OK, so here's the deal: I'm taking some time off from the blog for much of the rest of the next month, to concentrate on a novel and on some fabulous trips and on recovering my sanity. In place of new stuff here, I am posting The Best of Stuff from Sherry. (Or what I've been told is my best.) Have a suggestion of one you remember? Leave me a comment.
Here's one from last winter. Hope you enjoy (again):
"When you write the story," she begged, "do you promise to be discreet?"
I agreed, knowing that "discreet" is a vague term and that verbal contracts mean shit. But I am feeling benevolent tonight, so I will acquiesce and withhold her real name. Henceforth, I shall simply refer to her as the Drunken Wench.
A nor'easter on the shores of Lake Erie, with a threatened dump of snow, is nothing to reckon with. But we were four strong women, willing to sacrifice our wellbeing to attend a fund-raiser an hour away to help with the medical expenses for a family friend. Surely the God of Insufferable Winter Weather would acknowledge this goodness in our hearts. Besides, the evening promised great food and many drinks, and that is always OK by us. We're charitable that way.
Much merriment followed: lobster and laughter and witty conversation. Meanwhile, as promised, all hell was breaking loose outside. And then I realized we had a Drunken Wench on our hands.
Her shit-faced condition was unexpected, considering she'd consumed a full dinner and only three glasses of wine over several hours. But sometimes the God of Liquor just looks down and laughs and claims you as his own. After witnessing her gleeful conversations with less-than-gleeful strangers, and her Jello moves on the dance floor, I deduced it was time we left.
I was the designated driver. I grimaced, pushed my way through the knee-deep snowdrifts, cleaned off the SUV, and pulled up to the bar's entrance.
Lori and a third comrade, Lisa, climbed aboard. I peered into the rear view mirror, eying the sole empty seat. The Drunken Wench was not following protocol.
"Get in," I yelled through the open car door.
No response from curbside. Just a muffled giggle.
"What's the problem?"
"I can't get in. My legs are a little... rubbery." More giggles.
Lisa climbed out to help. Lori and I silently cheered her generous spirit—or her escalating impatience. We didn’t much care which it was. We cranked the heat and waited.
Over the howl of the nor'easter, we soon heard sounds of a more relentless force of nature. Let this be a lesson to you students of physics: Nothing is as unbudgable as a Drunken Wench with Rubbery Legs.
Lori sighed and joined them outside. I hunkered down in the driver's seat. I was already serving as designated driver. How selfless must I be?
Oh, the coaxing and pleas that ensued. "Grab my hand," "Just one more step," and "No, don't sit down in the snow, you might suffocate."
By now, the Drunken Wench managed to intoxicate her assistants with her laughter. (Their own consumed cocktails might have played some part.) I hadn't heard this much giggling since a sixth-grade slumber party. I knew futility when faced with it. I honked the horn. "Leave her here," I shouted. "We'll come back and get her tomorrow." My sympathetic nature was frostbitten. Did I mention it was cold?
Ten more minutes passed. In late night winter storm time, this equates to roughly six hours. My frozen hands managed to pry open my door. I took several giant steps through the snow. "Move aside," I growled at Lori.
Lori was happy to oblige. She had laughed so hard she'd peed her pants. They were already frozen to her legs. She'd be forced to peel them off later.
I stood on one side of the car and pushed. Lisa stood on the other side and pulled. We pushed. We pulled. The mass that was the Drunken Wench didn't appear to understand the law of physics. Still, we finally managed to get her half-sprawled across the back seat.
"OK, stop, stop, I'm good now. Let go," she slurred.
We hesitated before pulling our hands away. She slid off the seat into the snow.
But we heaved and we hoed again, and managed to get her entire torso back on the seat. Only her legs remained sticking out of the car. I offered a suggestion for this, but apparently no one was in possession of a chainsaw.
Lisa shrieked when I decided to simply shut the door on the protruding legs, cramming the Drunken Wench inside like one might sit on an overstuffed suitcase to close it. So I took, instead, to bending the legs. This way and that way. I squinted as I peered down at them. One didn't seem to be bent in an entirely natural position.
Regardless, she was in! I slammed the door, the howl of the wind masking the whimpering which was emitting from the back seat.
