Zen In the Art of Absurdity
Carla René
Published by Carla René, ePub Edition
Copyright (c) 2010 Carla René
License Notes
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Sounds Like… (A Self-Portrait)
See Dick and Jane Beat the Hell Out of Jack and Jill
The Tokyo Kens (An exercise in writing bad fiction)
It's All Just Water Under the Fridge
That'll Be Seven Lipsticks, Please
Radio Shack, Earwax and Toilet Paper
A Justifiable Lack of Initiative
Sounds Like… (A Self-Portrait)
So then Fern, the garden queen, gently lifts her porcelain buttocks from the comfy, mossy rock she's been eating bon-bons from in Derwood Forest, and strides over to Rogers — her ethereal veil of silk flowing softly behind, her hips swaying in hypnotic fashion beneath.
She watches Rogers — who is prone to vomiting in the company of a beautiful woman — lower his eyes and chuck up on an unsuspecting stump.
A peel of easy laughter escapes her full, soft lips, exposing her perfect, white teeth.
Rogers, now finished with his projectile vomiting, looks at her in a precarious manner; however, he begins a round of guffawing, for there, lying nestled between her two front incisors, is a piece of chicken wing.
As his laughter reaches fever pitch, Fern recognizes what's happening, and takes her tongue and begins a horrific sucking sound in an attempt to just Hoover the chicken out, which would have been successful had she not accidentally sucked too hard, issuing the chicken forth as a missile down her throat.
Thinking this was part of her charm, for Rogers is not exceptionally, or even minimally bright, he begins imitating her, unaware that she is dying.
Unable to catch her breath, or to make him stop guessing Charades titles, Fern realizes that this will be her last opus; her swan song to the forest, and so makes a valiant showing in preparation for her final exit by arranging her silk around her delicate feet, finding the perfect soft spot to lie, and gently uncoiling her lithe body along a carpet of purple pansies, her favorite The amazing part, is that she was still choking during the scene.
As the choking finally ceases, Rogers is stunned, realizing the gravity of what has just happened, and that the authorities will probably now be on his ass for murder.
He moves over her almost lifeless body and takes in the curves of her delicate face; the rosy cheeks that held such promise, the strawberry ringlets that playfully licked her neck — a neck he would have killed to have buried his face in late at night. He bends over her as if to whisper his good-bye, his body full of grief for what could have been.
He continues to stare, motionless. He's near enough to smell her — white gardenias — they fill his senses. Her sheer femininity tears at his dusty clod heart, and one of his tears falls to the bountiful grace that is her breasts.
Then right there, in the serenity and tranquility of Derwood Forest, as the death rattle hits the precious and prissy princess, snatching her exuberant life from her, she belches and farts one last time.
“Get the hell off the phone and drive like you had some sense! It’s a Yugo for god’s sake!”
Words that become my mantra each and every time I set wheel to the pavement on our interstate system. Wait, just a sec.
“It’s called a blinker! Use it before I tear the rear-end off your Pacer with my Gremlin.”
Where were we? Oh yes. Mantras. Ya know, I don’t think of myself as a particularly special person. I’m just a normal house-wife with three beautiful, god-given children. I vote, go to church, cut my husband’s toe nails on the weekend … I live a pretty normal, run of the mill Mid-western life that most people would kill for.
But you get me behind the wheel of a car, and suddenly, that driver’s seat is a place of honor, my cheeks are the chosen ones, and I believe that only the pure of heart for traffic laws may inhabit it. I am an advocate for stopping road rage. And the ironical thing is that it took me seven whole tries before I got my driver’s license. Pssst. But that’s just between you and me. Road Rage is an unnecessary evil that must be abolished on the highways and bi-ways of America and I am the one to do it. It just boils my onions, “HEY! STOP RIDING IN THE PASSING LANE!” when people don’t observe the law. You know, those rules are posted for everyone’s protection.
Oh I’m sorry, are you all right there? Yeah, just buckle up next time and you won’t hit your face with the dashboard. That idiot just stepped on his brake for no reason. When I pull up next to him, shoot him the bird and then I’ll speed up so he can’t pull a gun on us. Well why not? Well, I say if these people are going to act like idiots on the road, then it is our civic duty to give it back to them, full force.
Oh for cheeze sake, did you just see that? He stopped for a Yield sign! It might as well have said “Beer”. What? Oh yes, I’m sorry. Back to the interview.
How common a problem is road rage? I’d say very common now that you can buy firearms over the counter. But let that not be a deterrent I say. So you end up with a tiny bullet hole in your windshield. It’s fixable, get over it. And at least when you see yourself looking down the barrel of that gun, you can take pride in knowing that when you slammed on your brakes suddenly, it was to teach that guy behind you not to tailgate like a bitch in heat. “HEY! ARE YOU RETARDED? IT SAYS NO PASSING!” It is that commitment to abolishing road rage that will make this country great.
Excuse me, got a live one. No, it’ll be fine, just let me handle this. Can you see him? He’s riding my ass. I’ll just let him pass. Here he comes. Yes, yes, the interview. Just a minute, I’m working here. Look at that, he’s talking on his cell phone with the windows rolled down. Heh heh; I’ll just blow the horn so he can’t hear anything. Oooh, did you see that? He’s not happy. I’m so glad you’re here to witness this moron’s driving for yourself. Wha? Well, now you can see me in action. Oh boy, he’s pissed. He just swerved into my lane! Can you believe the gall of some people? Hold on, I’m going to swerve back at him. Hah! Take that you piss-ant Would you mind staying on your own side of the car please? You’re breaking my concentration. And if you want to hang your head out the window, please roll it down first. Oh hey, look at that, he’s getting off at the next exit. I’ll just slow down to make sure. Wait. What’s this? Can you believe it? It looks like the assbag stopped on the exit ramp, and now he’s flipping a finger at me; just shot it straight up into the air! Well now that was just rude and uncalled for. I think it might behoove the department of Motor Vehicles to make everyone take a class in common manners each and every time they renew their license. You can quote me on that if you like. It’s all my own idea ya know. Oh my gosh, did you see that? It looks like the lady behind him didn’t see him in time and just rammed him in the rear end!! WOO HOOOO! Drivers everywhere are now avenged. I wish I could be a fly on his phone when the cops ask him how he got himself into that predicament …
All right now, where were we? What? You don’t want to finish the interview? But what about your piece on me for the six o’clock news? Oh, you’ve changed your scheduling. Well, yes, I suppose I understand. That’s show business I guess. What about another wee… Yes, I understand, busy; lots of news to cover. I’ll just drop you back off at your car, and well, thanks so much for your time. Pardon me? Do I have Tourette's Syndrome? No, I don’t think so? Why do you ask?
See Dick and Jane Beat the Hell Out of Jack and Jill
"On your mark, get set, go!"
Two teams of characters broke forth into a run. Dick and Jane, the protagonists, were dressed in blue jerseys, and had been doing this since their debut in the fifties.
The antagonists, Jack and Jill, dressed in red, weren't quite as accomplished in working their way through prose—poetry was more their thing.
Each team raced through the Introduction, and it was involved, due to all the information regarding the ensuing prose—along with the Prologue and artist's illustrations. They had to wade through bull shit, through the long line of self-aggrandizing thank-yous and dedications. At the end of the Introduction, both teams were dead even.
"Hey, deadbeat," Jack yelled to Dick. "We're gonna crush you like piss ants."
"I'd watch that nasty Point of View, if I were you," said Jill.
"Shut your hole, you one-dimensional slut," came Jane's reply.
On to their first check-point: The Table of Contents. It was here they could sit and recuperate, get a bite to eat, a bit of drink, and be on their way. Jack and Jill finished first and sprinted out of the tent, laughing maniacally.
"You're nothing but a metaphor! Get over yourselves," yelled Jane.
Dick looked over at her. "Honey, you'd better be careful, or they're gonna censor you."
"I don't know why I'm so angry lately."
Dick gulped the last of his sports drink. "Could be your Period. Or it could be that bitch author René. She loses a wing nut every now and then. Now, c'mon. We've already given those Weird Al wannabes too much of a head start."
Back on their way, the next obstacle was a hill. No sign of the antagonists: Jack and Jill must have already gone up.
"Looks harmless enough," said Jane, as they began their ascent.
Mid-way up the hill, however, Dick became entangled. It was a tool most writers used and the harder he fought, the tighter its grasp on him became.
"Help! I'm stuck in an outline! Oh God… "
As the ink threads of the outline enclosed around him, his breathing became labored and his will to fight ebbed away with each new bullet point."
"Hang on, I've pushed my panic button for help. It's almost here."
At that moment, a checkpoint team of editors began whacking their way through the miasma with a white liquid. Just as Dick drew what should've been his last breath, they wiped away the offending ink and pulled him out of character on a stretcher.
*****
Jack and Jill stood at the top of the hill, laughing.
"It worked beautifully," said Jack, as he grabbed his wife's hand. "Now, come on. We've got more work to do before we can win this thing."
*****
In spite of their recent setback, Dick and Jane made good time. They cut through new paragraphs with ease, sailed through detailed descriptions, and met glorious minor characters along the way.
With still no sign of Jack and Jill, Dick began to get worried that perhaps they had fallen too far behind.
Suddenly without warning, A Dark and Stormy Night roared up from nowhere and they were caught in the raging wind, stinging rain, and hackneyed prose. With each step they took, it pushed them back five.
"What are we going to do?" Jane screamed.
But Dick couldn't hear her, the wind stole her words before they reached him. For the next half hour, they cut paths through the thick, over-written prose, the sickening metaphors, and the garish description, making very little headway. With each step the hill became steeper, and took more talent to maneuver
"Jane!" As Dick watched Jane slip down the steep hill, he felt his heart go with her.
