Imagine my surprise when I tuned into “Wheel of Fortune” and discovered youāre the new host!
Where the fuck is Pat Sajak? He could teach you a few things about show business! You have a nice smile and might have a future ahead in commercials.
Youāre a cutie-pie; I wouldnāt mind a roll in the hay with you, thatās for damn sure. Next time you’re in Wichita, stop by Dorisā Donuts ā simplicity at its tastiest!
Itās been 16 years but I can remember everything about that night.
We were out to dinner with our friends Lily & Mac and Karen & Rob. I had been feeling a little anxious the whole day but figured Iād be fine at dinner ā after all, these were people I knew and loved and who knew and loved me. Sitting at the table I was uneasy but hoped the feeling would subside.
It didnāt. It continued to build as I sat surrounded by a room full of seemingly stress-free people laughing and enjoying themselves while I was ready to bolt. I was with friends Iāve known for years and I was freaking out, convinced everyone knew something was wrong.
There I was, not only stressing over life in general but stressing over the fact that I was stressing and everyone knew it and they were just waiting for me to explode. I figured I had four choices: I could fake it and try to pretend everything was ok; have a meltdown, which would make us all uncomfortable and solve nothing; I could say I had a headache and go home ā after all, everyone leaves their table for one reason or another; or I could face the truth and tell my friends how I was feeling. I chose the last approach. Apprehensively, not knowing how anyone would react, I told my friends I was having a panic attack.
No one had a clue.
What happened next was incredible. By admitting the truth, revealing my fear and vulnerability, everyone embraced me (not physically, of course ā that would have been weird) but they all let me know it was ok. Whatever I wanted to do was ok. And more important than anything else, they did not judge me.
I chose to stay. Immediately, Karen reached into her purse, handed me the business card of her psychologist and said āCall herā. Lily then told me she also went to the same psychologist and quietly poured out her heart to me, unburdening herself while simultaneously letting me know I wasnāt alone. I was so engrossed in what Lily was telling me, I didnāt even realize my anxiety had passed. I had eaten my dinner and people were ordering dessert. The evening actually wasnāt a disaster.
The next day Lily called to check on me. Iāll never forget what she said: āYou know, I was sitting next to you and I didnāt notice anything wrong. You looked perfectly fine and if you hadnāt said anything we never would have known.ā
That was amazing to me! No one noticed the ticking time bomb at the table.
What a huge eye-opener that was. It made me realize that how I perceive myself is not necessarily how others perceive me. Being stoic and trying to hide my anxiety isnāt helpful; in fact, it could make things worse. Opening myself up and exposing my vulnerability showed me itās ok to let others know āHey, Iām freaking out right now and I need help.ā
I learned a valuable life lesson that night:Ā Let it out and let someone in.Ā
The exact year escapes me but it was a long time ago, to be sure. It was the summer we returned from vacation to find our tomatoes had ripened into gorgeous red orbs ready for eating. I could practically smell that grassy-green, spicy-sweet summery aroma. But something seemed wrong, off somehow. I felt like I was not alone in my garden, like I was being watched. Taking a closer look, I discovered disturbingly large caterpillars feasting on our lovely harvest. The bloated green creatures blended in so well with the underside of the leaves, it took a few seconds to register why our crop was full of gaping holes. Probing, boring, ravaging, gorging, hoarding. No tomato was salvaged that summer. Not one. That was the year I stopped planting tomatoes.
garden interlopers devastation signaling summerās end
When my kids played the whole house would shake like an eight point earthquake and the coins in their piggy bank would reverberate as the crystal glasses in the dining room breakfront did the hippy hippy shake and I baked an earthquake cake
It had been quite a long while since Rob and I had a chance to take a vacation, to escape the madness of the city to someplace remote and peaceful. Skiing sounded like a good idea, a break after the unbearably hot summer. All we wanted was a little get-away to relax and unwind.
Our Google search brought us to a place called Marmot Basin located in Jasper, an alpine town in Canadaās Alberta province. The photos were breathtaking; the area was one of the most natural and unsoiled landscapes weād ever seen. The site said Jasper was āan authentic mountain community that managed to retain a cozy, warm and ārealā atmosphere with a laid-back vibeā. It was also one of North Americaās largest protected nature preserves. It would be great to get lost for a few days, forget about our hectic lives.
