Just Another Maggie Monday

I'm sorry that I promised stories and then immediately flaked. I'm going to blame the summer vacations of my sister and cousin. They're up in Maine, probably making new Maggie Monday stories already. (Though my grandmother refuses to stay overnight. I don't know what she thinks is going to happen being one hour away from her apartment for a few hours, but there you have it. And it's not like the beach houses are shacks; both my cousin's and my parents' masters have Tempurpedic mattresses.) Anyway, on to today's story:

Back in the day, sometime after 1960 when she became a widow, my grandmother bought a 10 pound lobster. It was a pretty extravagant gesture. She put it in the pot and left to visit her sister-in-law who lived down the street. (Remember, she's no chef.) (But back in the day, everyone lived dangerously.) When she returned, the lobster was gone. So she did what any right thinking person would do and called the police.

The conversation that ensued resulted in this gem:

"I'm just a poor widow with a 10 pound lobster."

The police thought it was a riot too.

Now, in our family, we use this phrase whenever we want to emphasize the oxymoronic nature of a situation. In our family, you never live anything down.