Jane had tripped over a dangling participle and was shooting back down the hill like a missile. Dick quickly let go of the line and allowed himself to slip back with her. Just before she fell off the page, he grabbed her hand. "C'mon! You've got to fight, baby! We can do this. No way am I gonna let those antagonists win!"
Jane summoned new courage as her heart raced and her palms sweat. She found a rock to gain a foothold, and with her last ounce of strength, helped Dick pull her to safety. For a moment, Dick just held her, smoothing her golden hair.
They were still sitting behind the scene setting, when they heard a noise.
"Dick, what is th… "
He shushed her, and pointed to a clearing in the distance.
A tri-tone colored beagle took off running for the stream.
"See Spot run?" Dick said.
Jane was transfixed, as if she'd never seen a cliché before.
Safely at the top of the hill now, they looked around. Dick saw it first: a piece of red jersey. "Just what I thought."
"Oh, Dick! What are we going to do?"
"We're going to win, fair and square. Let's just pray that the Gods Apollo, Pindar and Aristophanes are with us today."
They resumed their journey, taking in the scenery as they went. They were surrounded by the best a writer had to offer. Tall, vibrant-colored redwoods, stretching and yawning for the clouds, lush, soft grasses that tickled toes without effort and clouds as blue as a Medieval Knight's eyes.
"Bloody hell! This exposition runs on forever! How are we going to get out of here? I saw the team of antagonists up ahead and they're already to their first chapter. Wanker writers," said Jane.
"Yeah, you'd almost think Alaric McDermott was writing this one."
*****
Meanwhile, at Chapter One, Jack and Jill were making huge strides. Suddenly, a steel rod with a rounded end appeared from behind the closest tree and before they could act, it wrapped around their torsos and began dragging them toward the tree.
"Jack! What's happening?"
"I think it's the hook! Every good story has one."
"Well how do we get out of it?" Jill was in a full blown panic attack.
"Calm down, hon. Just let it take you to the next paragraph. Allow yourself to get caught up in it—it's quite fun, actually."
Jill calmed herself and did as Jack said. The hook took them past the fir trees, through the underbrush and through a wide field, with hazy purple mountains in the distance, then stopped and removed itself from their bodies. They looked around.
"C'mon! I see the next marker for our path!"
As they stepped over the page number and rounded the corner, however, laborious grammar, independent clauses, incomplete thoughts, unrelated ideas, and information pummeled them. Jack looked up. He knew exactly where they were: the info dump. As Jack grabbed Jill's hand to steady her through the haze of rules and guidelines, an adverb smacked her squarely in the head.
"Ow! I thought these things were outlawed," said Jill.
"Well, the laws haven't changed everywhere yet. Some idiot editors still allow their usage, although it's archaic. It's a throwback to authors such as Stephen King, J. A. Konrath, and Robert W. Walker."
"Sha," said Jill. "That's who comes to mind first when I think of great literature."
"Don't be snarky. The crappy poem we came from sure won't be on anyone's lips on a regular basis."
"Oh well," Jill said. "Doesn't matter. Looks like we've got this one sewn up."
"Yeah, I agree. We can afford a little break. Heckle and Jeckle won't be here for awhile."
"And just how do you know that?"
"Oh," Jack said. "I planned a little surprise."
*****
By now Dick and Jane had covered several chapters and were just about to make the second checkpoint, when Jane slipped into a large opening in the Earth and fell down a long tunnel.
"Jane! Come back!"
Dick tried frantically to feel for a hand but there was nothing there. He looked around for a rope in which to lower himself, but the hole had magically closed over, denying him any access. Out of ideas, he was forced to remain immobile, for he could not proceed without his partner.
Approximately an hour later, Jane emerged from behind him, in the direction they had just come.
"Where were you?"
"Aw, stuck in another rotten flashback."
"God, who's writing this thing, Harper?"
"Y,know, I tried everything to get into, "Bleak," but Ms. Snooty said something about 'not having the right characteristics to fit the image of the story.'"
"Don't talk about her like that. She's a good writer."
"Oh, please. Light houses and anti-depressants? Ms. Captain Nemo can do better. Sounds like a Love Boat fantasy."
"I mean it, Jane, stop it."
"Oh shut up. You're the one who got us into this mess. Mr. 'I need to expand my horizons; I need literary fiction.' Y'know, you're lucky they didn't kick your can all the way back to McGuffey. And why are you taking up for her? You don't have a crush on her, do you?"
Dick blushed.
"Oh my God, you do!"
"So what? You couldn't keep your hands off Fabio's backstory when you were in his book, so don't you oppress me."
Jane sighed. "Look. I'm sorry. We can't start fighting now, or else we won't make it.
Dick nodded. "I'm sorry. It's just that the pressure's starting to get to me. We should've been at Part II by now, and I don't see hide nor hair of it."
They both stood silent, waiting for an idea to strike them in the head.
Suddenly, something struck them in the head.
"I think I've got it," said Jane. She leaned close to him and whispered her idea.
Dick's smile grew wider with each passing second.
"So? Do you think it'll work?"
"Honey," said Dick, "I think you're a genius and I don't know why I didn't think of it before. But we've got to work fast."
They took off running.
*****
"Y'know," Jill said, as she crunched a group of grapes, "I could get used to this. I rather like it here." She was in a lounge chair with a patch of sun dappling her tan complexion, creating a halo effect around her auburn hair.
Jack just drank her in, counting himself the luckiest man alive. Right now, he wanted to eat her up. "You really are beautiful."
She smiled, and leaned her head back so the sun kissed her face. I'm happy here. Things are so peaceful and orderly."
"That's because René knows how to write a book. And, she's cute."
"I'll ignore that," said Jill, smiling.
Just then, there was a snap in the woods directly behind them, and they both stopped, straining to hear. Jill mouthed the words, "What is it?"
Jack raised a hand to her, and rose from his chair. He motioned for Jill to stay put and she complied.
Another twig snapped, this time closer. Jack found a large stick and raised it, ready to strike. I'll be damned if those two get ahead of us, he thought.
Suddenly, Em dashed toward him, ready to call attention to any parenthetical information it found.
Jack raised his stick and sliced through the air with such force that it whistled. And, he missed.
But before he could raise the stick for another whack, Em disappeared, and Jill screamed. Jack turned to find quotation marks attacking her on both sides. They were relentless in their overuse, and in no time he was standing at her chair, smacking the daylights out of the unruly punctuation.
"You okay?"
She nodded. "Just a little out of breath. Where the hell did that come from?"
"I can answer that," said Dick, as he stood proudly, just feet from his antagonists.
Jack and Jill stood agape. But it was Jack who spoke. "How did you get he… "
"… ever heard of an abbreviation?"
"I thought that was just an urban myth," said Jill.
"Well you'd be wrong, tart," said Jane. "I'm guessing you took the avenue. Well, hidden just behind it, was its abbreviation, ave."
"So," said Jack. "You found a shortcut. How quaint. But it means nothing. You know as well as I, that if the writer wants us to win, then it's her bidness and there ain't nothing you can do about it."
Dick nodded. "Yes, that's true. And so far, you two have indeed, garnered the most points."
"Damn straight."
"But, that doesn't mean it's over. You're not across the finish line yet," said Dick.
For a moment, the two men faced each other as if preparing for a duel. Their eyes steeled, studying each other's faces for a clue that would tip their hand. But both men were experienced characters, and gave away nothing.
The women had now walked up behind their husbands. The four stood in the sun-lit clearing, wondering which would make the first move.
With a swift, calculated movement, Jack pulled a hyphen sword from his costume and threw it, javelin style at Dick.
As Dick ducked in time, Jack and Jill saw that as the perfect opportunity and took off in the direction of the finish line.
Dick and Jane ran after them. They had one more chapter to go.
As the distance between Jack and Dick closed, Jack pulled a book from his cloak, and an Oxford Dictionary glanced off Dick's right cheek, jarring him so that he had to stop and gain orientation.
Jack and Jill both laughed as they galloped along the course, certain of their victory.
Dick and Jane resumed their run, both sets of lungs burning from lack of oxygen and hyper ventilation. With 100 yards to go, both couples were now dead even, as they had been at the Introduction.
Just as Jack thrust a hand forward to cross the finish line first, the world went black and he and Jill were losing ground. The faster they ran, the farther behind they got. They fought harder to run, but their legs were like jello, unable to hold their bodies upright.
Both screamed out in frustration.
"We're gonna do it, baby! We're going to win!" Dick shouted to his bride.
She gave an indian whoop and cackled as they both crossed the finish line at the same time, then fell into each other's arms, joyous and exhausted. They lie there, still embraced as the applause from the editorial staff washed over them. They watched Jack and Jill finally cross, and they stood as both Jack and Jill walked over to them.
Jack just stared for a moment, as if he'd forgotten how to speak. "I… I… don't understand. We were ahead of you. Not by much, but we were. What the hell happened over there?"
Dick laughed. "Ever heard of a last-second revision?"
The way I remember it happening:
"You want me to use what?" My voice came out as a quack.
The physician stared at me. "You heard me, Missy."
"But why? Lots of people lose use of their legs all the time, it certainly doesn't mean they need a walker." I was getting good at that high-pitched, nasal whine. I'd used it on my mother for years.
"C'mon, let's see you try it. You're not going home until you walk from here to the wall."
Hmmn. I wonder which medical journal that little test was in? I moved to the edge of my bed in slow motion, hoping he'd simply lose interest and go away. But it didn't happen; he just flapped at me to move quicker. So I upped the degree of difficulty by putting a scowl on my face—just to prove how much I detested this.
"So noted, now will you please get your butt up and walk?"
