A Patchwork Quilt

     When the alarm rang at 6:00 AM, I dragged myself out of the wrong side of my bed of roses. I was feeling under the weather and as old as the hills, not fresh as a daisy or fit as a fiddle. I must have looked a sight for sore eyes. As I was putting my foot down, I lifted it in the nick of time, remembering that a stitch in time saves nine; there was a mouse beside my bed, dead as a doornail. I was scared out of my wits, for it nearly frightened me to death. I grinned and bore it, then circled ‘round and got back into bed. 

     I wish I could be like my sister Margaret, with my chin up, happy as a lark, without a care in the world. Margaret is brave as a lion with nerves of steel. Everyone says she’s as wise as a serpent and innocent as a dove, and that I am weak as a kitten, ugly as sin, with a face only a mother could love. Looking at myself in a mirror, I understood: you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Perhaps I should work on it.

     When growing up, all our relatives said that Margaret and I were like two peas in a pod, but in reality, our characters were opposite sides of the coin, like chalk and cheese. We shared a bedroom, divided by an invisible fence that separated our beds, keeping us neighborly. Daddy enjoyed telling everyone that Margaret was a diamond in the rough. It was after Margaret and I attended a fancy-dress ball—Margaret disguised as a blessing—that he predicted she was born to shatter glass ceilings, which put Margaret on top of the world with a bee in her bonnet that tickled her fancy. To me, Daddy was trying to keep up with the Joneses next door whose daughter married a doctor.

     Margaret was the apple of daddy’s eye. Perhaps the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. If money grew on trees, I’d be rich as I always seem to be picking the low-hanging fruit. I wished he would have told me I was the icing on Margaret’s cake, but instead, to make me feel better, he told me to stop playing the victim, that I must buck up because good things come to those who wait. Off the top of my head, I could always count on daddy to give me a left-handed compliment, but maybe I shouldn’t second guess him. 

     “You catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar” daddy would tell me. But I wanted a man, not a fly. “Daughter, you’re in a race against time. To catch a man, you should never be a day late and a dollar short,” he advised me. Really? Now tell me, how should I have wrapped my mind around that? I wish I had told him it wasn’t as easy as pie, instead of letting him pour salt on my wound, like when he called me a bull after I tipped over the china cabinet.

     I don’t like being a beggar who can’t choose, and I don’t want to be left hanging out to dry, so I say to myself that laughter is the best medicine and try to remember not to cry over spilled milk. Unfortunately, I always see my glass as half empty instead of it being half full. I know I must hold my feet to the fire and hope for the best but expect the worst. While I won’t be the first horse out of the stable, I certainly don’t want to be the last. In my opinion, love will find me when I stop looking for it, but I also know that I shouldn’t count on it. In the meantime, I’ll dodge that bullet as I am still a work in progress. It’s not how you start but how you finish, as long as the bloom is still on the rose, is my motto. 

     I had to think outside of the box, so I got out of the right side of the bed...slowly...as haste makes waste, and decided to take the tiger by the tail. I tiptoed into the kitchen, with the appetite of a horse.

     Now I was on board. I was like a kid in a candy store. In front of me was a box of my favorite croissants—but you can’t judge a book by its cover. When seeing them in the patisserie, they looked like a dish fit for a king, truly a win-win situation. I had to play my cards right and remain as cool as a cucumber. Should I eat one? In for a penny, in for a pound, I said to myself—but better safe than sorry. I wolfed one down, and that was a game changer. Ignorance is bliss; the croissant was stale. But everything happens for a reason. I should have bought the apple turnovers to bring to the table and close that door, instead of being penny wise and pound foolish—the croissant had been on sale. A definite red flag. Knowing the grass is always greener on the other side, I decided to go for a walk, but when I opened the door, I saw silver-lining-laced clouds—it was raining cats and dogs.

     The day before, I had argued with Margaret. She had called me a loose cannon—hah, the pot calling the kettle black. I retaliated by calling her a spoiled brat who’d been raised with a silver spoon. I know, tit for tat, but I could read between the lines, so I decided to stay in the loop, let bygones be bygones and kiss and make up. With Margaret, this would be an uphill battle, as she never would give me the time of day, but I told myself not to get my knickers in a twist, that time heals all wounds because arguing over nothing is a waste of time. Where there’s a will there’s a way, so I called her, to test the waters and let that can of worms die on the vine.

     “Hi, sis,” she said cheerily, sounding as high as a kite—the calm before the storm. “Cat got your tongue?” she said when there was silence on my end. With all due respect, the writing was on the wall—the reason we speak every day, for opposites attract. As far as Margaret goes, experience has taught me to play my cards right, but since her comment yesterday, I’ve had a chip on my shoulder and not that many arrows left in my quiver.

