My Near Misses With Phissy
Today is Phissy’s birthday. No, I’m not going to call her. She’s blown me off the last three times I’ve tried to make plans with her. I think she’s shelved me like an old toy. What sucks is that she lives in my building. I can tell if she’s home (or if she’s left her lights on) by poking my head out the window and looking up. She’s found a new toy (boy) to play with. Or to play her. Every woman secretly considers herself a Stradivarius; and every Stradivarius longs to be played by a Julliard-trained violinist. Or maybe just Phissy does. I think I saw her with her new chew toy at the Sav-Yeh down the street. No, Phissy isn’t a dog. Not in the least. She’s perfect, actually. Very nearly perfect. But as she’ll often remind you (or anyone who’ll listen), she’s a descendant of King Naa Gbewaa. I’m completely serious. And, frankly, I’d love to believe that I’ve sampled royal bosoms. So silly: I affectionately called her, “baby.” She hated that. She also hates to be tickled. She’ll claim...