I just found out that I am too stupid to live. This saddened me because I’d always thought I was fairly smart. But I did something idiotic that crushed my ego flatter than an old Buick at a salvage yard.
In bed last night I felt an overwhelming need. I turned to my husband and said, “Honey, I need—chocolate.” An earlier foraging mission revealed the kitchen was bare, not even a pair of half-nibbled rabbit ears left over from Easter. “Would you do an emergency run?”
What I find difficult is the forced familiarity. I know things about my neighbors that strangers should not know about each other, things that should only be shared after a late-night Jacuzzi session with three or four mojitos.
Making excuses is not one of my shortcomings; actually I’m quite good at it. My excuses are not the impossible-to-prove, dog-ate-my-homework variety; mine are unimpeachable exonerations that include indisputable proof. Continue reading “Excuses, Excuses”
Calling my first house a fixer-upper puts too nice a spin on it. Besides being a dump, it had been decorated by Bad Taste, Inc. But I wasn’t complaining. The faux knotty-pine dinning room paneling, the gold-vein mirror tiled bedroom, and the blue cow living room wallpaper were the reason the house sold way below market.
One day while driving down Beach Boulevard, I passed a typical strip mall where one shop had a huge sign that read: Caskets, Urns and Gravemarkers: Direct to the Public. I don’t know about you, but I hate buying those things indirectly.
Then, I passed the usual conclave of psychic palm readers, the last of which also sells ceiling fans and vitamins, and on that corner, under the billboard advertising Actors and Models for Christ, I spotted something . . . unusual: Lady Liberty waiting for a bus.
When I was eight I told my mother I wanted to grow up and join the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. “That’s great, Honey,” she said. “You go for it.” Years later, I learned of her deceit. How was I supposed to know you had to be Mormon? Continue reading “I Still Believe”
As a costume designer I dreamed of doing Shakespeare. How then did I become the personal costumer for a pair of ice-skating chimpanzees? Oh, yeah. The mortgage. Continue reading “Monkey Business”