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Joe Joe Joe Its All About Joe

Who am I? I am me, and me is having a little me time
No way! Five days plus a weekend. 7 days, that’s mine.
It’s not fair. It’s a sin. It’s crazy. No, really honey, they chime.
“What happened? Who did it? Are you okay, are you sublime?”
So I tell them the story of the doctor, the medication, the prednisone and me.
Three time the regular dose! They are horrified, my best friends, 43.
“You can’t even take an eighth of an eighth of an aspirin, they yell at me.
“Tell me about it,” I reply. “I now know what a drug addict must see.”
The arms come out, my friends, who are now huddle-loving little ‘ole me.
“How did you know something was wrong?” they all ask just the same.
“When I was on the freeway, hunting down cars, hoping to maim.”
This puts them over to the bathroom with some dumb excuse, usually lame.
I can hear their loud guffaws coming under the door and they sound insane.
“How is Joe taking it?” they ask me, because with these old women, it’s always about a man.
None of them have one, unless you count one who thinks she has one, she sees in her dreams every night she can.
Joe, Joe, Joe, Joe, Joe, they all shout with a horrible rhythm that sounds like an off-key hillbilly band.
I’ll tell him later, at home, but he won’t care, not understanding or
Knowing the girl intervention “save Joe” plan.
This makes me mad, as it’s all about me!
Me. Me. Me. Me. Me, how brainless can they be?
“Joe who?” I ask, setting them into gales of glee.
“I think he already ran away, to pirate a ship on the sea”
Loud guffawing and delighted shrieks now from my friends loud and clear.
Who all know Joe would marry Lil Ole Me every day this year.
My husband is a fully smitten man, faithful, and true with no fault.
So I slap them all soundly, and run away with the salt.
They are yelling “Stop! Thief!” at the top of their lungs.
When a police officer gives chase, getting in on the fun.
“Run, Run, as fast as you can!” My wild women chant, the ones who called me sweetie, babe, bestie, cutey and honey.
They all know he’s out of luck, as when I’m in this mood, I don’t slow down any faster than a fully-charged pink floppy-eared Energizer Bunny.
When I run in the house without the car again, it’s no enormous big surprise.
Joe simply uses his tracker, and rolls his giant knowing long-lashed knowing hazel eyes.
“24 miles,” he said. “A record for even you.
“Shut up, Joe. I’m starting to get seriously Kansas City Car-road-rage mad and blue.
“I feel sorry for Joe,” my mother says, coyly.
What does she know? “Go work on a doily.”
“Poor Joe,” my sister throws in.
I roll my eyes at the loyalty of my twin.
“Joe’s a saint,” his mother tells me from her perch on the couch.
Good grief! Even the angels are back, hovering over, watching out.
“I suppose you have something to say,” I say to my Dad, on the ceiling now.
“Sure,” he says. “It’s your life, so live it furiously and wow.”
Dwight comes along to blow some smoke in my face.
Am I the only sane one in the whole human race?
Showing my feelings loud and clear, I run to the kitchen and open a beer.
Hand it to Joe who jumps a foot. “You never do anything like this, he says looking past me in the mirror.
I know he’s looking for a weapon or two.
I’ve had such a rough week, we both know I’m due.
To do something un-nice, which is not me at all.
I bring my hands forward, and smile big and tall.
Reassuring and gently, this man of mine pulls me into his nice sweet Joe Lap.
“Now isn’t it time for a little Caren to take a great big happy nap?”
It’s 11:30 p.m. but I went down hard at 9:30. In the restaurant with my women. In a pretty red corner booth.
Thanks to spirit guides, and angels, prayers, and a big giant kiss me bottle of vermouth.
After a giant sleep like this my friend, please shout this to the heavens.
I’m finally on the mend. After prowling an hour or three, Sophie Dog and I fully intend to sleep away ‘til 7.

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