Kan i has a mujahadeen burger, pleeez?

 "Kan i has...?"

The animal kingdom appears to be a tad torqued these days.  Who can blame them? Seems they have now had their fill of we big-brained bipeds and our loud, arrogant, destructive ways.  We leak things, make other things get blowed up, and we intentionally kill animals for no good reason at all.  And here's proof -

Just recently, two heavily armed Hizbul Mujahadeen commanders were sleathily sneaking around the mountainous forested region of Shopian, South Kashmir and found a nice cave in which to bivouac for a spell and hide out from those pesky infidel drones.  They set up house there and settled in for a nap.  It can be deduced that this was sneaky stealthy Hizbul Mujahadeen heaven without the requisite virgin count for those pervs to deflower.  All that sneaking around in forests exposed to the elements can make a terrorist a cranky guy.  Apparently, according to the medical examiner's statement after these guys were found, while they dozed in extremist fundamental bliss, Papa Bear came home and didn't even pause to question who was sleeping in his bed.  He just ate them.  

Allah, Ak-bear!




And maybe we just better leave those bulls alone, Spain. Celebrated Spanish matador, Aparicio, had just finished murdering a bull in the ring to the delight of the bloodlusting crowd.  He sheared the ears off of the still breathing, bloodied, supine animal he had so bravely just killed via the death of many cuts, and held them up in manly fashion for everyone to admire.

Huzzah!  Our hero!

The next bull in line for the privilege of this public torture death obviously saw the whole thing and probably thought if he were going to suffer the same fate, someone was going to PAY.

And pay he did. 

After Aparicio and his minions bloodied our doomed bull to the point where it was unbearable and only death would end the suffering, he summoned up what was left of his bovine glory and gored the matador beneath the chin and up through the throat, and in an irony I can't even make up, force his horn out through Aparicio's mouth!

Hieronimus Bosch meets minotaur!   

I say we make the BP Executives swim for it in the Gulf of Mexico.

Crack shot dolphin with laser.

oh! And here're the quintessential instructions for an encounter with something wild:

The Clothes Made The Man

Corporate Couture, The Business Boys andThe Power of Secret Funderpants

Clothes were important to me once.  When starting my career, John T. Molloy had just published Dress for Success (1975) and I cloned his "I mean business even though I am a chick in my 20's, a smart ass and don't know squat" look as soon as I was given an office and a desk where serious people worked.  I ritualistically suited up every morning with the express intent to give the executives with whom I worked a dose of youth and professionalism they couldn't forget from that all-important 3 second first impression.

 

Flattering bra and panties - check! Cosmo said I could have a little fun with the undergarments, like lace or embroidery, so all girlie-girl underneath, I certainly did.  Pantyhose - Check! Button-down collar oxford cloth shirt - check!  Suit with matching butt-cupping knee length skirt and tailored jacket - check!   Pearl necklace and earrings smaller than a dime - check! Makeup, but not too much! Don’t want to look like a painted up cross dresser, do we? - check!

   

Molloy was right.  The clothes were the ticket to receive the attention I needed to get my ideas rolling in a room full of jaded, hard drinking and smoking business men.

 

None of them, the Business Boys, had to do much but arrive at work clad in a shirt with tie and a suit.  No careful pairings of makeup, jewelry, accessories.  No touching up the lipstick, curling the hair or teetering on stilettos.  Men had it easy, uncomplicated.  Oddly, though, my fussy prudish Edwardian threads, and all the power they represented to me, were very sexy indeed.  The racy underwear, my secret silky slippery-slidey ‘funderpants,’ closed the deal.

 

All work and no play didn't suit me at all, however.  When the career/empire building was over for the day, I had a boyfriend. Geoff. He was a guitar-playing new technology Apple computer toting geek, looked like Matthew McConaughey, and was a raging alcoholic.  In spite of the large pink elephant in the room, that ultimately doomed the relationship, my scales tipped toward keeping him around.  He was a short witty talented Adonis with a rock star smile and, sorry folks, my clothes just fell off around him.  Spontaneous disrobement.