Sure, she'd be bruised the next day, the Drunken Wench. But she'd wake up in the comfort of a warm bed, not a blanket of snow in front of a downtown bar. Dislocated limbs aside, I figured she'd thank us for that.
And you can bet I'll think twice, before I ever again go out drinking with my mother.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
A Cupful of Memories
I grasp my grandmother's hand as we wait for the bus. She squeezes back, and I peer up at her. Even at age six, I recognize she's the kind of woman who draws admiring looks from others. Dark with high cheekbones and a slightly beaked nose, traces of her Algonquin Indian blood from generations past.
I do not know, until years later, the effort she makes each day to mask the wear her daily factory work takes on that beauty: the ointment she applies every night upon her face and arms, to soothe the wounds from the flying metal fragments embedded in her skin. The wigs she wears to cover the hair that grows thin from similar spots on her scalp.
In 1967, I realize none of that.
We climb on the bus for the ride from the Old South End to downtown Toledo. I've just become accustomed to my bus ride to my suburban school, where I'm in the first grade. This bus ride is markedly different. Grandma, who doesn't drive, appears used to this route and its array of passengers.
"Grandma," I announce with wide eyes, "look at all the chocolate people!"
"Shh," she whispers. "They're called colored people. You know, like Moms Mabley."
I nod, still staring at the dark woman across from us. I don't know any colored people. But I'm familiar with Moms Mabley, one of my grandma's favorite entertainers. Later, Grandma explains that we must be careful to show respect for everyone; that my words, even spoken out of innocence, could offend or hurt someone. I'll bet my grandmother has never hurt anyone's feelings. I don't wish to either.
Grandma rides the bus with a quiet dignity. I chatter away, like my mother and my mother's mother--my other grandmother. Grandma Stanfa smiles down at me. Unlike so many other adults I know, she answers my endless questions not just with patience, but with interest.
I'm one of three children and one of my grandmother's seven grandchildren, but today I feel special. I was allowed to pick out our supper menu, given a whole can of black olives to devour by myself, and even asked to choose today's movie: The Jungle Book. I know my sisters and cousins have had their own days like this with Grandma; we're probably all special to her. Yet that doesn't diminish my feelings.
I hesitate at the concession stand. I've been told Grandma doesn't have much money. I've learned that she's worked for many years at a factory job. She raised three sons without a husband to help her. Her first husband died of pneumonia. He was the father of my Uncle Bob, who still lives with Grandma and was in the Korean War and hears voices. I'm kind of afraid of Uncle Bob, but Grandma makes me feel safe. Her second husband was father to my dad and my Uncle Sonny. I don't know exactly what happened to him. My dad met him once, when he was three. I overheard the story. "You're doing a good job with the boys," he told my grandmother when he visited. Then, he was gone for good.
At the concession stand, Grandma insists I get something. I squint, considering, before ordering a grape drink, served in a plastic, purple fruit-shaped cup.
From my velvet-covered seat in the Pantheon theater, I stare mesmerized at the movie screen. The only sound I make is an occasional slurp through my straw. I look up to see my grandmother gazing down at me with a smile.
When we return to Grandma's house, she pours herself a drink. Whiskey. She lights a cigarette. When she's not looking, I stub it out in the ashtray. When I'm not looking, she lights another.
The next morning, we walk to Mass. I attend a Catholic grade school, but my parents aren't so religious about weekly Sunday services. Grandma's a good Catholic. The kind who goes to Mass every morning, seven days a week. The kind who doesn't remarry after a failed marriage and a long-gone husband, because the Church doesn't believe in divorce.
When my parents pick me up, I casually kiss my grandmother goodbye. I wave at her as I climb into our car. I leave her behind in her tiny two-bedroom house, with her freshly printed church bulletin, her pack of cigarettes and her schizophrenic grown son, for whom she will care until she dies in a hospital bed, seven years later.
Some people leave your life too soon. Often, years pass before you truly know them and can begin to understand them. Before you fully appreciate them for what you didn't know then and what you still remember now.
Sometimes, you wish you'd collected every one of those memories and saved them, perhaps in a purple, grape-shaped plastic cup.