Walk. That was funny. For the last two days my legs had been jello—and if you count the cellulite in my thighs, then jello with fruit. One afternoon while going to the bathroom, I felt them suddenly give out—like a date does at the end of a bad evening when he doesn't want to pay: I felt deflated. But, being the stubborn cuss that I am, I put up with it for another two days, until last night when I could no longer stand. Then I figured it was time to call someone; or else, sell my Monolo Blahniks and that wasn't going to happen in this lifetime…
The EMTs were nice. They escorted me out of my house as if I were Janet Jackson at the Grammys and had just delivered my, "It was Timberlake's fault," speech.
What is it about men in uniform that make me go all weak in the knees? I can tell you, Scott, on my left arm, certainly didn't help my condition. Luckily he was the one who remained with me in the back during my transit. He felt comfortable with me, as he began asking me all of these personal questions. Well, I'd never been hit on by an ambulance guy before, so this cheered me.
"Name."
"Missy Motion."
"Age?"
"I must be in my mid-thirties."
He grinned.
Yes, good sign. I turned on the charm. "So, what's a guy like you doing in a place like this?" Aren't there times when you wish you could just suck back in the words?
"You called me."
Okay, fair enough. But I had to know more. "What's your name?"
"Scott. And yours?" He caught himself, and we both laughed.
"How long have you been doing this?"
"Six months."
At that moment I winced in pain and became frustrated that leg movement was near to impossible.
"It's okay, just hold on, we'll be there soon." He placed his hand gently on my own.
My heart skipped.
"You okay?" he said.
Damn that heart monitor. Usually not the standard for calls with muscle weakness, but I had also been suffering chest pain for days and they wanted to make sure it wasn't a heart attack.
I nodded. "Yes, fine." This man's sensitivity was unnerving me.
"I love your glasses," he said.
I hate it when I do this, but I dipped right into coy. "Really? Oh, thank you. They are one-of-a-kind. Yours are dreamy, too." Ack. Did I just say dreamy? I think I threw up a little in my mouth.
"I'm sorry to have to do this, but I have more questions for you. What do you do for a living?"
"I'm a professional actor, stand-up comic and writer."
The look of awe and worship on his face was priceless. "Wow! So have you done anything I might know?"
"Yes. I did a sit-com on NBC a few years ago," I said, as my ego swelled to twice the size of my fruity-jello thighs. When I told him the name of it, he nodded his head.
"Yes! I remember that show—very funny."
Time to be bold. "I even have a web-site. Why don't you e-mail me when you get back to the station?"
"Yes, I was just going to suggest that. Y'know, I thought I recognized you."
I gave him my autograph as we neared the hospital, and he escorted me into my ER exam room, holding my hand the entire way.
"You're gonna be just fine, so don't worry. We have to get back to the station now."
"Thank you, Scott. E-mail me!" I called after him as he exited the building, and he nodded his affirmation.
When the nurse entered the room to hook me up to the machines again, she said, "So. Scott's going to e-mail you, hunh? Pre-tee impressive. He's cute. No one's been able to pin him down for months now."
My heart soared. "Yes, he is very sweet. I guess I just have what it takes."
*****
The way he remembered it happening:
"Did you hear the way that chick was coming onto me, man?" Scott said to his partner, Mike.
"No, what happened?"
"As soon as I began asking her the standard questions, she started offering personal information—y'know, stuff I didn't even ask for."
"Like what?"
Scott considered this. "Like, she had a web-site, said she was some big hot-shot actor from Hollywood, and wanted me to e-mail her."
"No way! Man, how is it that you get all the women? So? You gonna do it?"
"Are you kidding? If my wife found out, she'd kill me dead."
*****
The way it really happened:
"Name?"
"Missy Motion."
"Age?"
"40."
"Profession?"
"Actor, comic and writer."
"Oh yeah? Anything I'd know?"
"Sitcom on NBC. Nothing special."
"You've got something on your glasses."
"Oh, thanks."
"If you have e-mail, we need to add that, and I need your signature for treatment."
"That's all?"
"Yep; take care."
The Tokyo Kens (An exercise in writing bad fiction)
"Tokyo, we have a probrum."
Commander Ken sat smilingly at his console, twisting dials and watching the lights blink on and off, until they gave him a headache. Turning the dial on his headset, he could now hear DC101 and began jamming out to Nirvana.
The Crew of the Ken Six endured six days of intense training in order to be selected for this JAXA mission, and no one at Mission Control thought anything could go wrong, except that the guys at Mission Control who DID think everything could go wrong. They took odds that Commander Ken would miss the landing site by 100 nautical miles, land in the ocean, blow the hatch too soon and cry like a girl.
Commander Ken, now losing DC101 in his headphones again, tried Mission Control again.
"Herro? Anyone dere? Over."
He waited.
Navigator Ken rundled with courage. "Commander, have you seen the croud cover over our randing site? It’s getting worse."
Commander Ken looked out the port side window. (That’s the left side? For those of you reading? K?)
"Rook out the port side window," enjoined Navigator Ken, seriously.
Mission Specialist I Ken snickered.
"Stop fooring alound. It’s getting bad down dere." He tried Mission Control again. "Mission Control, dis is Ken Six, do you lead, over?"
The silence literally deafened them all.
Just then, the space craft began orbiting on its axis and thus in turn, turned them toward the sun.
"We’ve rost all navigations systems, and thus, we’re frying brind!" screamed Commander Ken.
Mission Specialist II Ken spoke up, also with courage. "Commander, it’s getting hot in helre. What do we do?"
Mission Specialist I Ken agreed. "Commander, if we can’t navigate the space claft away from the hot side of the sun, at 800 degrees Kelrvin, we might get kind of hot."
Twenty minutes later the space craft got kind of hot. Commander Ken began to orate to his team with even more courage than his team had verbalized to him. "Now risten up, Ken. We’ve not come dis far to be leally hot, so calrm down. I need sirence to think."
Again, the team was literally deafened by the silence in the cabin. They watched as Commander Ken turned his office chair toward the dials in the cockpit. He began to hesitate. He was having trouble deciding between two, so he was undecided. One marked, "Hot side of the Sun," and the other marked, "The other side."
Just as he moved his gloved hand toward the "Hot side of the Sun," dial, Navigator Ken spoke up really loudly. "Commander, wait!"
There was a hushed silence that fell on the cabin. The drama began to unfold and get really dramatic.
"What if you choose the wrong diar?" he queried.
Commander Ken averred in a deep voice, "I’m going to do evelyting I can to keep this ship afroat. Now holrd on!!!"
He slowly reached out for the diar. I mean, dial.
All the Kens in the cabin swallowed hard.
With the temperature reaching over 90 degrees centigrade, and sweat pouring from the Kens’ faces, Commander Ken did the impossible: he chose the dial that said, "The other side."
A collective sigh of relief was heard in the cabin from the Kens.
Slowly and with deliberation, the space craft began to adjust itself automatically to rotate back on its lateral axis, righting itself, and rotating the way it was supposed to be.
A cheer went up throughout the cabin.
"Uh, Ken Six, this is Tokyo Mission Control. Is evelything aright up there?"
Commander Ken winked at Navigator Ken. "We’re leady to come home, Tokyo. We’re leady to come home."
It's All Just Water Under the Fridge
"Look, Dolores, I need you to do this for me, please."
Dolores took a bite of her toast with one hand, slipped the other into her tailored jacket and stepped into her Prada pumps. "Martha, I'm already late for work, I have two meetings this morning, and fourteen pages of copy to go over before sending it to the web-master, and every person I have to deal with in between thinks that just because they have an IQ slightly higher than that of a cookie, that that's the only pre-requisite for accepting a pay check. My life runs on a tight schedule. We all can't just flop out of bed and into our jobs."
"My God, girl, you need to get laid."
Dolores went silent.
"When was the last time you had a good hog-tyin' to the bed?"
"Excuse me?" Dolores said.
"You know, got the engines tuned up—had a gardener care take the bush; sent the beaver to the river."
Dolores was flustered. "I don't… "
"I know. That's half your problem. You need to loosen up, honey—have some fun."
"I don't tell you which spatula to buy, you shouldn't tell me how to live my life."
"It's money, isn't it?"
"What?"
"I'll pay you. How much? Will $200 cover it? Would you like cash, or can I have a wire sent directly to one of your Swiss accounts?"
"Now you're being stupid."
"Okay, have it your way, but don't come crying to me when you're sittin' in the floor one afternoon, broken up cause you can't get the lid off the pickle jar."
"Hunh?"
"You're headed for a breakdown, babe. You're too stressed. I'm just sayin'."
Annoyed as she was, Dolores steered the conversation back on track. "What happened to that nurse you got before? Can't you get her now?"
"If I could've done that, don't you think I would've? I know how much this inconveniences your play-dates, but please don't make me whine. Oh God, I feel it coming on… "
"… don't… "
"… it's getting bigger… "
"Martha, I mean it… " She held the phone away from her ear. Some girls slept with the teachers for grades—Martha just whined it out of them, before they put a fork between their eyes.
"DoLORESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS. Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease sit with daddy while I take care of my business downtown. Pleeeeeeeeeease?"
"Do you realize each time you do that I have to clean the earpiece?" She took an antiseptic WetNap out of the top drawer of the bureau and wiped the phone.
"I'm all broken up. Be here in fifteen."
"Do you promise you'll be back in just two hours? If that's true, then I'll move my appointments back."
Martha sighed. "Yes! I already told you. Two hours."
"Fine. I'll pencil him in."
Dolores cursed Martha in the car. Didn't she realize how important her life was? With this position at Finkle & Dinkle, at twenty-seven, she was the youngest publisher of Children's Books that had ever graced their offices, and it only took her six months from when she was hired as copy-editor. Plus, thanks to her, they had recently stolen the René account right out from under the noses of their competition, Penguin books.
