When I was first out of university and looking for a job (with my degree in Art with minors in Psychology and English), my mother’s friend, Leah Meis (name changed to protect the unkind) insisted I meet her son-in-law to see if he had a job for me. He interviewed me in Leah’s bedroom (and, no, I didn’t put out) and offered me a job in the mailroom of his factory-of-some-sort in New Jersey. I didn’t like him much (nor did I like the offer); I thanked him and turned him down.
The next day, Leah arrived at my parents’ apartment and demanded I take the mailroom job. I told her I was looking for something a bit more challenging and interesting.
Leah said, “Get the feathers out of your ass, Mitchell! You’re not a peacock!”
Once I was gainfully employed, I walked into Saks Fifth Avenue and bought myself a very expensive, hand-painted, silk necktie. One spectacular peacock feather on a scarlet background.
(After another 15 years, Leah Meis retired to New Jersey and my mother, having finally decided she’d endured enough nastiness, refused to visit her.)
Dudo’s Peacock Feather
On the subject of peacocks, when our niece Lindy’s parents were visiting last month, her mother, Debbie, brought a bag of toys for the cats — two of each item. Included were a pair of peacock feathers from their own farm peacocks. Dudo and Moose were (and are) ecstatic.
In preparation for our move to Spain more than 5 years ago, I finally retired that very old peacock feather necktie. I’ve at times considered having a peacock fan tattooed across my entire back (emerging from the crack of my ass).
(Click the images for a closer look… at Dudo, not my ass.)
|DUDO AND HIS PEACOCK FEATHER.|
|SOMETHING FLEW BY.|
|WAS THAT AN ENTIRE PEACOCK???|