The flight to Jasper was interminable; eight hours with a connection in Denver. The time change did a number on us physically but our welcoming and romantic chateau more than made up for the tedious travel. It was rustic yet charming with beamed ceilings, comfy furniture and a huge fireplace. We spent our first night snuggled up in bed.
Right after breakfast the next morning we set out for a day of skiing. Hoping to find a secluded trail, we consulted one of the guides who gave us a couple of suggestions. We headed out, delighted to see a pristine layer of powdery snow. Looking around we realized we were the only people in the area and there was nothing in sight except evergreens on the hillside.
We started off slowly then gradually picked up speed; the conditions were perfect. About twenty minutes into our run we came upon a split in the trail. Taking a break, Rob leaned against a tree and consulted a map, deciding which way we should go. Suddenly we felt movement beneath our feet and the ground gave way in what sounded like a whispering waterfall. In an instant we were tumbling down, enveloped by cascades of snow.
It seemed like an eternity before I came to a stop. I was unable to move but realized I was still clutching my pole. Somehow I managed to wrangle my arm free from under my body and began whacking the snow above me. I didnāt know if I was under three feet of snow or thirty; I had to try to free myself. Snow kept falling on me as I hacked away. Slowly my grave became brighter and I realized a magicsliver of sunlight was peeking through. I heaved myself into an upright position and broke through the snow.
It was a struggle but I managed to climb out and started yelling for Rob. All I heard was my echo; everything was deathly silent. I found my phone in the inside pocket of my ski suit and dialed Robās number hoping to hear his phone ring; I heard nothing. Checking my phone I saw there was no cell service in the area; I couldnāt even call for help. Gingerly I walked around a bit, all too aware the ground could give way at any moment. My only hope was to try to find help.
I must have walked for miles; the sun had set and I found myself surrounded by trees. I had no idea where I was. Exhausted, I fell to my knees, sobbing. If Rob was still buried in the snow there was no chance of finding him alive.
Through my tears I thought I saw a glimmer of light. I squinted and could barely make out the shape of a cabin in the woods. Was it real or magic? Was I hallucinating? I had to keep moving or I would surely die during the frigid night. Slowly I got to my feet and walked toward the light, praying it was not an illusion. I was so very tired; if only I could close my eyes just take a little rest before I continued. It was so bitterly cold.
We visited the Poe Cottage this week, former home of the poet Edgar Allan Poe. Itās about a 30 minute drive from my house and I thought my two teenage grandchildren would enjoy the walk-around since theyāre both reading the works of Poe in school.
Itās a quaint old place with small bedrooms, a common kitchen-parlor-dining room downstairs and an upstairs loft. My 6ā tall grandson questioned how a grown man could sleep in the tiny bed.
At one point I realized my grandson had gone missing. Imagine my embarrassment when he was found napping in Poeās bed!
Yesterday was our anniversary, wed 52 years. No partynecessary.
None of our friends who married around the same time are still together. How sad is that?
People have asked āWhatās the secret to a long and happy marriage?ā For us itās pretty simple: respect, communication, honesty, having a sense of humor.
When you combine those ingredients, love happens. You can manage the lows and celebrate the peaks, watch the dawns and the sunsets, walk hand-in-hand through the ordinary and make it extraordinary.
Growing up, it was just me and my sister ā two girls doing girl things. And while we werenāt always best of friends, it was just the two of us. It wasnāt my fault that my mother went into labor smack in the middle of my sisterās 4th birthday party; after making a hasty departure for the hospital, my mother arrived just in time for me to be born ā¦. on my sisterās birthday ā¦. and sheās never really forgiven me. I mean, she says she has but deep down thereās resentment. But I digress.
Bitterness for being born on her birthday aside, we managed to get along ok. And we both had a bunch of little girlfriends whoād come over the house to play and swim in our pool. Thereās a definite advantage to having the only pool on the block ā even if it was inflatable and barely three feet deep. We always had lots of friends over but there were never any boys around and, if an interloper did show up, he was quickly shown the way out before he had a chance to dip his you-know-what in our pool!
For the first six years of my life, I had very little contact with boys .ā¦ except for my cousins and they didnāt count. In elementary school boys were just tolerated; they were looked upon as excess baggage. Of course, that all changed when I hit my teen years and realized boys had potential. I had a couple of crushes early on but nothing earth-shattering. Then, at the ripe old age of 17, I went on a blind date with a guy named Bill and together we learned all about boys and girls, how they were so wondrously different and incredibly well-made for each other. I was stunned by how much I didn’t know about boys.