Yes, it was all going according to plan. In three years, she would have enough money to begin her own company, and then begin dating—she had given herself six months to find Mr. Right—then after a year's courtship they would become engaged for one year, get married, move into their own apartment, then after two years' time, begin having the family she knew she should. Two children, named Lowel and Joel; no girls, they were too difficult.
So why did it feel like something was missing?
"Get the hell out of the road, you fool!" she shouted, after laying into her horn. My God, they needed to shoot men drivers.
She could feel her insides tense up as she neared the freeway exit to her childhood home. "You're being silly, he's your father," she said.
Talking to herself didn't help. She loved her father dearly, but since he had grown senile within the last year, she had become ill at ease around him. "I'm never quite sure what to say to him," she told Martha once. Martha poo-pood it, so Dolores dropped it. Besides, he was Martha's responsibility, at her own insistence, so Dolores didn't interfere. She had wished she'd been closer to him though—now, especially since he'd been diagnosed with cancer and given up to a year.
*****
Within minutes, she was sitting in the driveway, reluctant to get out of the car. Her breathing had become labored "My God, you're being stupid. You run a very successful publishing company, you should be able to deal with a sixty-six year-old man who's old enough to be the dirt between Methuselah's toes. Now get in there!"
As she said this, something to the left caught her eye. There, staring out the front window, was Harold. He had his nosed pressed against the glass and was blowing on it, making his cheeks puff out so you could see all of his teeth. Before he continued, however, Martha's hand came from the shadows over his shoulder, yanking him out of the window.
It's going to be a long two hours, Dolores thought, as she slammed her door.
Martha met her inside. "'Bout time you got here. I said fifteen minutes—you're five minutes late."
Dolores looked at her watch. "Martha, I am never late. In fact… "
"… you're cute, nobody cares, take it outside. I've got to go."
"You will be back at ten o'clock, on the dot, yes?"
"Yes, Doe. For crap's sake. Okay, listen. You're to give daddy his bath. He's eaten, had his medications, and I've done up the dishes, so all you need to do is make sure he's clean. You can handle that, can't you?"
How hard could it be? "Of course I can handle it. I run a successful company, and… "
But Martha was already in the car, backing out the driveway.
Dolores shut the front door, and turned to her father, who was now slugging on the sofa. She stood still, arms folded neatly in front of her, clutching her DayPlanner, a polite smile on her face.
The room was silent.
A full minute passed, with only the sound of the mantle clock.
Another minute passed.
Finally she cleared her throat. "He… hello, daddy. H… how are you?"
He turned to look at her. "Hey, baby girl! Come give daddy a kiss."
Dolores walked up to him, and shook his hand. "You're looking very well, daddy. Er, that's a lovely T-shirt."
Silence.
"Why you sitting here in the dark? Don't you know the neighbors across the street have trouble seeing you through their telescope if you don't turn on a light?" She clicked the side table lamp as she chuckled at her own joke.
"I have popcorn."
He had an old bag of popcorn he was picking the kernels out of.
"Yes, you do, daddy, and a nice bag of popcorn it is."
Time to speed this task along so she could rest at the kitchen table and get some proof-reading done. "Daddy? It's time for your bath."
He looked at the popcorn. "Big kernels"
"Yes, they are. Daddy? Look at me."
He tossed the kernels into the air and laughed like a girl when they came showering back down on the sofa.
"Oh, daddy, look what you did!" she barked, as she moved to pick up the mess.
"I'm Orville Reddenbacher!" he said, as he crumpled up the bag.
She finished picking up the kernels and sat down beside him on the sofa. "Okay, daddy, listen to me."
Harold turned to her. "Well, hey baby girl! When did you get here?"
"Do you see this? I have allotted exactly twenty minutes for your bath. And we're already… " she looked at her watch, "… three minutes behind schedule. So let's go to the bathroom, okay?" She helped him off the sofa and into the bathroom. "I'll just sit here and let you get your bath. Go ahead and get undressed and I'll run your water. Where are the rubber gloves?"
"Did you know that they sell hair in a can on the television?" he said, as he looked at his own thinning, gray mass.
She checked the water. "Yes, daddy, I've seen that. I don't think it's supposed to be a serious product, though… "
She could hear a spraying sound coming from behind her. She turned to see Harold spraying not only his head, but the hand-towels and toilet-paper cozy. "Daddy, no!"
He jerked at the loud response and stopped spraying. He looked like a scolded puppy.
"I'm sorry, daddy, I just don't want that stuff all over the house. Now. Let's get out of your clothes and into the bath. I'll be right here." She sat down on the toilet again.
After an hour and a half, with soap bubbles and aerosol hair now scrubbed from every surface in the bathroom, Harold had soaked clean, and an exhausted Dolores helped him back out of the tub and into clean clothes.
"Well. What would you like to do now? How about some TV? Martha will be back any minute," she said, while silently thanking the Gods.
"Spray on hair," he said, giggling.
Dolores helped him back into the living room and into his spot on the sofa. After finding a channel, she eased back into the kitchen, where she pulled out her paperwork.
"Touchdown!" he yelled, from the living room.
Dolores smiled. He was watching a cooking show.
The phone rang.
"Doe? It's me. Listen, I'm gonna need you to stay a little while longer. The bank screwed up the paperwork for my loan."
"What?!" she said. "But, you promised!"
"I know, and I'm really sorry. Listen to me. It's time for him to eat, so I need you to fix lunch. You can cook, can't you? All of the foods that he can eat are there in the refrigerator, labeled. I'll be back within the hour." She hung up.
She could feel her stomach tighten again. After a quick call to her secretary, she looked at her father, now watching the Anna Nicole show. She winced. "Oh dad, c'mon, you can find something better than that. They're not even real."
"Mmmmm, big boobies."
Dolores giggled, then marched into the kitchen and began rustling pots, pans, dishes and plates, all again, while cursing Martha. She’d gotten rather good at cursing Martha. After an hour, with flour, milk, sugar and salt all over every surface, and her hair, she placed a hot meal in front of her dad.
"You look like an albino."
She laughed. "Yeah, daddy, I guess I do." Martha had told her he lapsed in and out of lucidity.
While they ate, she found herself talking to him as if he knew what she were saying. She told him about all of her future plans of finding the right man, of wanting to have children, and how her life was right where it was supposed to be. It was a comforting feeling she'd never had with him, and the longer it went, the more she enjoyed it.
Harold just kept eating his peas on his knife, one at a time.
By the time they were done with the meal, she felt much closer to him. She also marveled at how his cancer therapy hadn't weakened him the way it did so many other people.
*****
That afternoon she spent cleaning the kitchen, while he napped. She smiled at her progress. "Wait'll Martha sees this. All she needs is just a little discipline."
She was interrupted by her cell. "Dolores? Hi, it's Amy, from the office. Listen, you'd better get down here, and quick. This René contract is blowing up in our faces, and they refuse to talk to anyone but you."
"You can't be serious. But Amy, you know I'm here care-taking for my father while my sister is at the bank. I can't leave him!"
"I'm sorry, sugar, but you're going to have to if you want to keep your ass out of a sling."
"Can't they get Rob to handle it? It's why I have a Vice-President."
"Nope. Rob's been called to Minneapolis on emergency business and can't be reached. You're it."
Dammit, not now!
She had it. "All right, Amy, here's what we're going to do. Set up a NetMeeting conference between René's team and myself. I'll get on the computer here at my dad's and we can video-conference this thing. We're not out of the game yet."
Twenty minutes later, she was online, staring at all the faces in her own board room, Amy at the ready for dictation.
"Hello, gentlemen, Ms. René. I'd like to thank you for your patience and understanding. I have had a personal situation arise in which I could not get away. I hope that won't deter you from our original goals."
It was at that moment, that Harold awoke from his nap, thus deciding that wearing underwear should no longer be the fashion. She nearly had a cow when he stopped in front of her web-cam and flashed the team.
She half-laughed at the monitor. "Gentlemen, let me assure you, this will not happen again. My apologies."
Jim Rittenour, Ms. René's literary agent, spoke up. "No problem. I have one of those myself."
Everyone gave a nervous laugh, which didn't ease Dolores's tension.
As she resumed talks, however, M&Ms hit her monitor, and landed in her hair.
Harold cackled as he moved toward her. "Katy? Katy, honey, is that you?"
"What? Daddy, it's me," said Dolores.
"Ms. Johnson, I thought you said there would be no further interruptions. I'm beginning to wonder just where your loyalties lie," said Jim.
Dolores had to hide her fluster. One of the things René's team liked about her was her cool head under pressure.
"Gentlemen, really, this is just a fluke. My father is being cantankerous, but will soon settle. Can we get back to the contracts?"
"I think perhaps we may need to find another house with which to discuss this."
"Mr. Rittenour, if I may speak frankly, I don't think you're being fair. I have been put in a difficult position, that any rational human being should be able to sympathize with. I'm failing to understand just why you're having such a problem. One day's bumps doesn't mean I'm any less committed to publishing Ms. René's book."
"Ms. Johnson, first, I don't appreciate the tone. And second, your private life is your business, that is true, but when it comes to a deal and you bring us into it, then it's our business, too, and I'm beginning to see that perhaps you just don't have time for this. We'll be in touch."
"Just a minute. I am the president of this company, and you know what? I'm taking care of my ill father. I never had a hell of a lot of time with him recently, and he's dying. Yes, that's right, he's dying. So excuse the hell out of me, gentlemen, if I suddenly have better priorities than your damn deal. In fact… "
She paused, looked over at her daddy, who was now picking his toenails with a shrimp fork. The love she felt for him, along with the realization that perhaps spending more time helping Martha take care of him is a far nobler goal than worrying over someone else's messes, hit her at once, and glided over her like warm water. Yes; it just felt right.
"… Amy? Take a note: I quit. G'day, gentlemen."