I do not know, until years later, the effort she makes each day to mask the wear her daily factory work takes on that beauty: the ointment she applies every night upon her face and arms, to soothe the wounds from the flying metal fragments embedded in her skin. The wigs she wears to cover the hair that grows thin from similar spots on her scalp.
In 1967, I realize none of that.
We climb on the bus for the ride from the Old South End to downtown Toledo. I've just become accustomed to my bus ride to my suburban school, where I'm in the first grade. This bus ride is markedly different. Grandma, who doesn't drive, appears used to this route and its array of passengers.
"Grandma," I announce with wide eyes, "look at all the chocolate people!"
"Shh," she whispers. "They're called colored people. You know, like Moms Mabley."
I nod, still staring at the dark woman across from us. I don't know any colored people. But I'm familiar with Moms Mabley, one of my grandma's favorite entertainers. Later, Grandma explains that we must be careful to show respect for everyone; that my words, even spoken out of innocence, could offend or hurt someone. I'll bet my grandmother has never hurt anyone's feelings. I don't wish to either.
Grandma rides the bus with a quiet dignity. I chatter away, like my mother and my mother's mother--my other grandmother. Grandma Stanfa smiles down at me. Unlike so many other adults I know, she answers my endless questions not just with patience, but with interest.
I'm one of three children and one of my grandmother's seven grandchildren, but today I feel special. I was allowed to pick out our supper menu, given a whole can of black olives to devour by myself, and even asked to choose today's movie: The Jungle Book. I know my sisters and cousins have had their own days like this with Grandma; we're probably all special to her. Yet that doesn't diminish my feelings.
I hesitate at the concession stand. I've been told Grandma doesn't have much money. I've learned that she's worked for many years at a factory job. She raised three sons without a husband to help her. Her first husband died of pneumonia. He was the father of my Uncle Bob, who still lives with Grandma and was in the Korean War and hears voices. I'm kind of afraid of Uncle Bob, but Grandma makes me feel safe. Her second husband was father to my dad and my Uncle Sonny. I don't know exactly what happened to him. My dad met him once, when he was three. I overheard the story. "You're doing a good job with the boys," he told my grandmother when he visited. Then, he was gone for good.
At the concession stand, Grandma insists I get something. I squint, considering, before ordering a grape drink, served in a plastic, purple fruit-shaped cup.
From my velvet-covered seat in the Pantheon theater, I stare mesmerized at the movie screen. The only sound I make is an occasional slurp through my straw. I look up to see my grandmother gazing down at me with a smile.
When we return to Grandma's house, she pours herself a drink. Whiskey. She lights a cigarette. When she's not looking, I stub it out in the ashtray. When I'm not looking, she lights another.
The next morning, we walk to Mass. I attend a Catholic grade school, but my parents aren't so religious about weekly Sunday services. Grandma's a good Catholic. The kind who goes to Mass every morning, seven days a week. The kind who doesn't remarry after a failed marriage and a long-gone husband, because the Church doesn't believe in divorce.
When my parents pick me up, I casually kiss my grandmother goodbye. I wave at her as I climb into our car. I leave her behind in her tiny two-bedroom house, with her freshly printed church bulletin, her pack of cigarettes and her schizophrenic grown son, for whom she will care until she dies in a hospital bed, seven years later.
Some people leave your life too soon. Often, years pass before you truly know them and can begin to understand them. Before you fully appreciate them for what you didn't know then and what you still remember now.
Sometimes, you wish you'd collected every one of those memories and saved them, perhaps in a purple, grape-shaped plastic cup.
Monday, November 1, 2010
A New Gig
"I think I need a new gig." She fingered the stem of her wineglass, sighed, took a slow sip. "You know? Something different. Something new."
I nodded. "You mean a new job?"
"I don't know. Yes. Maybe. Maybe not. I just need a way to jump-start my life, a way to reinvent myself."
"A new house? A move to a new city?" I squinted, studying her, seeking to comprehend.
"Yeah, all of that. Or none of it. I don't know, really." She sipped more wine and frowned, her eyes focused on the distant horizon, searching for something beyond her vision.
"Yes." I nodded again. I understood.
