Note: I tried a different experiment this week. I set a timer for 20 minutes and wrote until I was done. Let me know what you think.

For more info about Flash Fiction Friday, check out the source of it all.

That can't be my mother in the satin Chinese pajamas and geisha wig passing a cucumber between her knees with Mr. Peller, could it?

It IS! It IS my mother! My mother, who was too embarrassed to discuss the birds and the bees with me, who never shaves her legs above the knees and who dutifully says her three “Hail Marys” and three “Our Fathers” every night before bed? In her pajamas playing a sexy game? Wearing a wig, no less?

“Mother!” I gasped, with a mixture of shock and admiration in my voice. “Explain this picture!”

“Oh, that,” my mom said nonchalantly. “That’s from a neighborhood Halloween party from the early 70’s. I was a Chinese girl.”

“I can see that! What are you doing with Mr. Peller?”

“That was a party game. You’re supposed to pass the cucumber to a person of the opposite sex, while holding it between your knees.”

“A party game,” I said, skeptically. “What sort of party was this?”

“A Halloween party, like I said,” she replied, calmly sipping her tea. “What are you getting so excited about?”

“Were there keys exchanged at this party?” I asked, accusingly.

“No! No,” she said. “It was just a party to get to know all the new neighbors.”

“It looks like you got to know Mr. Peller really well!”

“Oh, yeah, it was really hard to pass that cucumber because he was so short and my pajamas were so slippery. It took a long time to pass it.” She was very calm about this sordid affair.

“What other kinds of parties did you have with the neighbors?” I asked, a bit taken aback by her demeanor.

“Well, you remember the Stocktons next door? They were real hippies. They had a party at their house, and there were no chairs. Everyone just sat cross-legged on the floor,” she paused to dunk her cookie. “They were really clique-y. They sat in a circle with their art friends while the rest of us just stood around.”

“Were there illicit substances at this party?” I asked.

“I don’t remember. But you’d think there had to be, for them to think a bunch of rusty farm implements on the wall were ‘art.’” She sniffed disdainfully. “The neighborhood didn’t think much of them after that party, and it got worse when they dug up their front lawn for a rock garden.”

She stopped talking for a moment, reminiscing. “They were weird. They painted a wall black, and then they moved. I think she was some kind of Indian. She thought she was really something, and laid out in the sun in her bikini all day.”

“She wore a peek-a-boo top,” interjected my father, who had joined us in the kitchen while we were deep in conversation. “First you peeked, then you boo-ed.”

“Oh, Charlie,” laughed my mother. “You didn’t think she was pretty.”

“Yeah. Pretty ugly,” said my dad.

“Is there anything else you want to tell me about the neighborhood in the 70’s?” I inquire, hoping for something better than a dirty hippie in a bikini.

“Mr. Terkmeiser left Mrs. Terkmeiser for some woman who wore white go-go boots,” my mother answered.

“Anything else?”

“No, not really,” but from the faraway look in her eyes, I suspected she was lying.