Problem child
I started using that expression, “problem child,” a while back. It was an off-hand comment to someone who’d just stumbled into the trailer as I was wrapping up a phone reading.
“Who was that on the phone?” my intruder asked.
“Just a problem child, that’s all,” was my reply.
Words are important so it’s a term I’ve looked at before. My “problem child” is more like a theme for a day or a week, and whoever is in its position varies, too. Friends, family, cohorts, clients, distant loves, not-so-distant loves, they all can fall under that moniker.
The deal is, when I use that term, it puts me in a patronizing situation. Hoo-boy, that’s a whole can of worms I don’t like. “Patronizing, patriarch, got that all down pat.”
I was idling along, thinking that food was in order, on my way to the post office. Coffee, too. I was doing an internal monologue about a problem child and I wanted to get a new perspective on the situation. So I put the problem child’s situation on the front burner, and gave it much thought. Burned up several hours that way.
As I was headed home, I thought about a coffee-guy I listened to for a little while. He was talking about this one barista at a certain place, a girl with her honey – golden hair. Never mind that he already has a cute Virgo girlfriend. And therein lies a tale, I’m sure, but the more I considered my situation, I arrived at a conclusion.
Sorry, my problem child plate is full.
“Well, the Queen of Spades is a friend of mine
The Queen of Hearts is a bitch
Someday when I clean up my mind
I’ll find out which is which”
Las Vegas by Gram Parsons (from the anthology)
(c) 1974 Wait & See Music / Casserole Music Corp. (BMI)
Late at night, I was doing a load of laundry, wandering aimlessly down that gravel road pathway – barefoot – and from one Pisces neighbor’s trailer, the sweet sounds of Robert Earl Keen, caterwauling about Xmas with the family.
