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Sheba was a bird brain – a dumb bunny for sure.
She had no idea she was a dead ringer for Marilyn Monroe.
Not the blonde, over-glamorized, sensationalized Marilyn,
but rather the young, darling, innocent-looking Marilyn
the one who did not expect to be noticed. The woman
she was before she was knee deep
into publicity photos, glamour shots.
The Marilyn who wore ordinary Hush Puppies
and did ordinary wife stuff.

The Marilyn who had a knick-knack shelf.
How did I know that Sheba
did not know she was a dead ringer for young Marilyn? She was married to my husband’s riff raff brother, Sly, wasn’t she? Young Marilyn could have done better.
Sheba was a basket case, a nut bucket, a bit off the end of a short bus, but I still
felt I had a duty to tell her. My husband told me to “zip it” in the car on the way to their house.
He did not think she could “handle it”.

But I could handle him telling me what to say and what to not say?
Good grief, this man had a lot of re-learning to do.
I was the wife to help him.
His mother obviously missed the boat with this one.
And him being an only child too.
I decided to save my wrath until after we had eaten dinner
and had the dessert.
Sheba may have been two dendrites short of an oxcart handle, but her desserts were legendary.

You cannot imagine my wrath toward my husband after
that birdbrain served us a piece of store bought pie from Huckleberries.
I could have run over there and bought that myself any day.
My husband was really going to get it when we got in the car.

“Do you know who you look exactly like?” I asked Sheba.
My husband gave me a warning look.
“Marilyn Monroe.”
Sly fell off the couch laughing.
I guess two husbands are getting schooled tonight.

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