According to my daughter-in-law, a Sneaky Pete is an alcoholic concoction that goes down oh so smoothly, just like an innocent milkshake, and then, when you least expect it, attacks your brain with a vengeance. Sneaky... Pete. That's not really what a Sneaky Pete is. Not if you are a woman who has outlived her husband. A real Sneaky Pete is that instant, right out of the blue, coming from nowhere, when the eyes overflow with crocodile tears and the lump in your throat threatens to cut off your breathing apparatus and you're afraid you might hyperventilate. It can be triggered by a song, a smell or a menu from a favorite restaurant. It's that omigod,"Not now!" feeling that overwhelms you. Sneaky Pete can be translated as "meltdown for widows".
When I first joined the ranks of widowdom, Sneaky Pete was everywhere - in the steam from the shower, in a paragraph from the book on my nightstand, in my morning yogurt, and especially in the catch-all drawer among the tangle of paperclips, rubber bands and batteries. Sneaky Pete was relentless. There was no peace. There was no escape. Something, or nothing, would happen, and there I'd be, melting into a puddle of sobs and hiccups. Out of control. Embarrassed. Pissed off.
Old Sneaky Pete doesn't torment me today like he did early on, but I count on his appearance once a year on Glorious 4th at Symphony on the Prairie. The moment the strains of "Off We Go Into The Wild Blue Yonder" begin, I'm in meltdown mode. I can still hear his rich baritone voice belting out the words. Never mind, no one else is singing. He'd stand there proudly at attention, saluting his flag and waiting to be thanked for serving his country by one of many Civil War Reenactors moving about the Prairie. The tears flow. The lump grows. Sneaky, sneaky Pete.
Sandy
When I first joined the ranks of widowdom, Sneaky Pete was everywhere - in the steam from the shower, in a paragraph from the book on my nightstand, in my morning yogurt, and especially in the catch-all drawer among the tangle of paperclips, rubber bands and batteries. Sneaky Pete was relentless. There was no peace. There was no escape. Something, or nothing, would happen, and there I'd be, melting into a puddle of sobs and hiccups. Out of control. Embarrassed. Pissed off.
Old Sneaky Pete doesn't torment me today like he did early on, but I count on his appearance once a year on Glorious 4th at Symphony on the Prairie. The moment the strains of "Off We Go Into The Wild Blue Yonder" begin, I'm in meltdown mode. I can still hear his rich baritone voice belting out the words. Never mind, no one else is singing. He'd stand there proudly at attention, saluting his flag and waiting to be thanked for serving his country by one of many Civil War Reenactors moving about the Prairie. The tears flow. The lump grows. Sneaky, sneaky Pete.
Sandy
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