Nearly all of us understand that, don't we, at some point in our life? Some vague sensation of discomfort and unrest which we wish to overcome and repair. We don't know what we want or need, exactly. And even if we're fortunate enough to figure out that much, something often stands in our way of initiating the means to change it. Uncertainty. Fear. Weakness. Simple inertia.
"So, what do you really want most in your life?" I prodded her. "The comfort of a relationship? The challenge of a new career? The excitement of different surroundings?"
She bit her bottom lip. "Do I have to choose? Can't I have it all?"
I shrugged. "Perhaps. Some people believe they do."
"But how do I get it?"
"Well, I think you first need to decide what you want. And then you need to take the necessary steps toward it."
"So I need to figure out what I want?"
"Yes."
"OK. That's easy."
"And?"
She sighed again. "I want a new gig."
The questions are simple, for all of us. For most, the answers don't come so easily.
I nodded. "You mean a new job?"
"I don't know. Yes. Maybe. Maybe not. I just need a way to jump-start my life, a way to reinvent myself."
"A new house? A move to a new city?" I squinted, studying her, seeking to comprehend.
"Yeah, all of that. Or none of it. I don't know, really." She sipped more wine and frowned, her eyes focused on the distant horizon, searching for something beyond her vision.
"Yes." I nodded again. I understood.
Nearly all of us understand that, don't we, at some point in our life? Some vague sensation of discomfort and unrest which we wish to overcome and repair. We don't know what we want or need, exactly. And even if we're fortunate enough to figure out that much, something often stands in our way of initiating the means to change it. Uncertainty. Fear. Weakness. Simple inertia.
"So, what do you really want most in your life?" I prodded her. "The comfort of a relationship? The challenge of a new career? The excitement of different surroundings?"
She bit her bottom lip. "Do I have to choose? Can't I have it all?"
I shrugged. "Perhaps. Some people believe they do."
"But how do I get it?"
"Well, I think you first need to decide what you want. And then you need to take the necessary steps toward it."
"So I need to figure out what I want?"
"Yes."
"OK. That's easy."
"And?"
She sighed again. "I want a new gig."
The questions are simple, for all of us. For most, the answers don't come so easily.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
A Waste of Time
I see by the calendar that it's nearly time, once again, to turn back our clocks. The downside, of course, is 5 p.m. sunsets. The upside is an extra hour of sleep, on one morning out of the entire year. I'll take it.
Not that any mornings, for people like me, are welcomed with bright, sunshiny faces. Some of us take to mornings like Jon Stewart takes to Glenn Beck.
I've come to realize the world is divided into two kinds of people: There are morning people, and then there are people who say, "WTF? Can't I sleep just one more hour?"
Like most morning-challenged individuals, I attempt to cope. For starters, I've eliminated a host of little tasks many people needlessly assign to the early a.m. hours.
I prepare my lunches in the evening. I bathe before bedtime. I even lay out the next day's wardrobe the night before. (Warning: Do NOT attempt this after consuming several drinks. I assure you, by 2 p.m., you will be reconsidering that houndstooth blazer with the fuschia and lime green striped T-shirt which appeared perfectly matched the prior night.)
Sadly, however, not all morning tasks can be allocated to the previous evening. Midnight snacks of cold pizza or an entire box of Wheat Thins aside, most of us need to eat something soon after waking. This, my friends, is why God invented the office vending machine. Or, on a really good day, leftover bagels from an early morning meeting which fortuitously, was not on our calendars.
Makeup, well, that's a nagging issue. I've considered skipping it altogether. But I fear if I attempted a day at the office sans-makeup, my coworkers would flee from the building, shrieking like hapless teenagers in the movie The Night of the Living Dead. Consequently, I apply my makeup each day like any normal woman should--on my drive to work. (What? Do you know a better way to occupy yourself at red lights? I'm all about time management, people!)
By implementing each of these time-saving steps, I've whittled down my morning regimen to roughly twenty minutes. Up at 7:30, out of the house by 7:50, to work by 8:20. Give or take a bit for traffic jams. Or for a few more minutes of sleep.
And you people who start your mornings--BY CHOICE--at 6 a.m.? Because you want to prepare and enjoy a bacon and egg breakfast? Or watch television? Or empty your dishwasher?