Yes, it was certainly impetuous, but she felt better at that moment than she had in many months—there was a freedom that fluttered through her chest, and made her giddy.
Just then, pots and pans hit the kitchen floor.
Dolores ran into the kitchen. Harold began chasing her around the table. "Oh, baby, you sure look good in that nightie. Give your cupid a kiss."
"Dad, it's me, Dolores."
He ran toward her with his arms outstretched, making kissing sounds.
"Dad, cut it out! That's it, I will not tolerate this behavior any longer. Now, you are going to sit down, leave me alone, and act like you had some sense. I did not make a contingency plan for this," she said.
Harold picked up speed, getting closer. "Katy, I want a real good spanking."
"I think my ears are bleeding!" she said, as she ran through the living room. "This is not on the schedule, daddy! For the next fifteen minutes, we should be having quiet time!"
Harold laughed harder as he chased her behind the sofa.
She looked over at the computer monitor, and saw that the web connection had been broken by the office.
She felt her cheeks flush, and tried to run back over to get the connection again, but Harold intercepted her, still trying to get a kiss out of her.
He chased her back into the kitchen, where she slipped on some water that had leaked from the drain pan under the fridge, and fell flat on her ass.
Harold stopped and looked down at her, but said nothing.
At that moment, the stress of the day's events, the frustration at her sister and not being in control of things flooded her with a torrent of tears that she let go willingly. She laid in the water, sobbing.
Harold began laughing. "Aw, baby girl, get up."
Dolores turned to look up at him. "Wha… ?"
"C'mon, let me help you up. It's okay," he said, as he pulled her to him and held her in a long embrace. "Mmm, Katy, but my, you feel fine. How about that spanking now?"
Dolores pulled back to search his face, and he grinned at her. She laughed, and soon, the two of them cackled like hens in the hen house, and dissolved into a heap in the floor. Dolores dried her tears.
"You feeling better?"
Dolores nodded. "Yeah, at least it's not a pickle jar."
"I don't get it."
"Dad? I don't understand? You're lucid?"
He chuckled. "Of course I'm lucid. Have been all along."
"Then why the act?"
"Eh, I got sick of your sister treating me like an old person, so I figured, hell, if she's going to treat me like one, might as well have some fun. 'sides—I accepted my fate a long time ago. I knew if I ever could see the end of my days, that I didn't want to go out all doped up; that I wanted to live a little. And tell me, baby girl, just how many chances does one really have to run around with no pants and oogle Anna Nicole's boobies and have it be socially acceptable?"
Dolores laughed and shook her head in agreement.
"Plus, it's what she expected, so, I gave her what she wanted. Besides, it made her feel needed, and who am I to take that from her?"
Dolores put her arms around Harold's neck. "You know something? You're one, smart old coot."
He laughed. "Yeah, but don't let that get out to your sister, or she'll be having me cook my own dinner, mow my own lawn and run my own false teeth through the dish washer."
Dolores kissed him on the nose. "I promise."
"What are you going to do now? I mean, about your job?"
"Oh, that. Well, if I don't have another ten publishing houses ready to make me an offer within the hour, then something's wrong."
"You gave up everything just for me."
She chuckled. "How many chances does a daughter get to see her father spray paint on his hair, run around without underwear and have it be socially acceptable? If it hadn't been for you, I wouldn't have seen that life isn't all about maintaining control over things."
Harold hugged his daughter, and they spent the next moment in silent bliss. For the first time in a very long time, she felt relaxed, and happy.
Just then her phone rang. It was Amy.
"Doe, you are not going to believe what just happened."
"Slow down."
"Word got back to Penguin Books about what you did to Rittenour, and they called within minutes to offer you a position that pays better, has better hours, and more benefits. They're awaiting a response. What should I tell them?"
Dolores looked back at her dad. He intuited what was happening, and nodded his head.
"I'll take it."
Amy said, "What do I tell Finkle & Dinkle?"
Dolores didn't even hesitate. "Amy, tell them I've enjoyed it, but sometimes you gotta leave things as just water under the fridge." Then she hung up and laughed.
At that moment, Martha's car pulled up in the drive.
"Quick, dad, Martha's home." She escorted him back into the living room, put on the cooking show, and sat him down on the sofa. They looked at each other and winked.
At that moment, the door opened and Martha entered.
"Touchdown!" they both shouted.
I kept feeling like I was committing a mortal sin if I sat down and wrote comedy about my family. I kept worrying that once this material hit the best-seller list, they were going to form a team, tag me and then release me back out into the wild to be disowned for telling the world the really dumb-ass things they did while we were growing up. Then it hit me: I had absolutely nothing to lose—they had already disowned me. Worry about me on Letterman? Hell, they barely recognize me in person: every five years I go home to visit and spend that “can’t ever get it back again” quality time watching my parents attempt to communicate with each other in their original set of grunts, whistles and hand gestures.
My family was always doing something stupid and the list extended for days: foolhardy, stupid, foolish, silly, idiotic, retarded, inane, childish, moronic, genius… . In fact, my favorite episode of "The Azalea that Almost Was," continues to this day in syndication.
Every year for Mother's Day, my mother, an avid gardener, would ask for an Azalea bush from my dad. And since he lacks any creativity, is naturally happy to comply. I mean, that's how he completes his Christmas shopping for her, too: She gives him a list of what she wants and he goes and buys it for her. But at least he has the good taste to wrap it, and she has the good taste to act surprised.
Back to the Azalea. The day before Mother's Day, he always heads to the local garden store, chooses the one with the brightest pink buds, brings it home, hides it in plain sight in the basement (she always knows it's there so pretends to never have a reason to go downstairs), and eagerly awaits the next day's presentation.
After returning from church the next morning, we'd take mom out for her special lunch so she could show off the Ficus-tree corsage that the pastor gave to all the women with the stamina to survive the birth of their children, and then return home and spend the rest of the afternoon belching up the cheap hamburger meat. Then dad would present mom with her plant, acting as if he achieved some grand accomplishment because he was able to follow a grocery list, and she would act surprised as if she had no clue that he was incapable of following directions. When we were done oohing and aahing over both of their achievements, mom would march us all into the front yard to the place she had already pre-chosen for the plant.
Why was I always the one to stick my foot where it didn't belong? "Mom, isn't that where you put it last year?"
She'd look around with deep concentration, stand back, scratch the two post-hysterectomy hairs on her chin and say, "No, I'm positive it was a foot to the left. Now get that spade and start digging."
Now me, not thinking I was a particularly stupid child at the age of thirteen, apparently had a longer memory of past events than either of my parents. Not wishing to upset the delicate balance or the only look of bliss I'd ever seen on my mother's face since the time Luke and Laura from General Hospital really tied the knot, I kept my mouth shut and dug like I was on a chain gang.
Three hours later when the sun had baked the soil into a nice, hard clay and I had finally reached my pre-determined depth of eighteen inches, minus any feeling I had left in my fingers, Mom, with much ceremony, brought the delicate flora over to the hole and covered it with dirt as carefully as if burying one of our twelve cats in the garden.
After a hearty watering, she would secure the safety of the revered plant by placing a six-inch high piece of chicken wire all the way around the plant. I don't remember her giving me that much attention when I broke my leg and was hospitalized in the third grade. I had to beg her to put the side of the bed up.
"There," she said. "That'll protect it."
"Sure. Now the prying eyes of the neighbors will never be able to figure out what's growing in there."
I’m not afraid to admit I learned something that day: who knew a slap could hurt that much when a hand is wet? Yep. Water is just a darn good conductor of pain.
Now, as I said at the beginning of this saga, the same episode would play out year after year, but as with all good family drama, there needs to be a denouement
Enter the dumb-ass denouement: my dad.
His eyesight has never been good. In fact, he's legally blind in one eye, and shouldn't have ever been operating heavy machinery, let alone mowing over rabbit’s nests, small neighbor kids, or driving his white van with the curious sticker on the dash that said, "Save water—shower with a friend." I always asked him what that meant, but was met with the same stutter and sudden change to topics of a more chaste nature, like ball-bearings and ball-peen hammers.
Dad loved to drive. But even with his glasses, the prescription of which he'd had since the Johnson administration, his vision was still only twenty-two-hundred. Not nearly enough to spot a defenseless Azalea bush.
That's right. Every year he would buy the love of his after-life the plant of her dreams, and every year you could hear my mother yelling out the door behind him on his way to his Briggs & Stratton 1900 Super-powered Nexus of the Universe Series Special Edition riding lawn mower with blade, leaf blower attachment and retractable corkscrew, “and don't be an idiot and mow it down this time."
Fathers are a stubborn breed, and most of the time would rather be killed than dare break the NFR—National Fathers’ Code. You know the one that says, “I’m only doing this because I’ve convinced you that it was my original idea all along.” My dad was no different, so each time in retort, he'd say, "Oh, Sally, don't be so dumb. Why would I go through all this trouble of buying you this plant if I'm not going to pay attention and just mow it down?"
Twenty minutes later, my dad wasn't paying attention and just mowed it down—chicken wire and all.
By this time I'd gotten accustomed to my mother's wailing. And she'd gotten pretty good at it. Even though I was pretty sure we weren’t Jewish, my mother had become very adept at guilt, but not just at my dad—she had so many years of practice that she could get us all at once: it saved herself some time that way, and still left the afternoon free for a piece of pie.
I've been out of the house and on my own now for nearly twenty years, and I'm happy to report that nothing changed after my departure. Periodically I'd get a call in Tennessee a week after Mother's Day that started, "Carla, you'll never guess what your dad did."
Thank God for families—I guess we all need traditions.
That'll Be Seven Lipsticks, Please
"Oh, for god's sake, just pay her," said Sam's wife, as she felt the urge to sneeze.
