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Dave says I'm a picky eater. That is simply not true.
I just have a difficult time eating anything that looks like what it originated from.
I can eat fish if it's shaped like a rectangle. Or a rhombus.
No problem.
But fished shaped like a fish? Impossible. I just can't do it. That fish was somebody’s MOTHER!
Which reminds me of one of my more tragic job interviews. My potential boss had taken me out to dinner after a long day of interviewing. In a fancy restaurant. That did not serve food shaped like Leggos.
I had just finished answering a question about my seven figure salary requirements when I noticed a movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned and let out a scream.
For there was a lobster slowly crawling toward me on a tray held by a waiter. The poor guy was trying to make a run for it. They had shackled his legs. He looked at me with the saddest eyes I’d ever seen. Begging me to help him.
“Catch of the day.”
“Huh?”
The waiter repeated himself. “Catch of the day. Would you like to order our Lobster?”
He looked like Sebastian.
“No!” I said, too loudly. People were starting to stare. “No, thank you.” I said.
I smiled at my potential future boss who was having second thoughts about me.
I think of that poor lobster every time I dine at a restaurant without a drive through.
As I did last night.
I looked over the menu. I wanted something shaped like a Three Musketeer’s bar. Something that would not remind me that it used to be alive.
There! I found something! Airline Chicken.
I’ve had chicken on an airplane before and it definitely did not look like a chicken. It was shaped like an eraser.
Yes. Airline Chicken. Perfectly safe. Perfectly rectangular.
So I ordered it.
And when the waiter delivered my meal I was appalled.
Please believe me when I tell you that the poor chicken’s leg bone was sticking right out of his breast.
I mean who does that that?
I should have ordered the lasagna.
In Motherhood Out Loud I played the part of a mom whose only child left for college.
I’d start the vignette by shouting over my son’s music playing loudly in the background. The music continued playing as I described myself as an overly-protective parent whose life revolved around my son.
I described the process of moving him into his dorm room and crying all the way home.
The most powerful part of the vignette is the description of returning home alone. "And then we got home. And then we heard this: the quiet."
The music abruptly stops and there is a long, uncomfortable silence on stage as I comprehend the absence of my son and his music.
We closed Motherhood Out Loud last night.
Finally.
For the past 6 weeks a typical day would be like this: leave for work at 6:30 AM. Work until 5-ish. Fight traffic to get home. Say hi to Dave. Take Kevin for a walk. Grab something to eat. Say bye to Dave. Go to rehearsal. Come home at 10:30. Go to bed. Wake up at 6 AM and start over.
I could barely keep my eyes open at work some days. I was really looking forward to May 24th, when I could finally get my life back.
Today is May 24. I woke up this morning with nothing to do. No lines to learn. No rehearsals. No costume to find. No bio to write. No shows.
And guess what? I feel a lot like the Mom I played just last night.
And then I heard this: the quiet.
My life is quiet again.
But, unlike the Mom I played last night, I am going to do something about it.
You got it:
Time to audition for another show!
Being beautiful can be a royal pain in the neck. Men hit on me ALL THE TIME.
I've tried wearing loose fitting clothes to hide my perfect body, but it really doesn’t deter them. My Hair Stockings are effective, as are my fake armpit toupees. But what if it’s too cold out for a skirt or sleeveless top?
Thankfully, I have discovered another option for averting advances. I'm pleased to report that I have sought and received medical advice. As a result, I should never again have to worry about unwanted advances.
Dr. Bukk's website contains a wide array of fake teeth which promise to drop me from a ten to a two.
(I know what you're thinking. Why not to a one? You can't expect miracles.)
There are 5 categories of teeth: Protruding, Mildly Annoying, Barf Alert, More Revolting, Halloween, and Cosmetic.
The hard part was choosing just one. I narrowed it down to four:
Summer Teef (Summer here and summer not.)
I also like The Final Four a lot. (
We all have our priorities. What good are they iffen y'all can't see 'em?)
I believe the Smoker Teeth would be effective as well.
I really like the convenient built-in cigarette holder.
When I saw the Incest Teeth I knew my search was over. It even comes with a free gum sore.
Incest Teeth are guaranteed to "clear out a crowd." Perfect!
The teeth come in two shades: normal and light. I picked the normal shade, as it is the color of pond scum.
I sure hope this works.
Some of these men are quite persistent.
It was an emotional few days. My sweet sister-in-law Evie had taken a turn for the worse and was on life support. My sisters and I got to Buffalo as quickly as we could.
We stayed at my double-cousin Di’s house. (Double in that our mothers were sisters and our fathers were brothers. Same gene pool.)
Now, one of my many
disabilities is that when I get emotional, my crying can turn into
giggling at the snap of a finger. And it doesn't take much.
Like when my sister and I were holding vigil at Evie’s bed side and the man in the blazer walked into the room and introduced himself as Sister Judith. And started to say a prayer.
I peed a little.
And when we were supposed to meet Di for dinner and were running late and my sister Jean Anne called the restaurant to let them know we would be late. And proceeded to order her salad in “Sally” fashion over the phone. Again, at Evie's bed side.
“I’ll take the Cobb salad, no bacon, extra tomatoes, hold the onions, substitute olives for croutons. And dressing on the side.”
I peed a little.
And when I escorted a sweet old lady who walked like ET to the ICU. The doors opened toward us and as she took a step into the room the doors began to close and catapulted her into the ICU not unlike a football through the goal posts at a Buffalo Bills Game.
Yep. I peed a little.
I had only one pair of jeans with me and I was beginning to smell like a day care center.
When I asked Di if I could wash my jeans at her house she laughed. Apparently, building a nuclear plant is less complicated than doing laundry there. Remember the game Mousetrap? You got the picture.
At the rinse cycle, Di has to command the water flow, adeptly turning the spigot off and on, off and on, off and on, to prevent the water from back-flowing into the shower or toilet.
When I offered to do it, Di quickly refused. Apparently, an individual requires a minimum of 120 hours of experience before he or she can safely operate the appliance without supervision.
So I tossed my jeans into the washer, and, just for grins, added my panties.
The next morning I found my clean jeans folded neatly over the dryer door. The dryer itself was filled to the brim with the rest of the clean laundry. I decided to remove and fold the contents of said dryer in search of my panties.
Hours later I finished folding the laundry. My panties were missing.
Uh-oh. Where could they have gone? Were they in a toilet somewhere? Or in the shower? Or somewhere between?
It took hours, but I finally found them in the most unlikely of places.
Just kidding. That would have made a great ending to this story. Lest you lose sleep, I will let you know that the panties did show up. I don't know the details, but it has something to do with a neighbor's dishwasher.