Well, don't judge me, you freaks of nature. Because next spring, when the Time Gods mess with us again, you'll be waking up at five! And even you morning people will be whining then.
Don't call me to complain. I don't answer my phone before 7:30, give or take an hour.
But I will take your call in the car on my way to work--as soon as I finish with my mascara.
Not that any mornings, for people like me, are welcomed with bright, sunshiny faces. Some of us take to mornings like Jon Stewart takes to Glenn Beck.
I've come to realize the world is divided into two kinds of people: There are morning people, and then there are people who say, "WTF? Can't I sleep just one more hour?"
Like most morning-challenged individuals, I attempt to cope. For starters, I've eliminated a host of little tasks many people needlessly assign to the early a.m. hours.
I prepare my lunches in the evening. I bathe before bedtime. I even lay out the next day's wardrobe the night before. (Warning: Do NOT attempt this after consuming several drinks. I assure you, by 2 p.m., you will be reconsidering that houndstooth blazer with the fuschia and lime green striped T-shirt which appeared perfectly matched the prior night.)
Sadly, however, not all morning tasks can be allocated to the previous evening. Midnight snacks of cold pizza or an entire box of Wheat Thins aside, most of us need to eat something soon after waking. This, my friends, is why God invented the office vending machine. Or, on a really good day, leftover bagels from an early morning meeting which fortuitously, was not on our calendars.
Makeup, well, that's a nagging issue. I've considered skipping it altogether. But I fear if I attempted a day at the office sans-makeup, my coworkers would flee from the building, shrieking like hapless teenagers in the movie The Night of the Living Dead. Consequently, I apply my makeup each day like any normal woman should--on my drive to work. (What? Do you know a better way to occupy yourself at red lights? I'm all about time management, people!)
By implementing each of these time-saving steps, I've whittled down my morning regimen to roughly twenty minutes. Up at 7:30, out of the house by 7:50, to work by 8:20. Give or take a bit for traffic jams. Or for a few more minutes of sleep.
And you people who start your mornings--BY CHOICE--at 6 a.m.? Because you want to prepare and enjoy a bacon and egg breakfast? Or watch television? Or empty your dishwasher?
Well, don't judge me, you freaks of nature. Because next spring, when the Time Gods mess with us again, you'll be waking up at five! And even you morning people will be whining then.
Don't call me to complain. I don't answer my phone before 7:30, give or take an hour.
But I will take your call in the car on my way to work--as soon as I finish with my mascara.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Promises, Promises
As election day approaches, do you grow weary and wary of dirty politics and ill-fated campaign promises? Do you tire of political candidates who are so full of bullshit they could fertilize every farm field in the nation?
The solution is only two years away. I slouch before my computer today to announce my candidacy for President of the United States in 2012.
First thing on my agenda: outlawing this "gay" marriage stuff. Who's kidding who? Because no one should feel light-hearted and happy after twenty years of picking up a spouse's dirty underwear. (Oh, did I misunderstand the question?)
I will give a nod to my own version of universal health care. And read my lips, "No new taxes!" This cost will be fully covered by charging your own doctor for every minute you wait past your scheduled appointment time. Additional hefty fees will also be assessed to any physician office requiring patients to step on a scale. Finally, painless and affordable health care for everyone!
If I'm elected, millions of Americans who spend grueling days in thankless jobs--as well as stay-at-home parents with thankless children--will receive a special perk: free housecleaning services. Yes indeed, your toilets will be cleaned, free of charge, by those slacker citizens who didn't bother to take ten minutes to vote. I'm calling it the "Don't Dare to Complain that Your Life's Now in the Shitter" law.
Lastly, I will make great strides toward world peace by forcing terrorists and world leaders who can't play nice to watch Barney the Purple Dinosaur sing "I love you, you love me, we're a happy family" on continuous loop for thirty days straight.
Believe me, this is one political candidate who won't back off her promises (unless a publisher offers me a book deal to retract my entire platform) and won't take bribes (unless they're really lucrative).
I ask you: Are you hungering for a new type of leader? One who has the courage to openly acknowledge her blemished background and clearly questionable judgment? If so, then I'm your (wo)man.
I'm Sherry Stanfa-Stanley, and after consuming a few drinks tonight, I approve this message.