Sam pulled a twenty dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to the woman, who merely stared at him, and Sam made the "take this or I'll shove it down your throat" gesture. Again, she only stared.
"Skect toords implu zurk bans?" she said.
"Um, excuse me?"
She repeated the phrase.
"I'm sorry, I don't understand. No speaka Canglisch." He laughed at his own joke.
"Look. Illll precipitation fork to strotches, stomples and snofrels. Dude to snowfall, stouth, and then northern manges, okay?"
"Honey, DO something," said his wife. "I gotta go to the bathroom."
Slowly, he said, "We no speak Canglisch." Again, he chuckled at his brilliance.
This seemed to register recognition with the woman as she inserted a device into her mouth and began again.
"The proper term is Englanadian, by the way. You're not from here, eh?"
"No, we're not. We ran out of gas right outside your lovely hockey arena so could you please take the money and allow us to go on our way?"
"Ironical, isn't it? After twenty years of marriage, suddenly he's out of gas," Sam's wife chimed in.
The woman continued to stare.
"Can you please take my money?" he said.
"FINE!" the cashier said, loudly. "See that machine over there?"
Sam nodded.
The woman's speech began dripping condescension and slowed as if Sam were needing his eye chart translated from Japanese, or Canadian, for those of you still following. "Take your little twenty, put it into the slot and wait for it to make the conversion. 's that simple."
"OH!" Sam said. "Currency conversion, of course. Why didn't you say so? I didn't realise we were that far over the border. Be right back."
As Sam walked away, the cashier chuckled to herself. "Oh, just you wait."
The machine looked much like an ordinary ATM, but larger. Sam was clearly impressed.
"Gosh, honey, I remember the day when you had to take your money to a bank, fill out forms, stand in line, deal with some embittered teller who would rather be at home with a good crochet hook… look at this! It's got everything."
"Oh, for god's sake, just put the money in, I gotta PEEEEEEEEE!"
"Right. How hard can it be?"
Spoken like a true man.
Sam placed the twenty dollar bill into the slot, the tv screen blinked a bright yellow.
"WELCOME TO THE CCC. CANADA CONVERSION CONTROL. PRESS ONE FOR ENGLISH, TWO FOR SPANISH, OR THREE FOR ENGLANADIAN."
"What? No Canglisch?" Sam pressed one as he chuckled.
"THANK YOU, DUMB 'MURKIN. WOULD YOU LIKE YOUR CURRENCY CONVERTED? PRESS ONE FOR YES, TWO FOR NO."
"Am I standing here?" Sam pressed one.
"THANK YOU. IS YOUR CURRENCY REAL OR COUNTERFEIT? PRESS ONE FOR REAL, TWO FOR COUNTERFEIT."
Sam snorted. "Wha? Only in Canada. All right, one."
"THANK YOU," said Stephen Hawking.
Another screen blinked out a menu:
GET THIS FINAL QUESTION RIGHT, AND YOU COULD WIN YOUR OWN MONEY.
"FILL IN THE BLANK:
"IN THE LATE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY, WHAT OBJECTS WERE USED AS LEGAL CANADIAN TENDER DURING A SHORTAGE OF SUCH IN NEW FRANCE:
A) SWEATY SOCKS
B) A FINGERNAIL
C) PLAYING CARDS
Sam thought carefully. "Wait, this is a trick question. Canadians don't have fingernails, and Americans have the market cornered on sweaty socks." He hit the letter C.
Hawking's voice sounded pleased, or, as much as he could. "TAKE YOUR CURRENCY, AND THANK YOU FOR VISITING CANADA. CLOSE THE DOOR ON YOUR WAY OUT."
Five tubes of lipstick dropped down the chute.
The couple stared incredulously.
"What is this? Did I hit the Cover Girl machine instead of the Currency Converter? If I put in a token, will a concealer pop out? What happens if I get three blue eye shadows in a row? Will I win a date with Tammy Faye Bak… ."
"Honey! Just ask her."
"Oh, miss … ." Sam strode over with all five lipsticks held high in the air. To the untrained eye, he looked like a transvestite terrorist about to rob the place, armed only with a lipstick and not a half bad pair of legs, but that's just this narrator's opinion.
"Your stupid machine gave me cosmetics instead of cash. I want my money back."
The girl only shoved an English to Canadian dictionary in his face.
Oh. Did I mention his dialect was atrocious?
Frustrated at Sam's atrocious dialect, the woman inserted her device.
"Look. There was no mistake. You put in a twenty dollar bill, yes?"
Sam nodded.
"And you got five lipsticks, yes?"
Dejected, Sam nodded.
"Then what are you complaining for? Are you ready to pay or not?"
Sam shoved the pack of gum onto the counter and waited for a total.
"That'll be seven lipsticks, please."
"WHAT?? I put the pack of gum on the counter, tried to pay for it with a twenty, you told me to go convert myself and now you're telling me I'm short? That would make the gum cost over … .
"Twenty-seven fifty." Even at critical bladder mass, his wife's thinking was clearer than his own.
"Our conversion rate isn't based on the current rate of conversion, it's based on the current rate of conversion that it was yesterday, but not yesterday's conversion rate, rather, what yesterday's current rate of conversion would be at tomorrow's rate of current conversion, which would make it today's current converstion rate."
The vein on Sam's temple bulged.
"All I have on me is a twenty … .er, five lipsticks. Where can I get more cash? Do you have a regular ATM?"
Now, there comes a time in every man's life when he unleashes hideous phonemes and wishes immediately he could suck them back in like fishing line up a Weedwacker. Fine examples of this would be, "I do," or, "I didn't know she was your sister… "
Sam soon realised the stupidity of the comment when the girl let out a huge laugh. Before she could say it herself, Sam cut her off.
"Yes, I KNOW. This is Canada, you don't HAVE real money. How stupid of me."
"Just get back in your car, drive until you get to the Big Chicken, then make a left. There's an ATM across from the plastic Stanley Cup."
"Honey, hurry back. Miss? May I please use your bathroom?"
"Sorry, hockey game patrons only."
"I'm desperate. How much for a ticket?"
"That'll be seven lipsticks, please."
John Candy—may he rest in peace—could have heard Sam's wife's torrential scream of agony. The cashier took pity and sold Sam's wife a ticket for just five lipsticks, although she was miffed that there was no Tahitian Rose among the tubes.
She began her journey and noticed a television showing David Letterman.
As she turned she could hear David's voice trailing in the background:
"Let me tell you the top ten reasons you won't find an American trying to light a Canadian fart… ."
Just through the next set of doors lay the hockey arena, and she guided herself into the seats. The little boy next to her was holding a pennant with one of the team's names.
"So who's your favourite team?"
The little boy held up the pennant so she could see the name.
"The Canadian Weather Channels."
"So who's the other team playing?"
"The Fig Newtonians," said the little boy.
ANNOUNCER IN BACKGROUND:
"And heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere's the concession guy!"
"What are you doing here, little boy?" said Sam's wife.
"My dad is Ed McMahon, and he's announcing. What are you doing here?"
"I have to go to the bathroom."
"Oh," and he went back to munching on his box of green onions.
ANNOUNCER IN BACKGROUND:
"Good news, Figs, you may have alllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllready won!"
At that moment, Sam yelled into the arena. "Has anyone seen my wife?"
"Honey! Right here. Did you get the cash?"
"No. Why are you sitting in a hockey game with two teams who can't even come up with decent names?"
"Because the only bathroom they had was for patrons and I had to buy a ticket."
"Let me guess: it cost you seven lipsticks."
"Five. She took pity."
"So why aren't you in the bathroom?"
"Oh GOD!" She sped off toward the restroom.
Five minutes later, Sam's wife emerged with a satisfied look on her face he had only seen on their wedding night when she was too drunk to make love.
"So, Mr. Hotshot. Why didn't you get any money?"
And back to reality.
"Yes, I've been wanting to talk to you about that ever since the Big Chicken. Why does our account say we're overdrawn?"
"How should I know? You've had the ATM card. How much does it say we're over?"
"According to this slip, seventy-three lipsticks."
"Let me see that," and she snatched it from his hand. "How can that be? We had real MONEY in there when we entered this land of inflated nod. What did you do?"
Just then, a scream shot through the hallway. A teenage boy was standing just a few feet away with his arms waving wildly. He was mumbling something about driving directions.
"Mister, someone, anyone! Please help."
Sam stepped up. "What's the problem, son?"
"It's my dad, he's lost. My mother was yelling at him to pull over and figure out where we were, but he refused, thinking we could make it anyway. Does anyone in here know how to give directions?"
Sam's wife looked at her husband with a huge smile. "Go ahead, honey. Show 'em your stuff."
Sam's chest puffed up as he walked forward. "Son, don't worry, I can help, and you won't need directions."
The boy led Sam over to a bench where his mother and father sat arguing. He introduced himself.
"Do you have a map?"
All three tourists looked horrified and the boy spoke up. "Yes, sir, but we've never opened it. Do you know how hard they are to fold back up? In fact, no one's ever seen one folded after use. Oh, there are urban legends about it, but no one knows for sure if it's true. It's like Osama Bin Laden—people talk about him and suspect he exists, but no one's ever seen him."
"Son, hand me that map."
The entire arena hushed as the boy handed him the map. Within mere mortal minutes, Sam had shown them the way to their mother-in-law's home and began folding. The teen wasn't convinced as Sam grabbed the map. "Mister, are you sure you know what you're doing? I mean, you could get hurt."
Before the teen could continue, Sam bent over to tye his shoe, and when he raised back up, he was wearing a cape that had the letters "MF" emblazoned across his chest.
Everyone in the hallway gasped.
"It's MAP FOLDER!"
"Look at that!"
"You sure that stands for map folder?"
