Reality – Sittin' Ugly Sistahs

My Husband Is Twelve But It’s Working Out

Posted on November 7, 2024 by Nancy Malcolm

On the surface, Boo looks like a mature sixty-eight-year-old man; confident, charming and witty. His shiny head with grey fringe whispers over-the-hill in a subtle way. But, underneath the suave exterior is a twelve-year-old boy running the show and calling the shots.

Boo is sweet and sincere, then obnoxiously loud and sarcastic. “Did you see that guy’s shirt? The bright green one with Padre Island on it?” he says loudly at the grocery store where almost everyone can hear. “I have one just like it, but you won’t let me wear it out in public.”

And just like a twelve-year-old boy may be developing peach fuzz on his upper lip, Boo’s moods and patience are developing on many different levels and not always in a smooth way. I can never predict whether Boo will feel sorry for someone or call them ‘a complete fool.’

Have you seen the Instagram post where the husband is standing over the casket of his deceased wife, sobbing into a handkerchief?

“But honey, what’s the Wi-Fi password?”

That will be Boo.

In spite of my efforts to educate him on the whereabouts of important papers, Wi-Fi password, ‘end of life’ notebook, and even the extra flea and tick control medicine for the cat, he still says he can’t find them. Can’t or won’t? He can’t even find the new bottle of ketchup sitting front and center in the pantry. Again, can’t or won’t? That’s the million-dollar question.

Boo’s sophistication is at times subzero. He occasionally surprises me when we are attending a party at someone’s house. He’ll insist on purchasing a really nice bottle of wine or a fancy, scented candle for a hostess gift and then tell a wildly inappropriate fart joke as soon as we get there.

As a grandparent, Boo is top of the line. He loves our grandkids unconditionally and proves it by his outrageous and grandiose expressions of affection. He will build a ninja warrior course in the backyard, plan and execute elaborate fishing trips, play dress-up complete with Beauty and the Beast costumes, and bake their favorite chocolate chip cookies in mass quantity. If it can be done, he will do it. His ability to have fun is his super-power as a grandpa.

Boo doesn’t care about what he wears, whether it matches or even if it has holes or stains. “That’s why I married you. No one’s really looking at me.”

Was that a compliment?

One of Boo’s little known twelve-year-old talents is something I was unaware of while we were dating. Not until we were married did he display this skill. One weekend we were walking Town Lake. Mid-point in our trail he stepped over to the bushes, and without using a tissue, blew his nose and kept walking.

“What are you doing?” I howled, looking around to see who saw this happen.

While still walking and blowing he answered, “It’s a snot rocket. Don’t knock it till you try it.”

“I assure you I will never try it,” I said.

“Well, that’s a shame. It’s really very satisfying if you’ve been stopped up.”

Not all of his twelve-year-old antics are as ‘out there’ as a snot rocket, but subtle or not, they are real.

As character defects go, mine mainly revolve around being too serious, worrying over little things, and trying to control the universe. While Boo prefers to roll his eyes when I say something he doesn’t like or laugh when someone falls down.

Of course, Boo is way past puberty, but he still runs the gamut from childish to mature, confident to insecure, rebellious, and impulsive to someone I can always count on. In fact, that is one of Boo’s most wonderful qualities, he is a man of his word. He always does what he says he will do, and generally with a good attitude. And while Boo still has his ‘pull my finger’ jokes and toddler table manners, he’s a definite diamond in the rough. My husband is twelve, but it’s really working out for us.

Friendship, Reality, Sittin Ugly

Sittin’ Ugly

Posted on February 20, 2022 by Nancy Malcolm

In the early morning hours, before anyone else is up, while the cat is still stretching languidly in her chair, I begin my day. In this quiet early hour, I can hear the thud of the newspaper being thrown on the sidewalks, the coffeemaker finishing the last few drops and I hear the solid, steady tick of our clock on the mantle. This is my selfish hour. This is my cherished solitude. I must have it!! This is my time to drink coffee and absolutely, unequivocally “sit ugly.”

Sittin’ Ugly is a family tradition passed on by my 88-year-old Auntie Sue. Her mother did it, she does it and now I do it. I’m sure lots of other people on earth are doing it, but to do it correctly is an art. The skill of sittin’ ugly is learned and perfected through years of practice. There are rules of course, and above all, one must respect another’s right to sit ugly. There should be no judgment, the fact is, one just simply does…..sit ugly.

