Ten years ago, I buried my husband and my sense of humor. A pair of dirty socks brought it back. As I planned my revenge, I had no idea how far I’d go. That bully was in for more than a good joke.
My late husband used to call me ‘the most dangerous woman with a microphone.’
At seventy-four, I hadn’t heard that in years.
I’m Margaret, a former amateur comedian from Ohio.
My specialty was making arrogant people laugh before they realized the joke was about them.
The most dangerous woman with a microphone.
My husband Walter loved it.
“Somebody’s going to throw a tomato at you someday.”
“Then I’ll make soup.”
“That’s why I married you.”
After nearly forty years together, I lost him.
Making arrogant people laugh.
Without Walter laughing in the front row, I stopped performing.
I also stopped standing up for myself.
My son Daniel, a plumber with a wife and two children, kept encouraging me to return.
“Dad wouldn’t want you sitting home watching game shows.”
“He wouldn’t want me competing with them. They’re funnier.”
I lost him.
Daniel laughed, but lately he always looked exhausted.
“Everything okay at work?”
“Just busy, Mom.”
I never pushed. I thought respecting his independence meant staying out of his problems.
Last Saturday, I learned otherwise.
I also stopped standing up for myself.
***
I’ve shopped at the same grocery store for nearly twenty years.
Until that morning, I’d never had a serious argument there.
I was reaching for the last carton of eggs when a tall man in his forties shoved his cart beside mine.
“Those are mine, Grandma.”
“Excuse me?”
I never pushed.
“I saw them first.”
I picked up the carton. “Then your eyes work faster than your feet, sweetheart.”
He frowned. “Very funny.”
“I used to get paid for it.”
He walked away, muttering about old people.
I’d never had a serious argument.
Ten minutes later, while I was choosing apples, something landed in my cart.
Two filthy white socks.
The man stood behind me, laughing.
“Here’s something else for you, Grandma.”
Several shoppers turned around.
