowhood. Some of it is about being scared every day of your life and praying to God you don’t end up a bag lady. Other parts of having your life fall apart are just so damn funny. You can either laugh or put a gun to your head. And, yes, you find out what happened in the woods that day.
Will you write about us?
Yep. Shoutout to the Safeway Girls.
Evidently, dolls, the blog has fans. Who knew? And there it is–SQUEE!