     “A penny for your thoughts,” I said, but then remembered that Margaret’s weren’t worth the time of day, so I earned a penny and instead asked, “How was your date last night?” to add fuel to the fire by putting a fly in the ointment. I wanted her to see that what goes around comes around, because with men, I was a fish out of water.

     “I’m glad you asked. I had the time of my life. He had me at hello. Sis, I wished it had lasted an eternity, because the time just flew by at the speed of light that we lost track of time.” I realize that for Margaret, hope springs eternal, but why does my sister always have to gild the lily by saying things that are over the top? “You know, sis, in spite of the fact that a good man is hard to find, men are truly a blessing and a curse.” I think what Margaret meant to say was that men are a blessing disguised as a curse; but she’s always mixing apples with oranges. My sister only lets me see the tip of the iceberg. I’ve heard her much ado about nothing too many times before. Even Job would lose his patience were he to speak with Margaret.

     “Margaret, I realize you like bad boys, but sex on a first date dooms any chance of a relationship.” And like some women, your price is not above rubies. “You know, it’s better to be safe than sorry. Do you think...? I mean, did he make you an offer you couldn’t refuse?”

     “At the end of the day, it’s just a matter of time now,” she told me. “Anyway, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. For me, the only disability in life is a bad attitude. There’s no there there.” What was Margaret talking about? Is she learning a foreign language? “And sis, everything happens for a reason. Life teaches you that you can’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs.” My sister’s 2 cents worth of wisdom. Her answer had the advantage of sounding well and meaning nothing. Whatever! As far as Margaret is concerned, men are six of one, half-dozen of another—you know, a dime a dozen.

     I decided to cut to the chase and not beat around the bush. “Well, Margaret, all that glitters isn’t gold,” I advised. I wanted to tell her to forget about being penny wise and pound foolish, but that would be like putting pearls before swine. I think I just hit the nail on the head for a homerun.

     “Funny you should say that, sis. He asked me if I thought he was made of money. But every rose has its thorn. To me, all’s fair in love and war. There are plenty of fish in the sea for me to fry. I believe that God doesn’t give you anything you can’t handle.” Tell me about it. Her philosophy was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I wanted to say to her that what goes around comes around. I realized that for Margaret, love is blind, but that’s no excuse for not seeing that her date sounded like a perfect storm—a cheap knockoff, a 2-bit pig in a poke, not a chip off the old block. If only walls could talk.... Doesn’t she know not to count her chickens before they’re hatched? With Margaret though, a bird in hand is worth two in the bush. I’ve learned that for my sister, the devil you know is better than another blind date. Remembering that silence is golden, I decided not to put that nail in her coffin. As daddy would have said, Margaret thinks she has a bun in the oven. I wonder if her date didn’t ask her why she hadn’t been picked up before?

     “Do you mind if I give you a piece of advice?” she asked. “A journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step.” That’s easier said than done, I wanted to tell her. “For me, dating has always been a labor of love, that to catch a man you need to add a little of this and a little of that. No pain, no gain. I’ve always maintained that absence makes the heart grow fonder. You know, sis, love means never having to say you’re sorry. In the end, men are necessary evils. Do you mind if I put you on hold?” she asked. “I have to put lipstick on my pig. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” It is what it is. My sister has always been in my face, 24/7. 

     While waiting for Margaret, it came to me that it’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. In that respect, she and I have always been like two round pegs in a square hole. As consolation, I tell myself that Rome wasn’t built in a day. Instead of thinking that I’m simply a bag of bones, I should keep remembering to look at any port in the storm and not to put all my eggs in one basket despite time being of the essence.

     “He walked to the door with his tail between his legs,” Margaret said when she returned to be part of our conversation. “Before he reached the door, he stopped in his tracks, reversed himself, and basically told me, ‘I love you more than life itself’. Telling me then was better late than never. At that moment, despite having turned a corner, I experienced heart-stopping fear. I knew he wasn’t joking, that with all due respect, he was giving it 110%. You know what I mean?” Was my sister letting the cat out of the bag? 

     “To be honest, Margaret, the fact of the matter is that with experience comes wisdom, and with wisdom comes experience,” I told her. For my sister, love is many a splendored thing, so I could see light at the end of the tunnel. At that moment, I could hear a pin drop, but her silence lasted but a nanosecond.

     “Sis, you’re right. It’s not that it’s so very good with, as it’s so very bad without. I should stop beating a dead horse. I should say to myself like they say in the movies—they lived happily ever after.” We both laughed, but mine was the louder.

     At the end of the day, I knew: all’s well that ends well.