The solution is only two years away. I slouch before my computer today to announce my candidacy for President of the United States in 2012.
First thing on my agenda: outlawing this "gay" marriage stuff. Who's kidding who? Because no one should feel light-hearted and happy after twenty years of picking up a spouse's dirty underwear. (Oh, did I misunderstand the question?)
I will give a nod to my own version of universal health care. And read my lips, "No new taxes!" This cost will be fully covered by charging your own doctor for every minute you wait past your scheduled appointment time. Additional hefty fees will also be assessed to any physician office requiring patients to step on a scale. Finally, painless and affordable health care for everyone!
If I'm elected, millions of Americans who spend grueling days in thankless jobs--as well as stay-at-home parents with thankless children--will receive a special perk: free housecleaning services. Yes indeed, your toilets will be cleaned, free of charge, by those slacker citizens who didn't bother to take ten minutes to vote. I'm calling it the "Don't Dare to Complain that Your Life's Now in the Shitter" law.
Lastly, I will make great strides toward world peace by forcing terrorists and world leaders who can't play nice to watch Barney the Purple Dinosaur sing "I love you, you love me, we're a happy family" on continuous loop for thirty days straight.
Believe me, this is one political candidate who won't back off her promises (unless a publisher offers me a book deal to retract my entire platform) and won't take bribes (unless they're really lucrative).
I ask you: Are you hungering for a new type of leader? One who has the courage to openly acknowledge her blemished background and clearly questionable judgment? If so, then I'm your (wo)man.
I'm Sherry Stanfa-Stanley, and after consuming a few drinks tonight, I approve this message.
Friday, October 15, 2010
What We Take Away
Such a beautiful service, we murmur. The eulogy was so touching. Everyone seemed to be holding up well, considering. She looked good, peaceful, didn't she?
We wipe away our last tears and stuff the tissues in our pockets. We hug a cousin we haven't seen since his wedding ten years ago, and likely won't see again until another occasion like this. We take one last glance at the casket.
We wander to the parking lot, our throats tight and our chests heavy. Yet we're still somehow buoyed by the day's exchange of warm memories. Comforted by those who shared our loved one's life and now, our grief.
As we climb in our cars, grasping the hand of our spouse or our child or our friend, we know the reality of our loss hasn't quite hit us. We will resume our life tomorrow, as we must. And in a few days, or perhaps a few weeks, the void will surface with a jolt. It will rip a hole within us. We will suddenly miss her smile. Her phone calls. Her quick wit that left us in giggles. Her warm embrace which now leaves us with empty arms.
The grief that follows the loss of someone we love never fully disappears.
But in the best of relationships, some bits of that individual linger behind forever: what we learned from them, how they enhanced our life, who they helped us become.
We will always carry that with us. Mere mortality can never rob us of the gifts they gave us in their lifetime.
What was taken from us will be outweighed, always, by what we were able to take away from them.
We wipe away our last tears and stuff the tissues in our pockets. We hug a cousin we haven't seen since his wedding ten years ago, and likely won't see again until another occasion like this. We take one last glance at the casket.
We wander to the parking lot, our throats tight and our chests heavy. Yet we're still somehow buoyed by the day's exchange of warm memories. Comforted by those who shared our loved one's life and now, our grief.
As we climb in our cars, grasping the hand of our spouse or our child or our friend, we know the reality of our loss hasn't quite hit us. We will resume our life tomorrow, as we must. And in a few days, or perhaps a few weeks, the void will surface with a jolt. It will rip a hole within us. We will suddenly miss her smile. Her phone calls. Her quick wit that left us in giggles. Her warm embrace which now leaves us with empty arms.
The grief that follows the loss of someone we love never fully disappears.
But in the best of relationships, some bits of that individual linger behind forever: what we learned from them, how they enhanced our life, who they helped us become.
We will always carry that with us. Mere mortality can never rob us of the gifts they gave us in their lifetime.
What was taken from us will be outweighed, always, by what we were able to take away from them.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
The Monster in the House
A monster dwells in my house.
It's resided here for many years, since that day I unwittingly welcomed it into my home. I harbored a tad of trepidation even then, yet I hoped this harmless appearing thing might be of some value to my life.
