And then I said hello…not the Lionel Richie version

Most of you read about my trauma with Miss12 last year and the giant size slap in the face we took from a family we knew. 

Dead. To. Me.

There were various addendums to this saga.  While Miss12 asked me to calm the fuck down (my words, certainly not hers), I did the next best thing which was to “dead” them. 

When I “dead” someone its serious stuff – aside from a burial and religious service – they’re well and truly dead.  To me.

At the end of year prizegiving – dead

On the last day of school – dead.

At the movies – dead.

At synagogue for a batmitzvah – dead.

At a prayer service for a friend’s father – dead.

You would’ve thought the message at this stage would have been well and truly received.  Clearly dead people don’t receive signals.  Funny that.

What I’ve neglected to mention along the way is the amount of energy I’ve spent being furiously angry at these dead people.  It’s been exhausting.  And emotional.  Because I was devastated by what happened.  Devastated.

Two weeks ago, collecting Miss12 from a party I was walking across a carpark when they drove by and Mr Dead, hanging out the window greeted me.  He fuckingwell said “hello”.  My blood pressure went up and I thought I was going to have a heart attack.  Dead.

The balls of it all to say hello!

Poor Percy was the only one available on the phone so he got my outrage in his ear.  I screamed WTF???????? from Botany all the way to Maroubra.  Pure Fury.  Miss12 told my mother later that weekend she was concerned that my anger was consuming me.  Arnold also had a chat to me on the way to dinner that evening and asked why I couldn’t just say hello coolly and keep moving.  The simple answer was no.  

Because I don’t want to.  Nothing to say. No.  Plain no.  And I don’t care who’s  uncomfortable, how many mutual social or other events there may be where The Dead walk amongst us.  I’m perfectly comfortable. Unless, someone says “hello”.  Read the memo, follow the guidelines.  Don’t.  Say.  Hello.

We fast forward, seven days almost to the minute of that carpark sacrilege.  Sunday morning.  Randwick Food for Less after the gym.  I stink.  I’m moving quickly.  Arnold is texting me pictures of kettles because my beloved one is leaking.  Heavy basket of groceries on the arm.  Two aisles to go.  Head down vetting the kettles (which at this stage are butt ugly) as I round the corner and I hear someone say “Hello Lauren”.  I don’t look up before responding . 

And I’m talking to a Dead Person.  Yes I am.  The Full Monty convo with a “How are you” tagged on. I didn’t even have time to think “fuck!”

My "oh fuck!" moment

The only other person more shocked by what happened was his daughter standing next to him (who screwed Miss12 over in the first place) when I made a point of greeting her thereafter.  Checkmate, you dead fuckers.

And then I wanted to laugh like a loon.  Because there was nothing else to do after stuffing it up so royally and so inadvertently.  But I didn’t laugh because I can compose myself sometimes and just casually stroll off after making a collosal blups.  I waited till I got to the car.  And then I laughed my ass off at myself.

Out of everything bad, there comes good.  With that one random mistake, the angst and anger has gone.  Just gone.  Don’t know why.  Don’t care.  Just glad it’s gone.

Arnold says The Dead must think I am completely insane without a rational thought process.  Again, do I care?

The only collateral damage is that I think I know what happened to my anger.  It flew out of Randwick, over Bondi Beach and settled over Parsley Bay where Arnold was located at the time.  Now I think they’re dead to him.   And I might be more afraid for them than I ever was.  Because the only thing more scary than an angry Lauren, is an angry Arnold.  He flunked Anger Management.  Big Time.



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