Missus

I am not at the Butterfly Apartment, nor can I be considered "Em in Kansas," although I do like the sound of e-minks, or if you like, e-minx, for my digital escapades. I'm not sure yet what to do with this blog, so for now I'll just do what comes naturally, which is blog on.

I'm at my parents house, embarking on my first day as live-in housekeeper. I was in the midst of standing by the counter, scooping my lunch of chicken salad out of its fridge container with crackers (so college-- who needs plates? Or a table and chairs for that matter?) while simultaneously planning dinner/examining the available spice rack so I could go to the grocery store (so domestic-- I'm making chicken taco salad tonight) when the front doorbell rang.

One thing I have so far refused to handle is my parents' business. I may be the housekeeper, which leaves me the realm of food, cleanliness, and dogs, along with my personal penchant for letter-writing and other cute/frivolous pursuits of the reading and writing variety (like blogging). But I'm not sure I'm quite in a position to be answering their phone, for example, unless I recognize the number and it is my friend Kitchen.

So the doorbell rings. And I have to answer it because the guy can probably see me though the window, shoving triscuits into my mouth, unscrewing the lid on the jar of okra pickles. (My parents' food stock: always wonderful to me.) The windows are all open anyway, and so he can hear Jack and Karma bum-rushing the door, too (the windows are open because it is 68 degrees and all the flowers are blooming. Why, Georgia, why? Just to make me think it's silly to ever leave?). So I saunter out with a smile. His shirt says AT&T. He's probably the cable guy. "Are you Mrs. Lemmon?"

It sounds like "Mrs." anyway. There is a slight difference in pronunciation between that and "Miss" and I only learned the difference in the seventh grade because our English teacher was very particular about such things. She taught us well; apparently, in the south, people don't make much of the aural distinction. It was the second time in as many days that someone had asked me that question. Last night, Vanderbilt called and asked if I were (going by sound only) "Mrs." Lemmon. I blinked and wasn't sure what to say. Did they want to speak with my mother? Or, were they looking for me?

So, standing before the cable guy, I was just as stumped. My car in the driveway, its license plates finally home, I no longer look like a blatant out-of-stater. "Well, sort of," I said, making allowance for the fact that pronunciation is not to be dependable. He asked if I make any of the decisions around the house, which I've fully abdicated, so I told him no, and when I did he asked if that were Mr. Lemmon's thing. I blinked, realizing he must have thought me the young wife here in this neighborhood. I told him I was just back from college, that's all, and my parents did that stuff. (A reflex, but a lie by now.) And that Dad would be home later.

As I went back in to finish my chicken salad and finally bite into one of those okra pickles, I thought about how a lot of people my age ARE missus-es, and wondered what I'd do when I got married. I've pretty much decided to keep my last name, mostly because it sounds so cool. I'm not a major feminist or anything, but of the guys I've dated with any seriousness (or even among those I've dated without much seriousness), not one of them had a name I was dying to make my own. It might seem like a silly reason, but it's my reason. Apparently, people make big decisions the same way they make small decisions. Is it a sign of disrespect to a man and his family not to take his name? Maybe to some? Is it totally pase in this post-modern world? Will I always wonder whether the caller is looking for me, or my mother?