I greatly underestimated its power--the terror it could instill, the carnage that would linger after each of our battles.
I contained the monster to a single room and did my best to avoid it. But it remained a lurking evil in the corner, and from time-to-time, I was forced to confront my fear and face it head-on.
Tonight, I know I must once again summon my courage.
Oh how I long for some protective suit of armor. Heavy armor serves no purpose, however, in our terror-filled showdowns. Inexplicably, I must approach the monster while I'm nearly naked.
My bare skin prickles tonight as I enter the room.
Although the monster is mute, I swear it growls as I eye it. I hear an inhuman rumble of evil laughter.
I so want to squash it like a spider. But stepping on this monster only enhances its power. This much I know, even as I am forced to do what I must to see the battle through to its finish.
I step forward.
The monster's red eyes begin to glow. My fear intensifies, and I shield my eyes. Then, I force myself to turn back. I stand tall, peer down and confront the enemy.
My God, the horror.
I leap away. I scream and flee through the house. I collapse on the couch. I whimper and gasp for breath.
The trauma is all consuming.
Seriously, my bathroom scale has got to go.
It's resided here for many years, since that day I unwittingly welcomed it into my home. I harbored a tad of trepidation even then, yet I hoped this harmless appearing thing might be of some value to my life.
I greatly underestimated its power--the terror it could instill, the carnage that would linger after each of our battles.
I contained the monster to a single room and did my best to avoid it. But it remained a lurking evil in the corner, and from time-to-time, I was forced to confront my fear and face it head-on.
Tonight, I know I must once again summon my courage.
Oh how I long for some protective suit of armor. Heavy armor serves no purpose, however, in our terror-filled showdowns. Inexplicably, I must approach the monster while I'm nearly naked.
My bare skin prickles tonight as I enter the room.
Although the monster is mute, I swear it growls as I eye it. I hear an inhuman rumble of evil laughter.
I so want to squash it like a spider. But stepping on this monster only enhances its power. This much I know, even as I am forced to do what I must to see the battle through to its finish.
I step forward.
The monster's red eyes begin to glow. My fear intensifies, and I shield my eyes. Then, I force myself to turn back. I stand tall, peer down and confront the enemy.
My God, the horror.
I leap away. I scream and flee through the house. I collapse on the couch. I whimper and gasp for breath.
The trauma is all consuming.
Seriously, my bathroom scale has got to go.
Monday, October 4, 2010
I Could Have Died on the Spot!
Join me, if you will, in a little game I like to call, "How Freaking Embarrassing Was That?" also known as "Oh My God, I Could Have Died on the Spot!"
I'll go first.
Mid-career and pre-children, I decided that perhaps I'd missed my true calling and should have been an actress. I took a series of acting lessons at the local repertoire theater, and was encouraged in my pursuits by the teacher. I boldly headed off to my first audition.
I knew I possessed a keen memory for dialogue (although not for remembering what I ate at lunch yesterday) and could feign an array of emotions and expressions with ease. Speaking on stage I could well handle.
But singing and dancing? Not so much. Not even a little.
My confidence fled the auditorium the moment they inexplicably asked a group of us to dance. It was a simple Do-Si-Do. I could manage that, I tried to convince myself. However, while everyone else was Do-ing, I found myself Si-ing. Over and over again. For what seemed like several painful weeks. I prayed that, amidst the onstage crowd of would-be actors, the audition committee somehow wouldn't detect my total lack of coordination.
Then I was prompted back onstage to sing. A solo.
Any thought of redeeming myself disappeared as I ran through my very best rendition of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen." Oh yes, the gentlemen--and ladies--of the audition committee, the sole audience members sitting in the sixth row of the theater, they soon appeared merry enough. In fact, they were practically convulsed in laughter: peering up at me, nudging each other, and chuckling among themselves.
I didn't stick around to hear about call-backs.
The horror remains with me to this day. No one can top that, I tell my embarrassing story-telling comrades.
But wait--Glo has a tale to tell too.
It was Christmas, and she was in charge of coordinating the annual office party: decorating, planning refreshments, and ensuring that everyone was invited. The newest departmental graduate assistant passed her in the hallway that day. He was a shy and timid student; she was the warm, welcoming type. She wanted to make a point of personally inviting him.
