Claudette wants to die

Claudette, one of my favorite divas, summoned me to lunch. “We have something to discuss,” she announced firmly.

Dutifully, I showed up and was in great hopes that Claudette’s irrepressible in-laws had been up to their usual nonsense because I had a column to write and needed some material. Of course, it would be hard to top some of the things they’ve done such as the cousin who got tired of cutting grass so he just had the entire front lawn asphalted.

“Okay,” she said, moving her silverware aside so she could fold her arms upon the table. She leaned across the table and using serious eye contact, she made her grand announcement.

“I want you to kill Claudette off.”

I blinked. “What?”

“I want Claudette to die. I don’t want her to be in your column anymore. I want you to kill her off. Have her die in a car accident. But I want to die. Do you understand?”

I rolled my eyes. “What is this all about?”

“I look like an idiot with the stuff you write.”

“You’re not an idiot,” I replied in a soothing voice. “You’re just surrounded by them.”

She tapped her forefinger against the table. “I’m serious. Kill Claudette.”

I started laughing. “No way. No way. You give me some of my best material and you’re not going to die. End of conversation.”

She stuck her lower lip out and pouted for a while but I bought her a piece of chocolate cheesecake so she soon got over it. Cheesecake goes a long way with Claudette in soothing her feelings.

Still, I thought about what she said. Now, I didn’t think about it to the point that I was going to kill her off but I thought of how my friends and family are subjected to being part of the stories I tell. Sometimes they think it’s funny, sometimes they don’t.

Rickey, my hairdresser, called a couple of days later and said, “I’ve got a bone to pick with you. I read that column about your hair color and it wasn’t me who messed it up.” Then, with a mischievous laugh, he added, “Just wait until the next time, though.”

That wasn’t funny.

I decided to seek advice on the matter so I went to the best source I know. Over lunch, I paused with my fork mid-air and asked, “How do you feel about it when Jeff makes fun of you in his comedy routines?”

Gregg, the stunningly lovely, dark-haired wife of comedian Jeff Foxworthy, smiled sweetly. “Doesn’t bother me at all.”

“It doesn’t?”

She shook her head vigorously. “Not a bit.” She shrugged. “It’s part of the deal.”

Part of the deal. Hmmm. I like that. Claudette should think that way.

“But I’ll tell you one thing,” she continued. “When Jeff first started, he use to say, ‘Have you ever noticed how women do so and so?’ I told him, ‘No. You say that your wife does so and so. Don’t generalize it about all women. Make it about me.’ So, he changed it.”

I knew I liked that little ball of dynamite. What a magnanimous thing to do. I’ve decided that I need to introduce Gregg to Claudette so that she can give her lessons on the art of being a good sport.

Or maybe I should just make Gregg my new favorite friend and source of amusing material. The problem is that it looks like she’s already been taken.

All the way to the bank.