So, wouldnāt you just know it! God, in his infinite humorous nature, decided to bless me with only boy babies. All those years of playing with my baby girl dolls, changing their diapers fashioned from paper napkins, powdering their petite girlie bottoms, all that didnāt come close to what these boys were packing! It didnāt matter how well I knew Billās anatomy; he didnāt wear a diaper and I had never changed one ā¦. at least not a boyās. Talk about a rude awakening!
Let me just explain something very quickly here. When infant girls are getting their diapers changed, sometimes they pee but itās a dainty little trickle that gently disappears into the absorbent pad under them. When infant boys are getting their diapers changed, parents put on a hazmat suit because that nozzle has a mind of its own and it is gonna spray wherever it wants.
Oh sure, parents can buy little wee-wee teepees to hold over the wee-wee while their baby boy giggles at them, but most times that thing is flying around like an errant garden hose and the pee goes everywhere. And, of course, thatās where men first learn to pee with no hands ā yawning and stretching and placing their hands behind their heads in a very satisfied ālook-what-I-can-doā sort of way. Usually in those situations, there will be spillage. I have found, for the most part, the male species is not very discriminating and is quite happy to just āhitsomething“.
Which brings me to the heart of this story.
I love my boys and, in all humility, Bill and I did a good job raising them. BUT, nature will take its course no matter what we do. And let me tell you, there is nothing ā¦. and I mean NOTHING ā¦. like the overwhelming musky, barn-like odor that punches you in the face when you open the door to a boyās bedroom. For the love of all things holy, what is going on in there? How is it possible for boys ā¦. little or big ā¦. to ravage so many briefs, boxers or tighty-whities in one day, not to mention the now-fossilized face cloths (and sometimes my good hand towels)?
Weāre all adults here and you know exactly what Iām talking about.
Well, I finally reached the end of my rope. It became unbearable for me to do my teen sons’ laundry, let alone keep up with it, so I threw down the gauntlet. I led the boys to the laundry room where I proceeded to write on my washing machine with a Sharpie. In all the corresponding receptacles were the words āDETERGENT GOES HERE.ā āBLEACH GOES HERE.ā āSOFTENER GOES HERE.ā Iām sure they didnāt believe me when I said I was done doing their wash. After two weeks of their laundry piling up and them running out of clean clothes and their sheets desperate enough to literally walk off the bed and leap into the washing machine, they finally got the message!
As the old saying goes, boys will be boys, and I never had a problem with what was going on in my sons’ bedrooms ā¦. within reason; if I thought something dangerous was happening, Iād be in there in a flash. Iād just had enough of cleaning up their messes. Now theyāre grown men, good men, married with children, and they get to deal with their own kids’ smells, sprays, spills and secretions.
And when I see them lugging a basketful of laundry to their washing machines, I chuckle and know I did them a huge favor.
āMohammedan-owned Chinese/Tai/Himalayan/Middle Eastern/Indian Restaurant” ā well, you certainly donāt see too many of those in Lancaster, Pennsylvania but there it is right in the heart of the downtown dining district. This meeting of culinary minds is definitely intriguing and what an original and humorous name ā āTasty Ballsā.
That caught my eye and gave me a good laugh as I read about the new exotic fusion restaurant in the newspaper. I wondered if my wife Judith intentionally left the paper on the kitchen table conveniently opened to the dining section for me to see. Judith has many fine attributes; subtlety is not one of them.
We met soon after I graduated college. I took a year off to backpack my way through Asia and the Middle East. Money was tight so I had to be frugal while traveling; thatās how I learned to find really good food at cheap prices.
One day while trekking through Shanghai, I stopped at a noodle and dumpling place. I was drawn to the sound of feminine laughter coming from the next table. There were two pretty blondes who looked to be around my age; I asked if I could join them and they agreed. Judith and Eunice were cousins from England on holiday. I hit it off quite well with Judith and we agreed to meet the next night for dinner. After that night we knew we wanted to be together and the rest, as they say, is history.
