Befuddled by a Dressing Table
I was alone in the gallery, setting up for an approaching auction, when two women (I’ll call them Dense and Denser) walked in to have a look. Dense and Denser perused the inventory, making squealing quips and clucks. I gave them a few minutes to walk around before greeting them and asking if I could be of any assistance.
Dense pointed to a chair and asked, “How much is this?” I told them that they were not in a retail outlet, but an auction gallery. The women stared blankly at me. I elaborated by telling them how the items they were admiring were for the next auction and what they would have to do to attend. Still, they were confused. I refined my explanation to single syllable words and sentences that lacked participle phrases. I heard the hamster wheels squeaking in their heads. Their eyes glossed over. They spoke briefly to each other in some strange, tittering language. Finally, the concept of auction sank in. They both exclaimed, “Oh! We get it!”
Denser began to pirouette and study her surroundings. Her mouth moved, but no words were spoken. Her eyes twitched with inquiry. Her nose wrinkled with question. I mistakenly welcomed her next query.
“Where do you have the auctions?” Denser asked. “Here?”
“Yes,” I answered politely.
“Wow!” Denser said.
“Really?” Dense asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
Then, Dense spied a piece of furniture she liked. It was against the wall, glistening like gold in the florescent lighting. It was a waterfall dressing table, no bench. It was the typical kind of its era, not like a vanity or desk, but two pedestals of drawers connected by a plane of wood that almost touched the floor, all backed by a large round mirror.
Dense pointed to it and said, “Oh my God! What is that?”
“It’s a dressing table,” I answered.
“Wow!” she said.
Dense approached the dressing table, turned away from it, and sat in between the pedestals upon the center piece so that her back was to the mirror. She immediately began to pivot her upper body at the hips and strain her neck as if she was trying to bite her own ear.
A look of dismay washed over her face. She bit her lip and shrugged her shoulders. She looked at her friend, Denser, and asked, “How are you supposed to see yourself in this thing?”
Denser furrowed her brow and answered, “I don’t know.”
With that, I told them to beckon should they need further help.
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kathcom
My jaw just dropped. First, I thought the table would break under her weight. She might be dense in that area as well. Second, I thought, John must be joking. John, I really wish you were joking
J. Bear Savo
No, sorry. I’m not joking.
fast eddie
You know the cold weather always makes my participles stand at attention
fast eddie
It figures that a pair of boobs would speak in a tittering language. I once knew a few assholes who were very analytical.
J. Bear Savo
You never fail to deliver…
Seraphine
luckily dense didn’t bite her own ear.
the thing about being average- well, that means there has to be below-average people too. it’s neither good or bad, dense and denser might be the nicest people on earth, or master pastry chefs or accomplished scrap-bookers.
there are 100 watt bulbs and 25 watt bulbs. i’ve broken a few bulbs in the lamp by turning them the wrong direction. and i consider myself a 100 watt person. we all have our weaknesses and blind spots.
i’ve never bitten my own ear either.
you should have told dense to turn the dressing table the other way. she was clearly using it backwards.
J. Bear Savo
You’ve never left a comment that made me laugh so much.