Everyone has their own way to sit ugly. But there are guidelines that I find very comforting and helpful to follow. Anyone that is new to the art will surely want to comply. The rules are as follows:

1. There must be coffee. Preferably freshly brewed with everything extra that you need, (cream, sugar, etc.) and of course the favorite mug. I’ve never known a tea drinker to sit ugly, but I suppose it could be done.

2. No talking!! No one speaks to you-you speak to no one. Sometimes it may be necessary to point or grunt especially if you have small children and they absolutely must encroach on your time. But, the only talking truly allowed is to yourself.

3. You must sit. My favorite spot is an oversized chair by the window. Above all else, you must pick a comfortable, familiar place to sit. It is always good to be able to put up your feet and have a little table nearby. Your sittin’ area should be away from anyone else who might be awake.

4. You may be asking yourself, now what? I have the coffee. I’m sitting quietly. Now what? The “what” to do part is really up to you. Sometimes I just sit and stare while sipping my coffee. Staring is perfectly allowable and even encouraged. I also read my daily devotionals and have long conversations with God. I contemplate my day and my life. I think. I don’t think and then I may stare some more, all the while continuing to drink my coffee. This part may go on for as long as necessary. One hour is perfect for me.

5. Lastly, about this “ugly” part. Sittin ugly simply means that you come as you are, straight from bed. No primping allowed! One must be ones’ self. Tattered nighty? That’s ok! Acne medicine dotted on your face? Beautiful! Scruffy old favorite robe and slippers? The older the better! Sittin’ ugly is actually a super-natural phenomenon that makes you more good-looking. The longer you have time to sit, the better you will look and feel. Try it and see!

Sittin’ ugly is my personal time. It is my favorite time of the day. Sometimes I can hardly wait to get up in the morning just to sit ugly. I am always at my best while sittin’ ugly, mainly because no one is speaking to me or me to them. What a joyous, peaceful time! What a perfect way to start your day, in fact for me, it is a necessity.

Some mornings my little Auntie will call me and ask, “Honey, are you sittin’ ugly or can you talk?” It is always good manners to ask first, in case one is not ready for conversation. Attempting dialogue before ready may result in hurt feelings, premature agreements, or regret, so approach your morning chitchats with caution.

My friend, here’s to “Sittin’ Ugly”, to having this special time each and every day and to the millions of us who find it necessary for the sustainment of sanity. And, here’s to my precious Auntie Sue and all the beautiful ones who “sit ugly”.

My little Auntie Sue passed away after her 90th birthday. She always had a kind word to say about everyone; she always looked for humor in every situation; she was always grateful and she always sat ugly…every morning and claimed it was the reason for her good health and good fortune. I miss her every day. RIP Auntie Sue!

Reality, Truth

It’s Not Always the Way It Looks

Posted on February 3, 2022 by Nancy Malcolm

She sat slumped over on the red-flowered couch in my office. Her hair, a dingy blonde with dark roots, was greasy and her face was stained with old make-up and fresh tears.

The police officer stood between us, his rough hands resting on his thick belt which held handcuffs, a radio, and the ever-present tazer.

“I found her behind the school, near the apartments. She had an illegal knife on her,” he said and laid it on my desk. “We can press charges.”

“I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I missed the bus,” she said.

As an Assistant Principal in a large high school, I could tell by looking that the knife was over the five- and one-half inch legal limit. The knife was an older-looking switchblade with dirt and a little rust on the handle. It had obviously been used before and needed a good sharpening.

“What’s your name?” I asked and turned my chair to face her.

“Pepper.”

“Pepper, is that your real name?”

“No. My friends call me Pepper; everyone else calls me Charlene Davis,” she said and sucked in a jagged breath before tears started to fall. “Please. Please. I had it in my purse. I wasn’t going to hurt anyone unless they tried to hurt me.”

“Thanks, Officer,” I said. “Let Charlene and I talk for a few minutes.”

“I’ll be right outside your door if you need me,” he said.

I brought up her student information on my computer and turned toward her, “So, Charlene, tell me your story. I see you don’t live at home.”

Charlene took another deep breath and straightened her tank top, which didn’t quite cover her voluptuous body. I asked her if she had a coat since it was cold outside. She shook her head no. Handing her the sweater draped behind my chair I said, “Start from the beginning.”

Forty minutes later I knew a lot about Charlene and a little about the knife. I have spent thirty-six years of my life in education, and I’ve heard stories from students that made me cry. Stories that haunted me and shook me to my core. But Charlene’s story broke my heart.

Charlene did not know her daddy, but her mother had known a lot of men who wanted to be called that. It seems her mom had run off three years ago and left her and her three siblings alone. CPS stepped in and separated the four sending the younger ones to one foster home, the brother to another, and Charlene to another. Charlene had run away from four foster homes since then and was now living in a state-owned, group home for teenage girls in Austin, several hours away from her brother and sisters. Not ideal by any means.