"Wow… "
By the time the crowd's excitement had died down, Sam had folded the map exactly as it had been, crease upon crease, fold upon fold. The crowd was so in awe, they broke out in spontaneous applause, and Sam's wife continued to smile.
After the tourists thanked him and the crowd died down, Sam and his wife began making their way towards the front of the arena, arm in arm.
"Honey, I never get tired of seeing you use your powers for good. I love you."
He kissed her nose and said, "Why don't we get out of here?"
They approached the exiting turnstile.
The cashier once again was manning the gate. She smiled and inserted her device. "That was a nice thing you did for that family back there."
"Thank you, kindly. We're going home now. You have a good evening."
"Uh, sir, just a minute. You need a ticket to get out."
"Oh, okay then. How much?"
"That'll be seven lipsticks, please."
I am writing this for whoever decides that they may be bored enough, or that it is their destiny to find me in such a condition, and it is for that impending condition that I truly apologize—for the inconvenience that this will undoubtedly cause you—and the work that lies ahead of you as a result, and while I am not unsympathetic to your plight, at this moment in time you understand that I could really give a rat's ass about the state of your mental health and well-being and have things more important pressing. For instance, my decay. Again, I apologize, but today is my birthday and I really feel it should be about ME.
It started with the promise that it would be just for a few months; while I settled into the pain.
"No, don't worry, it's not addicting," said Dr. Howser, as I sat half-covered in a gown made of paper so thin it could easily have proven I wasn't a natural blonde.
"You're certain?"
"No more so than that coke you rip up your nose every hour."
"Good. Get bent, and while you're at it, I'll be needing a refill on that as well."
"Just take it as directed, and you won't have any problems. I guarantee it," he said.
That was a full three years ago; when I trusted them to give me the caring, empathetic, unselfish, freely-giving and heartfelt comfort that I paid hard-borrowed money for.
I began with three times a day, as directed. Ziparoopadoopadol, while experimental, was a promising treatment and cure for earlobe cancer, so I was hopeful. At first I took just one, like I was told. Then after my body acclimated to that, I found I needed more to cope with the increasing pain—two, three times a day. Let me tell you, this was not a horrendous chore. Euphoria, relaxation and facial hair are the most widely noted side-effects, and I was no exception. Of course, I justified it by telling myself that it was because of the pain, and my increasing desire to become a transvestite. And by this time, the cancer increased to the point that I could no longer wear earrings, which killed my transvestite dream right there. I was in sheer hell…
Each day brought new challenges and terrors, however. "Someone said the world is under ether." I completely bought into Orzabal's edict, as I was now living it. No longer was I the sharp, witty, life of the party. My speech became slurred, my reaction times slower, and my blouse seemed to just pop open of its own volition; my moods drastically changed when I didn't have it—I constantly tried to refill long before it was time—so the day those towers went down, I laughed… .. That's when I knew I was out of control.
So here we are, in February, and I have a way out. Trust me when I tell you, that I have made my peace with those closest to me: my dry cleaner, my vet, and the man that makes those little plastic things on the ends of your shoe laces. That left only the penning of this letter, which I think I have pulled off quite nicely, and to my surprise, quite coherently.
That of course, leaves only the question of "Why." The breaking point came the day my invitation to the inaugural ball came. Formal. Black tie. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANT? EARRINGS!! I'm sorry, but a woman has her breaking point, and George Bush, Jr. was mine.
So by now, you have found me, no doubt looking fetching in my Manolo Blahniks, which I bought special for the occasion, and my Gaultier gown. I do have one request however, and that is to be careful and remove the Q-Tip from my nose before you take the coroner photos, since I never liked me in cotton; I was careful to never buy off the rack, and I at least want my life to stand for something.
Radio Shack, Earwax and Toilet-Paper
"I'll just drop you off while I run to Radio Shack next door. Pick you up in twenty." Words I have heard many times from my husband. I have been married to this man for almost ten years, and I still cannot fathom the fascination of entering a store that caters particularly to the gender who picks their ears with their keys.
But I just meekly nod and shut the door. The icy air catches my breath, and I grin wide. They are calling for a whole three inches today, which, for the deep south, is akin to a blizzard. The walk to the entrance is always an exercise in long-suffering, as I consistently end up walking behind some woman with a screaming baby who refuses to walk any further, a pack of stray dogs who mug me for meat, and since today is December first, an overzealous Salvation Army man who would rather be at home in front of his TV, watching Radio Shack commercials and picking his ears with his keys.
Today however, I simply pull my scarf around my face a little tighter, pretend that I am invisible to everyone but me, and plunge headfirst into the door.
The inevitable blast of warm air from the overhead blower makes me immediately grab for the neck scarf that I just got done adjusting, and I toss it into my pocket as I absentmindedly pray that I can locate a cart that doesn't look as if it barely survived Korea. I grab the handle. The metal of the bar is cold. Relentless. Unforgiving. Very adept at mirroring my mood today. Pretending that my dime store jeans (you know the ones with the fashionable white top-stitching that no one but your mother thought attractive) are really Tommy Hilfigers, I hold my head up a little higher, purpose in my heart to get this unnecessary and overdone ritual over with as soon as possible, and head for the first aisle.
My journey is cut short, however, by a set of strange, yet familiar sights and sounds coming from the milk and paper products aisles, and my chest tightens. "Not again," I mutter under my breath, as I vehemently push my cart toward the wailing and arguing.
There in front of the Dairy-land butter, are three very animated and angry women, too busy arguing over the last jug of milk to notice being watched by an invisible woman with ugly white top stitching on her jeans.
"ExCUSE me, but I was here first. I need that milk for my baby."
"Oh REALLY. I know for a fact that you have no children. I need this milk for my sick husband."
And a third lady sneaks in, "Well, unless your husband made a miraculous recovery, I don't think he'll care about the milk; I attended his funeral last year." The first two women declare her the winner and relinquish the jug.
I just shake my head in disbelief as I make like a Ninja toward the bread aisle. A similar scene is taking place there as well, except this time, the players are a minister, a college student and a five-year old kid who was sent by his mother—too busy pelting a poor old woman with M&Ms over the last box of Nutter Butter Peanut Butter Sandwich Cookies one aisle over.
Finally, I make my way over to the toilet paper aisle, and it is here that I am greeted with the most hideous act in this entire sordid theatre of the absurd: a retired man with a wooden cane, beating a young yuppie on a cell phone around the head and shoulders, in hopes that he will give up the last role of Charmin. I suddenly black out. When I come to, I find myself standing in my still empty cart, and I hear my voice shouting at the huge gathering crowd below.
"What in hell is the matter with you people? Have you just completely lost your minds? Have you nothing better to do than head to the local Kroger each and every time the weatherman detects a hint of snow in the forecast? It's only THREE INCHES! Get a life would ya? You think you people had never seen a snowflake before! As soon as there is one flake on the ground, you go running, kicking and screaming for the bread, milk and toilet paper. Which makes me wonder, who you people are, and why you spend your winters in the crapper eating bread and milk sandwiches!"
I stop. I listen to the silence. You know the one. The silence that told you you've tucked your dress up into your pantyhose and the president was looking. Everyone's heard it at least twice in their lifetime. The first was when you told your father that you wanted to quit business school, bum around Europe and "find yourself", and the second came when you told your mother flat out that you wanted to be a hooker. As everyone stands there staring at me, yelling that silence at me, I begin slowly backing away. I would have made it with a clean break too, if it isn't for that damned Korean shopping cart: the wheel sticks on a green M&M, flipping the cart over, pinning me right underneath it like a miniature bat cave. I can't move.
I sit there for the longest thirty seconds of my life, still listening to the silence. Suddenly, I hear a sound permeating that silence. It starts like a huge tidal wave from the back of the store and filters to the front. When it reaches the crowd staring at me, I recognize it immediately. It is applause. Wild cheering and clapping. A veritable stampede of applause. People shouting how they are glad that someone has the ovaries to speak out on this controversial issue. Whistling, cheering, whooping and hollering, all for me. ME. The invisible woman in the unforgiving mood with the white top stitching on the ugly jeans, married to the man who lives for Radio Shack and picks his ears with his keys. The next thing I know, some extremely handsome man is rescuing me from the rubble of the Korean shopping cart, kicking the offending M&M out of the way, and helping me to my feet, all while still managing to join in the applause. Then he hands me a role of toilet paper and the last jug of milk, and I feel like I've just been handed the crown and scepter. As the employees now join in the celebration and I walk toward the exit, the people part like the Red Sea, still applauding me like I am the Proctor & Gamble Messiah, and I leave the store in a dense fog, unsure of what just really happened. I look toward the curb, and waiting there like a faithful dog is my Radio Shack husband, and true to his nature, he's sitting there with our house key … .
"So. Are you alright?" He says to me with a hint of concern.
"Oh sure," is all I can mutter. "Why do you ask?"
"Well honey, you went in there for food, and all you are carrying is a jug of milk and a roll of Charmin."
"Yes. I fail to see your point," I said.
"You have no food. What happened in there?"
I sheepishly turn my eyes to his geeky face, and let out a long, heavy sigh. "You will never believe it."
"Try me."
I take a deep breath. "I forgot my list."
Justifiable Lack of Initiative
I have made a very successful career out of being rejected, and I'm pretty proud of that. It's not been easy work either, let me tell you. It takes real skill and talent to be told by everyone from your best friend, to your gardener, that your shoe possesses more talent than you do; that your work would be best displayed on the tag of your underwear, rather than on public bookshelves.
But I press on. Why? Because I'm an idiot. And I need new underwear.
If you've ever attempted to write, act or paint for a living, then you know the heartbreak of rejection. And dandruff. I just hate it when it flakes off on your collar. All that ink on your new white shirt… … .
