El Culo de Betty
My daughters were scandalized when I named the new cat Fannie after my mother who on her more aspiring days claimed her name was Frances but my illiterate and mustachioed baba called her Fagele and we couldn’t figure out which was the most true. But she signed Fannie on the checks. And all the strings attached to that you don’t really want to know.
Not until I met John the Brit and he giggled at the cat did I learn that Fannie was altogether something different in Northampton, a little obscene, but then wasn’t everything. And Fannie meant not the back but the front which if I remember correctly he whispered to me.
All these lies come to mind when I think of Betty, the wonderful Vassar girl who was almost my first if we could have stopped laughing at the strange balloon I was supposed to put on but, without clear instructions on the package, never could manage to do. She had a wonderful rear end that twitched from side to side quite playfully! But then years later I saw her byline on an op-ed piece in the New York Times and damned if she wasn’t driving a cab (which was a nightmare I had envisioned for myself), And if anything is bad for your sacroiliac, it is driving a cab in New York City. A real shame.
So when you mentioned the culo of Betty on the phone, I naturally thought of Fannie, tuchus, and Vassar. Good call!