“It’s ok,” she said. “I’m leaving as soon as I graduate, and I’ll get my brother and sisters back. I’ll take care of them myself.”

“No more running away though, or the next stop will be juvie.”

“I know. This is my last chance,” she said.

“Graduation will be your ticket for a better life, Charlene. I’m proud of you for staying on track with your grades in spite of everything that has happened,” I said.

“I’ll be the first one in my family to graduate, Miss. I’m really smart, and I have a job at Mcdonald’s on the weekends. That’s where I met my boyfriend.”

“Do you mind if I call you Pepper?” I asked. And she smiled for the first time.

“Tell me about this boyfriend, Pepper.”

“His name is Ryder and I love him. He lives in those apartments by the McDonalds, and after work, I go over to see him. He gave me the knife.”

“No flowers or candy? But he gave you a knife? And what do you do when you go over to see him so late at night?”

“We do stuff. You know, we love each other.”

Before I could stop myself, I said, “Charlene, you know what causes babies, don’t you? I hope you’re using some form of protection.”

“Yea, mostly. We try, Miss. Anyway, usually, the bus is not running when I see him after work, so I have to walk home. He gave me the knife so I would be safe walking home from his apartment. He’s sweet that way. That’s why I need the knife back. He gave it to me.”

“Pepper, let me get this straight. You work the night shift at McDonalds, then you walk over to his apartment. You stay there for a few hours and then you walk yourself back to the home? Why doesn’t he take you home or walk with you?”

“He doesn’t have a car, Miss. That’s why he gave me the knife, so I can be safe walking home. He’ll be mad if I don’t have it.”

“Oh Pepper, you are worthy of being safe and being walked home by your boyfriend. This knife may cause you more trouble than you’re ready for. Like today. You know I have to take the knife.”

“I know, Miss. But I need it and I promise to hide it better when I come to school. It’s only four more months till graduation. Please? It’s scary walking home late at night.”

We talked a few more minutes and then I sent her to class, while I kept the knife.

Charlene flew way under the radar for the remainder of the semester. I would see her walking through the halls occasionally, and she would give me a half-smile or a shy wave, not wanting anyone to know we knew each other. But I wanted to hug her. Feed her a healthy meal. Keep her safe. Ask about that damn boyfriend.

Instead, one week before graduation, I called her into my office. I knew she only had one more final exam to take, and I would never see her again.

“Hi Miss,” she said as she knocked softly on my door.

“Pepper, you look gorgeous today!” I said as I noticed her fresh hair and new outfit. She was wearing a short, blue, flouncy skirt made out of layers of thin material. Her top was buttoned up the front and covered the waistband of the skirt, with room to spare. Then I saw what I thought was a slight bump beneath her blouse.

“The house mother gave me some money to buy a few new things before I graduate and have to move. I’m having a baby, Miss. See?” And she cupped her small round belly to show me.

“Ryder wants a boy.”

“Wow,” I said.

“I have something for you.” And I handed her a pink gift bag with ribbons and a small ‘Congratulations’ balloon. She smiled the biggest smile I’d ever seen and asked, “Can I open it?”

“You sure can!!” I said.

She sat on my red-flowered couch and put the bag on her knees. She took the fluffed tissue paper out of the bag one by one and pressed them flat.

“I’m going to save this paper. It’s just like new.” She said.

I had individually wrapped each gift: a set of lip glosses, JLO body wash and spray, a new hairbrush, and a precious stuffed teddy bear with I Love You embroidered on the stomach. And at the very bottom of the bag was one last gift. “Don’t open that one until you get home, ok? I think you’ll remember it.” I said.

“Thank you, Miss. This is my only graduation gift. I love all of it and the baby will love the teddy bear!” She hugged me and I hugged her right back, neither one of us wanting to let go.

“I’m so proud of you, Charlene Davis. I knew you could do it.” I said, as she blushed and smiled a soft, beautiful smile. Wide-eyed, and a little teary she responded quietly, “That means a lot, Miss.”

We had a quick hug the night of graduation and I have not heard anything from her since.

As with Charlene and the knife, it’s not always the way it looks. Everyone has a story to tell if we will only take time to listen. It is an honor to hear someone’s truth and hold space for their thoughts and feelings, whether we agree or not. Our stories matter, we matter. And for Charlene, I wanted her to know she matters in this world.

Charlene ‘Pepper’ Davis matters.