Memes, printers and getting across the street

Apropos of nothing, she said, “I’m feeling grumpy today.”

We were having lunch outside in the shade of lovely, fragrant hydrangeas.

The food was excellent, the beverages appropriately adult.

“Have another glass of wine,” I laughed.

“If only a glass of wine would do,” she mused.

She waved her hand around in circles while she formed her next statement.

“A bucket of wine…maybe. With a straw!”

Something was obviously on her mind and she needed an excuse to share.

I pushed her for more information.

This is a woman who can be thought to “have it all.”

First of all, she is thin … wears a size two.

I mean, a two?

Sometimes she balloons up to a three, but then who would notice?

No matter what she wears, it looks great. She could throw on a grain sack and start a trend.

She is a successful business woman, a fabulous wife and mother and a friend that you can count on.

So, what I wondered could be generating this angst?

“What’s up?” I emphasized the up part.

“Tell me please,” she leaned forward. “What is a meme?”

“A what?”

“A meme. I keep getting stuff on my Facebook page that is described as a meme? I looked up meme on Google and still couldn’t figure out what a meme was. So, I went to a site that said it could generate memes thinking if I saw enough of whatever they are, I could figure out what they are.”

She stared at me.

I stared back

I had no idea.

Yes, I’d seen the word used. This was one of those words like the names of characters in Russian novels that I skip over.

Hands akimbo, I  shrugged my shoulders.

She continued, “I thought a meme might be something related to the French word Meme which means, the same.”

I nodded since that was one of the few words that has remained in my head from my two years of college French.

The other two are parapluie and argent.

I was incredulous — this meme thing was creating all of this anxiety.

And I said so.

“It’s not just the meme thing. It’s a lot of things. I’m tired of people blasting their music from their car,” she leaned forward as if she was telling me a secret. “I was sitting at a light on Fayette street the other morning and some idiot pulled up next to me with music so loud my car was rocking. Idiot! And, I’m so sick of the nastiness that has been a part of this year’s presidential theater…and don’t tell me that it’s never been one of our finest hours…we are adults and should be able to do better than…” She looked at me and asked, “Which presidential election was it that you used in class to demonstrate the baseness of politics?”

“1828. Andrew Jackson vs. John Quincy Adams,” I said.

“Yes, that one. It’s not 1828,” And, she took a breath. “I’m not sure how to describe this.”

She poured herself another glass of wine.

“I think that after a life of hard work and good works, what I have to say should have some value,” As I was about to interject, she waved me off. “No, this is true. I no longer can garner respect  for my opinions, my experience. If someone were about to mix two volatile substances that would ultimately hurt the person mixing them and I warned them about the danger, I would bet that they would look at me and think, what could she know?”

Her litany of woe continued.

“My printer keeps jamming when I try to print envelopes. I have to get new tires for my car and my cat needs to have a tooth removed,” she was almost breathless.

“What’s really wrong,” I asked.

She bowed her head, took a beat and with an almost smile, she said,

“This morning, a young man asked me if he could help me cross the street. Can you imagine?”