Kategoria (ka-te-go’-ri-a): Opening the secret wickedness of one’s adversary before his [or her] face.
It was a normal day, you know, I got out of bed, went downstairs, had breakfast and took the bus to work. I was a dough twister at “Tu-Tu’s Handcraft Bakery.” Most of we twisters had been replaced by machines, but Mr. Hand, the owner, thought the art was worth preserving. I was grateful. I came from a long line of pastry twisters. In fact, my great-grandfather was known as “Twister Tagalini.” Just like sailors have their knots, Twister had his twists. His different twists sent message. Of course, there were the love twists that lovers ate together. There was the mourning twist that people ate at funerals. There was the birthday twist that played a central role in birthday celebrations. The worst was the “hit” twist. Arriving in a black box tied with a piece of black ribbon, it informed the recipient that they were targeted for death. Twister had hundreds more message twists. He had a notebook with all of them drawn and labeled. He was amazing.
I was probably the last of our twister line. My son wanted to be a landscaper and my wife thought what I did for a living was a stupid waste of time. I felt oppressed, but when I got my fingers in the dough, my worries melted away. But things got bad again when I got home. It was my wife. She was going to “Jenny’s Nails” every-other day for a pedicure and a paint job. At $60 a visit, it was beyond our means. I got the hint something was wrong when Jenny called to tell me my wife had demanded she paint her nails a new color before they were even dry from the first painting. She had gotten angry when Jenny refused, and she splashed water from to foot soaking basin all over the floor. Then, she poured a bottle of nail polish on the cash register and left without paying. That should’ve done it, but I noticed my wife never took off her shoes in front of me—even n bed. I looked up what my wife was doing on the internet—on Google. I found that my wife was suffering from a mental problem called “Peditoemania.” It is an irresistible compulsion to have non-stop pedicures, and nail paintings.
I confronted my wife and told her to her face that I knew what she was up to. Initially she denied it, then she admitted it and cried, and we hugged. She’s in therapy now and making rapid progress. During her therapy, she’s not allowed within 50 yards of a nail salon, and she is required to wear sandals showing that her nails are free of paint. She is also expected to attend weekly meetings of “Peditoe Maniacs Anonymous.”
I replaced Jenny’s cash register and paid my wife’s tab. All’s well.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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