As I continued reading the article, I learned this new restaurant was operated by the same people who managed a nearby tea house called āThe Barefoot Magpieā ā another place Iād never heard of. How can this be? Iāve lived in Lancaster all my life and thought I knew every place there was to eat. Obviously I havenāt been getting out enough lately.
Whatās this? āTasty Ballsā serves only one item: dumplings. What made it so special was the staggering number of varieties of dumplings on the menu. Now I knew without a doubt that Judith left this article here for me to stumble upon; she knows I am the worldās biggest sucker for dumplings!
Well now, letās see what else the article says: āExtravagantly yet handsomely decorated ā¦ moderately priced ā¦ perfectly prepared dumplings ā¦ culinary delight.ā My stomach rumbled and my mouth watered as I read a description of just a tiny sampling of dumplings offered at āTasty Ballsā:
Xiaolongbao ā A Taiwanese delicacy, this steamed dumpling has meat and broth inside. The small, succulent orb is meant to be eaten whole; one bite and the fortunate dinerās mouth is filled with liquid ambrosia.
Momos ā A staple from Tibet and Nepal, these delectable pouches are filled with yak, beef or chicken and have become an obsession with the patrons at āTasty Ballsā.
Shish Barak ā Middle Eastern ravioli-like envelopes filled with seasoned lamb, onion and pine nuts, these piquant squares are boiled, baked or fried and served in a warm yogurt sauce with melted mint butter and a garnish of chopped cashew nuts.
Muthia ā This Indian delight consists of chickpea flour, turmeric, chili powder, curry powder and salt bonded together with oil. Once shaped, these fritters can either be fried or steamed, depending on personal preference.
Luqaimat ā Originally from Saudi Arabia, this luscious dessert translates into āsmall bitesā. Found in many Middle Eastern countries, this is a treat of fried dough sweetened with date syrup and garnished with sesame seeds. With a scoop of pistachio ice cream, this is a delightful end to an unforgettable meal.
I suddenly realized the newspaper was wet; either I was salivating over the scrumptious description of dumplings or I was crying tears of joy that this heaven-sent restaurant was now located in little old Lancaster. Oh, what joy, what rapture!
Judith came into the kitchen, took one look at my face and asked āWhat in the world has come over you?ā
Holding up the soggy newspaper I exclaimed āThis ā as if you didnāt know, you little minx! Tempting me with an article about delectable dumplings. Well, it worked. Itās āTasty Ballsā tonight!ā
āOh, I donāt think so, luvā Judith laughed. āThatās Euniceās. She must have left it behind when she returned to the UK after her visit. That paper is from Lancaster, England!
Allison arrived home to discover, propped up against her front door, a mysterious package addressed to her but with no return address; in these dangerous times, opening a strange package with no identification is a reckless thing to do and Allison isnāt the type to take chances, no matter how curious she was about this unexpected delivery.
Unlocking the front door, Allison gave the package one last glance and went inside but she couldnāt think of anything other than the box on her porch and eventually gave up, heading back out; the more she looked at the box, the more one sticking point nagged at her: the print on the hand-written shipping label looked extremely familiar.
Suddenly, like a bolt out of the blue, Allison realized the handwriting was her fatherās; a thousand thoughts flew through her mind as she tried to figure out what he could have sent her, finally coming to the conclusion that her dad must have packed away a few items for her which belonged to her late mother .ā¦ items of sentimental value ā¦. before he sold the old family house and settled into a senior living facility.
No longer wary, Allison excitedly picked up the package and brought it into the kitchen where she placed it on the counter and with a knife carefully followed the taped-up folds until she was able to open the box; resting atop the packing material was a small envelope with her name on it written in the same handwriting as the shipping label and inside the envelope was a note which read, āDear Ali, I remember how much you loved these and I wanted you to have them, maybe one day for your own little girlā ~ Love, Dad.
Puzzlement creased Allisonās forehead as she gently pushed away the bubble wrap to discover one of her favorite toys ā a miniature playground set complete with working swings, a seesaw, monkey bars, a slide and sandbox; there was even the little family with their pet dog which she had named Tess.
Now all smiles, Allison carried the pieces into the sunroom and placed them on the side table next to her chair near the window; they looked so happy and gay with the sun shining on them and Allison sighed, not at all surprised to feel a tear running down her cheek.
Sammi at Weekend Writing Prompt is challenging us to get creative with the word “adventure” in exactly 76 words. This is my response to that word challenge.