Where was I? Oh yes, the heartbreak of being told "NO." There's no doubt—ours is a strange and wonderful bidness, accompanied by heights of ecstasy when we're successful, and depths of bird shite when we're not. It's those times of ornithological crap that I had trouble dealing with.
Until I figured out that I was going to be rejected more times than I was going to be accepted, and I decided that being rejected was something I could really get behind. It was an honorable way of life that I wanted to support. I had finally found something I was qualified for; something I had been training for my whole life, and something I was really good at. Hell, my dad even knew it. So that's what he meant each time he told me I'd never amount to anything. He was preparing me, molding me into the fantastic loser that you see before you now.
So. You've read thus far, and you're saying, "But I'm not to that point yet. How can I get to the point where I just don't care anymore what someone says about my work? Help me."
Well, that's okay, be patient. It takes intense preparation to become this lax in your overachieving goals. Don't expect to not care overnight. Give yourself some time to not give a shit. I'll run down a few of the "must haves" where being one of the most successfully rejected is key.
First, you must come from dysfunctional parents. The quickest way to not believe in yourself, is to have some narcissistic, self-aggrandizing, solipsistic bitch of a mother not care one whit about you. Learn quickly that as your mother, she just cannot be held responsible for your well-being.
Secondly, you must marry a dysfunctional partner. Again, continue that circle of lack of support, or this plan will not work. You must be relentless in your quest for rejection.
Thirdly, stop believing in yourself. And really, this comes easily enough if you have the first two foundational truths in your favor. Make self-absorbed whining a major part of your daily life. Make use of that dysfunctional partner, and play upon the selfish synergy being exchanged. You will be amazed at how quickly you'll embrace rejection.
Fourth, stop writing so much. It's that constant pursuit of perfection that ruins a perfectly good run of bad luck.
Fifth, begin reading idiotic, inspirational sayings daily, combined with constant psychic visits. Nothing kills the desire to over-achieve quicker than believing that it's the universe's job to make it happen for you and that you're not responsible for the hard work needed to accomplish something.
Well, you get the idea. These are a few of the biggest qualifications, but don't be disheartened if you were unlucky enough to come from a family that actually talked through a meal; from a family where your mother and father asked if you really did go to school that day, or even sent you to school. Don't give up if fate saw fit to curse you with bountiful loads of self-esteem. The good news is, ALL OF IT CAN BE REVERSED. You just have to want it badly enough.
I do hope I've enlightened how easy it is to pursue, and even fall in love with rejection. Now comes the hard part: waiting by a phone that will never ring, and enjoying it. Watching a mailbox that will never boil over with acceptance, and learning to celebrate it. Never again will you blame yourself for your lack of commitment to your art.
So what are you going to do now? That's right, get out there, shut off the computer, and watch some TV. Have a cookie and enjoy your lack of initiative. Make the best of it, for sooner or later, someone is going to actually like your stuff and want to publish it, and then where will you be?
All right, fine—you forced it out of me.
I believe it was Billy Graham's wife, that when asked the question, "Have you ever thought of divorce?" came back immediately with the quip, "No, but I have thought of murder."
It was two years ago. Just before Doubleday bought my first novel, and before I found myself contemplating the same solution as Billy's wife.
We were living in a one-room efficiency apartment. You know the kind, with the drop-the-damned-thing-on-your-foot-no-matter-what-you-do Murphy Bed, and the combination kitchen-slash-bathroom-slash entertaining area. I could actually soak my feet in the kitchen sink while enjoying my Sunday morning "quality time," and still have enough room to prepare a vegetable plate. We had to keep our laundry in our cars, and the cat was allowed to visit, but only on the weekends. Our mother-in-law detested the place and always refused to stay over. So we played the heroes and invited her as much as possible.
I love my wife dearly, don't get me wrong. It's just that… .I hate her. We are the kind of married that would take the hair off a sweater. The kind of married that if one of us farted, the other would say, "It was the dog."
She has never been very supportive of my career as a writer, and that's fair, since I've never been supportive of her career as a couch potato. But at least she does it well.
So when the time came for me to have my own writing space, I put my foot down, with her permission of course, and demanded one. She didn't take to the idea like I thought she would. And that's when the fencing began.
"You cannot be serious!" she said, one afternoon. "How pretentious is that? Look at you. You're 41, never held a serious job your entire life, and now you think you're some writing buff all of a sudden. Honey, it aint-a-gonna happen. Who do you think you are, Rob Walker?"
"Did you ever think of quitting your imaginary day job to become a comedian?"
"You're just jealous because I have a very full life," she said.
"You'd actually need to get up before noon and do something to have a full life," I said, very proud of myself.
"You know what your problem is?" she said.
"Oh puh-leeze, enlighten me."
"You never talk when I'm listening to you."
"All right. That's it. I've had enough of your self-aggrandizing, solipsistic BS for one day. Now, I am going to retire to a quiet corner of the house and do what I do best."
"Honey, the only people they pay for that kind of work, are sperm doners."
I picked up my laptop from the dining room table slash sink, pulled the kitchen towel-slash-toilet paper from the bottom of my shoe, and started to leave the room. "Oh, and another thing. You're wearing an ugly shirt."
"Best of luck writing the great American leaflet!"
I turned back to her. "You think this is funny? I need my own work space. It's pretty hard to compete with One Life to Live at one, Days of Our Lives at two, and Oprah at three."
"Fine. On Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays between the hours of 1:00 and 1:23 p.m., you can have the house for writing. Any room you wish."
"That's funny. You know we only have the one."
She ignored me. "And the rest of the week is mine."
"Tell me something. When you were little, were you dropped on your head, or thrown? How the hell am I supposed to get any work done in twenty-three minutes a day?"
"Well, you've pleasured me our entire marriage in just twenty-three seconds, so I'd say you have a real knack for operating within time constraints."
"You just never give up, do you? Always gotta have that last word."
"Do not," she said.
"Do too."
"Do not."
"Do too, stupid head."
"Do not, Rainman, now let's drop it."
"Hah. Fat chance. And let you have the last word? Never." I was not about to let this swamp insect in an ugly shirt get the upper hand. She did that automatically on the day she vowed, "I do." Did I already mention how ugly that shirt was?
"Do not."
"Oh would you just shut the hell up, hell?"
Well, I don't need to tell you that this inane exchange continued well into the evening, and the only reason it stopped then, was because I went to the store. I had to get out of that apartment-slash-walk-in closet, and look at something other than her face-slash-rear end, and that god-awful ugly shirt. Why was it ugly? Maybe because it was orange, with horizontal stripes of brown and pink, with tiny alligators all over it. I used to have one just like it, but I gave it away to the Salvation Army… .
When I returned some hours later, I carried in my hands the answer to all of my problems. I didn't dare tell her what I was doing, and worked well into the wee hours of the morning, opening boxes, making arrangements, rearranging, reading instructions, giggling like a school girl, opening more boxes, placing candles, until at last I was finished. Yes, I was excited, for I knew that very soon, my tiny corner of the world would summon my Muse, Sid, and together we would write some of the most brilliant prose that ever lived between two covers.
At three thirty a.m. exactly, I stood back and took one last look, surveying the fruits of my labor.
In the bathroom, behind the shower curtain… well, okay, it was in the tub. It was the bathtub! Are ya happy now?
And of course she took the news with the same oil of vitriol that you just did.
"So let me get this straight. When the shower curtain is pulled, I'm to assume that either means you're working, or giving your rubber ducky a workout. Got it," she said.
"Why do you have to make my life a living hell? Just tell me why."
She looked at me with a gleam in her eye. "It's relaxing."
"That's the last time I share something with you."
"Hmmmn. Kind of like our marriage bed, dontcha think?"
"Knock it off! You're fucking up my Chi!"
I stormed out of the living room-slash-pantry, and took a brisk two and a half steps into the bathroom, where I yelled back over my shoulder, "I am officially writing now! Don't bother me anymore, woman. I have serious work to do." All I heard from the other room was a snort.
I made a grand gesture of swishing the shower curtain shut in anger, but it just didn't have the same effect as slamming a door. Kind of the same let down you get when hanging up on someone with a push button phone.
I had my candles lit, all situated meticulously around the edge of the tub just like the Feng Sui book directed, my Japanese Tranquility water garden trickling so as to create kinetic energy, and my Zen garden, full of sand and pebbles ready to receive any cares or doubts that I felt like dumping. And speaking of dumping. Apparently, to one of the feline persuasion, it looked more like a litter box… .
It was the most perfect atmosphere to write that anyone would ever find. Well, as far as bathrooms-slash-tranquility rooms go. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and surrendered to whatever creativity Sid would graciously bestow on me. After thirty minutes of trying to reach Sid telepathically, I opened my eyes and stared at my blank screen for another thirty minutes, my fingers never touching the keys.
"Dammit."
"Now what's the matter?" she screeched from the other room.
"I'm blocked."
THE END.
About the author:
A child-prodigy in both fine art and music, Carla knew creativity would be a large part of her life. After finishing college with a BS in Trumpet Performance, an illness limited her trumpet time, so she fell back on her acting minor and began acting with a local theatre who wrote all their own original comedies. It was here she got her first taste of improvisation, and fell in love. Soon, she was studying with Second City in Chicago, as well as stand-up comedy. She was filming TV sitcoms, performing comedy at The Kennedy Centre in DC, and eventually was the first-call comedic actress for video work. While continuing to act, she was learning how to write effective comedy; began performing stand-up, and soon branched out into comedic fiction. She still performs regularly on-stage in plays, for video and film, improvisational comedy groups, stand-up comedy, and this winter will be touring her original one-woman comedy show. And the rest, as they say, is gut-busting, lung-popping, hysterical-head-aching comedic history.
Find her online:
The Official Web-Site for Carla René —future book releases, a schedule of upcoming live shows, and a bunch of crap no one cares about.
… And Another Thing! —Her official blog
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