Free Mennonite in a Little Black Dress (Memoir) (2010) by Rhoda Janzen Page A

Sometimes after Yvonne's visit, Phil found himself humming the changing-of-the-guard song from the The Wizard of Oz.
    Even from a lateral view the Nest could make you forget what you were saying. Once in grad school, an angry feminist who called herself Lilith but whose real name was Barb attended a swim party in an itsy-bitsy swimsuit. There was a general sense that she had done this on purpose, to make everyone else uncomfortable. From the bikini bottom exploded an epic, wiry bush. This was pubic hair on a Richter scale, hair gone wild, hair raised by wolves. It was hair that had taken over her entire southern region, like kudzu. At that swim party every person present had spent a pained evening with eyes cemented at least five feet above the ground, so as to avoid the magnetic vista of Barb's, I mean Lilith's, frenzied pubes. Trying not to stare at Yvonne's hair was a lot like that.
    The Nest, I hasten to add, was premakeover, predivorce. In all fairness to Yvonne, Hannah noted, she did look a lot better now that she was not using as much product. Hannah was always urging Phil to cut Yvonne some slack. Any woman would have found it challenging to keep abreast of bicoastal hair trends, living there in a small Wisconsin mobile home park with a whimsical sidewalk sign that said, WELCOME TO ALL GOD'S CRITTERS!
    Many years earlier Yvonne had rejected college in favor of a career with Mary Kay Cosmetics. As a dynamic Independent Sales Director, she proudly drove a pale pink Cadillac that said in modest pink cursive on the rear window, MARY KAY. She was always bringing Hannah and me free samples. "Missy," she'd say in her shoot-from-the-hip voice, "I tell it like it is, and you got some Martha Stewart circles under your eyes, like you just spent four months in jail. Let's cover that mess up! Here's a good concealer. Take it like you own it!"
    Yvonne had divorced Stan, her husband of twenty-one years, two years earlier. Whether or not it was true, Hannah and I had always thought-ah, the tragic irony!-that Stan was gay, in a beer-for-breakfast kind of way. Stan had a tiny long-legged Chihuahua named Ms. Ginger that he took everywhere with him. The first time I met Stan, he and Yvonne were arriving at my sister's place in Bend after a long car trip from Wisconsin. Stan and Yvonne sprang energetically from the cab of Stan's truck. They hugged it out with their hosts, shook my hand, and then turned to the task uppermost on their minds: peeing Ms. Ginger after the long trip. Stan was a heavyset fellow in a plaid flannel shirt, belly slung low over his belt. He scooted the trembling Chihuahua onto my sister's lawn. Then his voice lifted a full octave as he admonished Ms. Ginger to do her miniature business on the lawn: "Who's gonna pee-pee! Who's gonna pee-pee! Time to make pee-pees! Make me some pee-pees!"
    It must have been hard to be married to a gay-seeming fellow who pluralized urine in a falsetto, Hannah and I agreed, so we nobly tried not to discuss Yvonne's hair. Hannah had seen to it that I had plenty of opportunities to observe Yvonne in action. I had often been invited along on Phil's family outings, had tagged along on Phil's family holidays, and had met all four of Yvonne's boyfriends since the divorce. Nick had always opted out of these visits. He had no desire to while away the evening hours with Yvonne, who, he maintained, never said a single thing that hadn't already appeared as a phrase on Wheel of Fortune . Although Yvonne's company was less than stimulating, I figured I needed to show my sister some loyalty and moral support. As soon as Hannah would tell me that Yvonne was going to be present, I would see it as my sisterly duty to scout for a cheap airline ticket. "You've got to come," Hannah pleaded. "The new boyfriend sells cold cuts!"
    These were the best cold cuts. Todd, the boyfriend, was very proud of the cold cuts' quality. His cold cuts were sold at the finest grocery establishments. During the three-day