Bill and his blackfish
You ever have that feeling you get when you meet someone for the first time …. and you know?
Thatās what happened to me when I first met Bill ā¦. almost 56 years ago to the day. It was our first date, the dreaded blind date, but we had chemistry and we still do.
Alright, alright, alright! It’s time once again for a Six Sentence Story, this time incorporating the word ‘remote’. Here’s mine, with a few other prompts just for fun.
The reflection of my timeworn face in the bathroom mirror is harrowing, one I still canāt accept is me .ā¦ someone who was always strikingly attractive, impeccably dressed with my designer labels neatly tucked away and out of sight; these days I see only one person on a regular basis and he doesnāt give a shit what I look like as long as I have the money to pay him.Ā
My hands are shaking in equal amounts of excitement and desperation as I check out what my guy has delivered today ā reds, blues and yellows ā a difficult choice, to be sure, but the numerous voices in my head have made a unanimous decision: mellow yellow to match my jaundiced skintone and disposition; yes, Iāve read the headlinesand the fine print warnings ā Iām not an idiot, you know, and that makes me laugh out loud!
Letās see whatās in the magician’s box to fix this sallow complexion ā¦. spackle-like primer to fill in the yawning crevices around my mouth, foundation with a bit of a dewy finish (or so the advertisements promise), creamy rosy blush for my cheeks, glossy brush-on plumper for luscious lips, pencil to fill in my threadbare brows, glittery highlighter to lessen the deep-set appearance of my eyes and layer upon layer of mascara on my straggly lashes.
Looking at my reflection once again, I see that Iām now back .ā¦ returned from the dead, if you will ā¦. and I look sensational, provocative and sensual with just the right touch of promiscuousness, yet there are two burned-out, remote eyes blankly staring back at me.
I slip into my work clothes, ready for another night hitting the pavement, when I feel that familiar sensation and Iām faced with the recurring stalemate ā whether I should just take all the pretty candy, lie down and pray I never wake up or put myself back on the meat market to earn enough money for another bag of Skittles; āFuck it, Iām already dressedā I think as I pop a red and slam the door behind me.
Sammi at Weekend Writing Prompt has challenged us to write something clever in exactly 91 words, using the word āintentā. This is my response in exactly 91 words.
Angie eased into the bathtub.
Her once lithe and graceful body had been rebelling for a while; now it had declared mutiny.
She didnāt expect to have free time today so this moment of solitude was bliss.
Angie barely had time to relax when she heard the persistent nudging on the door; a black paw soon found its way into the narrow opening.
Sidney, the cat.
He was intent on getting into the bathroom to see what Angie was up to without him.
āSid!ā Angie scolded playfully. āA little privacy, please!ā
āDonāt look at me, Helen. Last year’s lessons with Vanessa nearly put me over the edge.ā
āWell, I canāt do it! Ever since Marcia Morelli snatched that promotion for Real Estate Agent of the Year away from me, Iām spending all my time at work playing catch up.ā
āThatās not my problem, Helen. Anyway, I signed on to coach Brandonās baseball team this season, remember?ā
āOh, cry me a river, Bob! Youāre the one who took an early retirement; your schedule is much more flexible than mine.ā
āThatās right, I retired so I could do things I enjoy like playing golf and going fishing. Itās important to stay mobile after retirement so we donāt become dust in the wind.ā
āWell, if you canāt do it and I canāt do it, why donāt we get Vanessa to teach Danielle how to drive?ā
āAre you out of your mind, woman! Vanessaās been driving less than a year. She canāt take Danielle out driving! Can you imagine the mayhem when those two hit the streets?ā
āAt least Iām making suggestions, Bob. All youāre doing is justifying why you canāt do it.ā
āOh, Helen, save your breath and donāt look at me with such contempt. Iām right and you know it. I wonāt idly sit by and watch both our daughters driving without an adult in the car. Itās out of the question.ā
āYou wonāt? Oh, thatās wonderful, Bob! I knew youād come around!ā
āNow hold on there, Helen. I didnāt agree to anything.ā
āWhy, sure you did, Bob. You said you wouldnāt sit idly by while the girls are driving around without an adult in the car.ā
āBut I didnāt meanā¦..ā
āLook at it this way, Bob. Danielle is used to being driven everywhere she goes. If you donāt teach her how to drive, youāll just have to drive here wherever she wants to go. Iād say this is a win/win situation.ā
āAnd how do you figure that, Helen?ā
āSimple! By giving Danielle driving lessons, youāll be doing your part to keep our insurance rates down, youāll be able to coach Brandon’s baseball team and still have time to do the things you enjoy and you wonāt turn into dust in the wind. And all it takes is just one daily one-hour driving lesson! Youāre a genius, Bob!ā
āI am? Yeah, I guess I am. Hey! Wait just a gosh darn minute, Helen!ā
Sammi at Weekend Writing Prompt has challenged us to write creatively in exactly 60 words, incorporating the word āvapidā. Using a few other prompt words, here is my 60-word response in the form of a Dectina Refrain and a Haiku Duet.