"Don't forget about the Christmas party this afternoon," she told him with a bright smile. "We're having cookies and punch!" Except that wasn't exactly what she said. What happened was that her words became churned within some strange verbal blender of sorts, and what poured out of her mouth instead was, "We're having pookies and cunts!"
The horrific realization of her error hit her as soon as the words left her mouth, and she could do nothing more than simply keep walking past him.
He never showed at the party.
Oh. My. God. My story-telling comrades and I are hushed in empathetic horror.
Until John chimes in.
"I can top that."
John had met a young guy at a party, introduced by a mutual friend. He hadn't quite caught the stranger's last name, so politely asked, "Sorry, what was your name again?"
When the young man repeated it, John squinted and said, "Oh, was that (name redacted)?" Then, to further clarify his understanding, he tried spelling it and added, "like that guy who was all over the news a couple years ago for (redacted very lewd behavior)?"
"Um, yeah," the young man replied.
John paused. "Oh." He managed a nervous laugh. "So, you're not related to that guy or anything, are you?"
"Yeah," the stranger who might have otherwise become a friend answered. "Actually, he's my father."
My story and Glo's? Trumped. Right there.
We'd have died on the spot for him.
Any humiliation you care to share?
I'll go first.
Mid-career and pre-children, I decided that perhaps I'd missed my true calling and should have been an actress. I took a series of acting lessons at the local repertoire theater, and was encouraged in my pursuits by the teacher. I boldly headed off to my first audition.
I knew I possessed a keen memory for dialogue (although not for remembering what I ate at lunch yesterday) and could feign an array of emotions and expressions with ease. Speaking on stage I could well handle.
But singing and dancing? Not so much. Not even a little.
My confidence fled the auditorium the moment they inexplicably asked a group of us to dance. It was a simple Do-Si-Do. I could manage that, I tried to convince myself. However, while everyone else was Do-ing, I found myself Si-ing. Over and over again. For what seemed like several painful weeks. I prayed that, amidst the onstage crowd of would-be actors, the audition committee somehow wouldn't detect my total lack of coordination.
Then I was prompted back onstage to sing. A solo.
Any thought of redeeming myself disappeared as I ran through my very best rendition of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen." Oh yes, the gentlemen--and ladies--of the audition committee, the sole audience members sitting in the sixth row of the theater, they soon appeared merry enough. In fact, they were practically convulsed in laughter: peering up at me, nudging each other, and chuckling among themselves.
I didn't stick around to hear about call-backs.
The horror remains with me to this day. No one can top that, I tell my embarrassing story-telling comrades.
But wait--Glo has a tale to tell too.
It was Christmas, and she was in charge of coordinating the annual office party: decorating, planning refreshments, and ensuring that everyone was invited. The newest departmental graduate assistant passed her in the hallway that day. He was a shy and timid student; she was the warm, welcoming type. She wanted to make a point of personally inviting him.
"Don't forget about the Christmas party this afternoon," she told him with a bright smile. "We're having cookies and punch!" Except that wasn't exactly what she said. What happened was that her words became churned within some strange verbal blender of sorts, and what poured out of her mouth instead was, "We're having pookies and cunts!"
The horrific realization of her error hit her as soon as the words left her mouth, and she could do nothing more than simply keep walking past him.
He never showed at the party.
Oh. My. God. My story-telling comrades and I are hushed in empathetic horror.
Until John chimes in.
"I can top that."
John had met a young guy at a party, introduced by a mutual friend. He hadn't quite caught the stranger's last name, so politely asked, "Sorry, what was your name again?"
When the young man repeated it, John squinted and said, "Oh, was that (name redacted)?" Then, to further clarify his understanding, he tried spelling it and added, "like that guy who was all over the news a couple years ago for (redacted very lewd behavior)?"
"Um, yeah," the young man replied.
John paused. "Oh." He managed a nervous laugh. "So, you're not related to that guy or anything, are you?"
"Yeah," the stranger who might have otherwise become a friend answered. "Actually, he's my father."
My story and Glo's? Trumped. Right there.
We'd have died on the spot for him.
Any humiliation you care to share?
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