Old man with vapid thoughts and empty eyes lives in denial; puppeteers pulling strings feeding hypnotic untruths into flaccid, desolate brain on the outskirts of insanity. Old man with vapid thoughts and empty eyes
Gray, grayer smoke above the clouds in the sky no light shining brightly
Brown dying trees dried leaves lay at the roots no buds tacitly emerging
Dectina Refrain: This refrain is written as follows: 1st line ā 1 syllable, 2nd line ā 2 syllables 3rd line ā 3 syllables, and so on for 9 lines; the 10th line is comprised of the first four lines as one stand-alone line.
After receiving the diagnosis “ULCER”, Brian’s wife Ali had been lovingly, carefully packing his lunches. He checked the contents of his bento box: plain broiled cod, boiled cauliflower and coconut milk. āThis must be her White Periodā,Ā he thought, wistfully.Ā
Sensitiveand embarrassed coworkers averted their eyes as they passed Brianās cubicle on their way to lunch. Gone were the cheerful calls āCāmon, Brian! Weāre going to Smokinā Joeās Hot Wings for lunch!ā or āSalsa and nachos in the hospitality room, guys!ā Oh, the humanity!
Brianās computer pinged. It was an email from Ali: āHi, hon. Hope youāre having a great day. Did you find the Maalox I put in your backpack? Weāre having something special for dinner tonight …. poached chicken, brown rice and garbanzo beans …. hope youāre hungry! Love ya, babe! xoā
āAh, Aliās Beige Period.ā Brian stared blankly at the computer screen. āI wonder how many beige foods there are …. oatmeal, boiled potatoes, matzoh….ā
Depressed, fatigued and hungry, Brian put his head in his hands; a solitary tear fell through his fingers onto his khakis. Slowly the wet spot morphed into the shape of a slice of pizza. āWhat the …. ?!ā Incredulous, Brian blinked and wiped his eyes. āWhatās happening to me?!ā Images of devilish, cramp-inducing, bowel-seizing delicacies danced āround his head …. jalapeƱo poppers, tacos, barbecued ribs.
The dreaded hunger hallucinations!Sweating, Brian texted Ali. āBabe. Last minute meeting with the deputy mayor. Sorry, Iām gonna miss dinner. Love ya!ā
Brian lied.
Grabbing the bottle of Maalox and a Smokin‘ Joe’s menu from his desk drawer, Brian bolted from his cubicle, giddy as a school girl at her first dance.
āOutta my way, boys, outta my way!!ā
Brian knew he was taking a big chance but he just didn’t care. He was starving, dammit! And out he ran, laughing and joyfully shouting, “JalapeƱo-effing-poppers, baby!!”
Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge is challenging us to write a Six Sentence Story using the word “kick”. I threw in 8 other prompts I had in my back pocket; this is my response.
Last week I had my bi-weekly (every two weeks) session with my pain management doctor; I always get a perverse kick out of the term ‘pain management’ and feel like I need to say something witty and clever (sarcastic) about it to the insentient people who work there, hereafter referred to as ‘the staff’.
āYou know, the term ‘pain management‘ is all well and good however I’m really here in search of ‘pain termination‘”, I mention to the front desk receptionist who is characteristically unresponsive; my darling, unceasingly patient husband stands to the side with a sheepish yet accepting half-smile on his face (sometimes accompanied by a masterful eye-roll) knowing all to well there are times I cannot or simply will not control my Sicilian forked tongue, being the perspicacious and savvy sort that I am.
My doctor’s office is in a building with other doctors so thereās always a soft parade of wheelchairs and people with canes, crutches, walkers or other means of physical assistance going into the various offices; many have spouses/friends/caregivers accompanying them with dogeared paperbacks, sudoku puzzles or endlessly-beeping cell phones except for my husband and me who both have appointments with the same doctor for ‘management’ of our pain, he at 11:00 and me at 11:20, and so we accompany and entertain each other.
Akey is needed to unlock the door to the ‘Guest Restrooms’ which are located near the elevators; this is a majorinconvenience and I have issues with this arrangement since there’s not one but two ‘Staff Only’ restrooms in the doctor’s office which screams HYPOCRISY considering the patients are the ones who would benefit from having a restroom nearby and because the ‘staff’ sometimes uses the ‘guest’ restroom when they have their own damn restrooms (but we can’t use theirs), and since no one is actually resting in the ‘restroom’, let’s drop the euphemism and call it what it is ā a toilet, FFS!
I persevere and consider the walk to the ‘Guest Restroom’ part of my daily exercise but rest assured ā I am seething inside and secretly hope there’s a member of the ‘staff’ in the ‘Guest Restroom’ who might accidentally trip over someone’s cane; there are a lot of canes at ‘pain management’.
Speaking of canes, I bring along my boldnew walking stick; I don’t always need it but I think it makes me look erudite, sophisticated and elegant in a nonchalant sort of way, even though my knees are barking like angry junkyard dogs; looking good is half the battle.
Waves of glorious flaxen hair rippled over her shoulders, swaying and bouncing with every high-heeled, leggy stride she took.
Never one to shy away from attention, especially that of the male population, she confidently waltzed down Fifth Avenue toward Saks, stunning in red Jimmy Choo thigh-high boots, a snow-white fur coat, and a single strand of pearls.
As she strolled the avenue, stopping to look at the exceptional Christmas displays in the store windows, she noticed the reflection of a man leaning drowsily against a parked car. Accustomed to men looking her way, she thought nothing of it at first but found herself glancing at his image more often than usual. Sliding her Ray Bans a little down her nose, she gave this mystery manās reflection a furtive peek. Intriguing.Ā
Repositioning her glasses, she continued window shopping, collecting all the longing glances cast her way and storing them in her bag like so many colorful Christmas lights. Every so often sheād linger at a quaint little shop or gallery, acutely aware of her mystery man shadowing her along the way. Now this was starting to get interesting. Slowly she removed her shades and gave his reflection a long look.
Why not? Slipping her sunglasses on, she turned around to a vision that caught her breath ā¦. from head to toe the epitome of elegance and charm. Raven hair, tanned skin, black cashmere coat draped over his arm, charcoal grey pinstripe suit, crisp white shirt, black and silver Art Deco tie and Italian shoes ā¦. not black but the exact color of his suit. Nice touch; the paragon of haute couture.
She smiled. He smiled. She turned slowly, giving him ample time to fall into place beside her.
She continued walking, no longer followed by a mysterious shadow but side-by-side with an intriguing companion. Together they would take the road wherever it led them.
Her voice was soft and sultry, as smooth and silky as his finest Makerās Mark bourbon. The image of a voluptuous goddess with long wavy caramel-colored hair, tanned skin and moist red lips immediately appeared before him. He could see her pearly teeth as she smiled, tantalizingly nibbling her bottom lip. He felt himself getting excited.
āIs anyone there?ā he heard her say and roused him out of his fantasy.
āYes, sorry. Iām here. I was distracted for a moment. Thereās something about your voice; itās very …. familiarā he replied trying to sound nonchalant.
āI get that a lotā she answered, her throaty laugh arousing him again. He could see this woman easily becoming an addiction.
āAre you calling about the apartment or the car?ā Please let it be the apartment ā¦. let it be the apartment .ā¦ he pleaded silently, picturing her sprawled on his bed.
āThe Corvette, of course. No sexy car list would be complete without it, donāt you agree?ā She chuckled softly.
There was that laugh again. He had to meet this woman. Today.
āOf course. The ‘Vette’s’ an incredible machineā he said, a bit disappointed that she wasnāt interested in renting his apartment. He had to get her there.
āIncredible sounds about right” she agreed. “And thrilling, too, judging by the photo in your ad. With her open top, sheās as sleek and beautiful as a Corvette was meant to be ā a car to melt some hearts and explode others.ā
As she spoke, he had a vision of her in the ‘Vette’, top down, driving along the Santa Barbara coastline, her hair loose and wild like crimson flames. She was laughing as she drove faster and faster, her hand teasing the head of the gear shift. She was wearing a short black leather skirt and a low-neck sweater, her perfect breasts heaving with excitement. She smelled of lilacs. His heart was racing, his erection pounding.
Who is this woman? He couldnāt think straight. Snap out of it, dummy!
āSo, when would you like to see the car?ā he asked. Today, today, today raced repeatedly in his brain.
āToday, if that works for youā came the response he hoped for.
Careful not to appear anxious, he hesitated before answering.
āHmm, today. My scheduleās kind of tight” he lied “but I might be able fit you in around 4:00. Would that work for you?ā
āYes. I can come anytime.ā
Oh God, did she really just say that? Sweet Jesus …. this woman was driving him insane!
āHold on one sec” she purred. “I just need to check something.ā
He waited impatiently for her return. He went over his plan: theyād meet at 4:00, take the Corvette out for a leisurely drive and get back to his place just in time for a āspontaneousā dinner and whatever might follow.
āSorry to keep you waiting” she said breathlessly. “I wanted to make sure my wife would be available at 4:00.ā
Wait. What? Wife? Did she say wife? She was married? To a WOMAN! His passion vanished instantly along with his rapidly sagging manhood.
āHey, sorry …. Iām getting another call” he lied again. “Hold on.ā
āAre you coming or not?ā Carl demanded as he took a few steps further into the haunted house at the Springwood Halloween Fair.
Sharon stood there fiddling with the drawstring of her hoodie. She chewed on her bottom lip, her eyes wide and brimming with tears.
āIām really scared of these places, Carl. I mean, they terrify me. I donāt want to do this.ā And the tears came.
This was nothing new to Carl; Sharon hid behind her hands when she tried to watch āThe Walking Deadā with him in the comfort of their own living room. He rolled his eyes, tired of Sharonās childish fears of creatures that donāt exist.
āLook, babe, as I told you a dozen times already, everybody knows this is the best haunted house in the countyā Carl replied in his usual condescending tone. āMy friends at work said it was awesome and even Hal brought is girlfriend Darleen whoās afraid of her own shadow and she thought it was fabulous. I promise, itās gonna be a blast.ā
Sharon could hear screams coming from insidethe haunted house but everyone came out laughing and quickly lined up to go in again.
āOK, Iāll do it but you have to promise to take me to see the Taylor Swift concert on the big IMAX screen next week.ā
Carl happily agreed knowing there was no wayin hell he was going to sit through a Taylor Swift concert. Laughing, he grabbed Sharonāshand and pulled her into the haunted house.
āDonāt let go of my hand, Carl!ā Sharon cried out.
āSharon, just chill out. Why canāt you get it through your head that itās all fake, itās just for show and none of these characters are real? I promise I won’t let go of your hand. Now stop being a drama queen and try to have some harmless fun, ok?ā Carl could really be a nasty SOB.
The inside of the haunted house was complete sensory overload; there was constant screaming as zombies, vampires, witches, skeletons, ghosts and hideous slasher movie characters jumped out of doorways, flew into windows, dropped down from the ceiling and popped up through the floor.
The place was madness and Sharon was getting claustrophobic. The only thing that kept her from running out in a panic was the familiar feel of Carlās hand in hers. She couldnāt see an inch in front of her and there was something popping out at every turn. It was horrifying for Sharon.
Before Sharon knew what was happening, the grotesque image of Freddy Krueger suddenly appeared from behind a wall of smoke and menacingly brandished his deadly bladed glove; Sharon couldnāt take it any longer. She screamed out for Carl and pushed her way through the crowd, grateful that he was still with her.
Once outside, Sharon gulped in the fresh air and blasted Carl. āThat was the worst experience of my life! It was terrifying and you tricked me. How could you?? Iām not kidding, Carl. Iām really pissed! Carl!! Are you even listening to me, dammit?ā
And when Sharon turned to face Carl, she discovered she had been holding on to his severed arm. The next morning Carlās body was found in the woods behind the haunted house. He had been sliced to pieces. They say karmaās a bitch.
At least Carl was true to Sharon about one thing that night; he never let go of her hand.
The Elephant's Trunk 