   

Naturally I thought I could change him with all my professional I-can-fix-anything-know-it-all zeal, so he earned the key to my apartment one drunken sweaty tangled up night.  It was one of those relationships everyone in our immediate sphere loathed but me.  Insert cliché here.

 

Then, one day, I found the panties in the laundry hamper. 

Granny Panties, Godzilla & Does This Make Me Look Fat? 

They were high waisted white cotton "utility panties" and were 3 sizes larger than I would wear.  The crush of questions that zinged through my mind went something like this: "These are not my panties.  These are weird large panties. Whose panties are they?  Could someone be sneaking into the apartment while I am gone and planting panties to see if I noticed?  Could any of my panties have had this serious an elastic failure as to stretch to this gargantuan size?" 

 

Then came thundering into my little befuddled brain:  "Is Geoff cheating on me with a huge woman?"  Godzilla in granny panties.  There's the visual.

  

It was time to go all paranoid forensic and investigate. I searched high and low for any further evidence of Geoff's monstrous infidelities and only found a hidden vodka bottle near the cat's litter box.  I never looked at my cat in the same way again, because I knew he had seen something sinister going on in that house and wouldn't even mime me a hint, the bastard.  I decided to say nothing about the parachute pants since within reason they could've been my Mom's transported into the house anchored by laundry induced static electricity on...something.  I was in denial.

 

Something was distracting me to a greater degree.  Everything was falling apart.  I began to notice that my carefully acquired Dress for Success wardrobe was becoming threadbare. The side seams on my tight butt-cupping skirts now showed every thread holding on for dear life before popping straight open.  Zippers were spontaneously un-toothing themselves.  Buttons were mysteriously missing.  My pantyhose came out of the drawers with runners I hadn't noticed.  The hooks on my bras were bent outward and my shoes had gone from narrow width to wide. 

Well, hell!  Why didn't anyone tell me I was getting fat?

 

Geoff just intoned the usual mantra uttered by most men upon hearing those malignant words and seeing the maniacal glint in his woman’s eye.  "I like you just the way you are."  I, nonetheless, flew into a diet and exercise regime that could've made Jane Fonda flinch.

  

A Lycra Iron Maiden, Faux Liza & Waiting for Godzilla 

Then, one morning, I found the girdle.

Preparing for a cocktail party, I found it folded neatly hidden in the liquor cabinet.  Hideous, it offered up its salacious June Cleaver 1950's promise of squeezing subjugated hips and bellies into its sausage casing, boa constrictor embrace. It was a nauseating shade of taupe-y flesh and tried, but failed, to be “pretty” displaying an iron maiden satin tummy restrainer panel on the front, thigh length Lycra lace legs and a sadistic fanny controlling derriere area festooned with faux damask roses.  It even had the hanging button devices meant to hold up real one-leg-at-a-time stockings!

 

Again my befuddled mind charged ahead:  “This is not my girdle.  Mom had one.  I remember peeking at them in her undies drawer.  I remember her doing that hopping shimmy dance to force that puppy on over her butt and legs.  This is a huge girdle.  Big enough for the tranny Liza Minnelli impersonator I had just hired for the party.   T’would make a great slingshot.  Why am I thinking of slingshots and Liza Minnelli? Whose girdle is it?  Am I so fat that Geoff had to drop a hint like this?”

 

 Then this thought sidled up and punched me in the head:   “Godzilla.”

 

The cat fixed me with a disdainful stare as if to say, “Well, duh!”

 

Freaky forensics took center stage. Geoff was gone for the day, so I called in sick and lay in wait. Hunkered down in my car wearing sunglasses gnawing carrot sticks I kept my apartment in sight.  The Mission Impossible theme thundered in my head.  And sure enough, there he was letting himself in, looking furtively around to see if he was followed, and then disappearing into the apartment.  I waited vacillating between rapt curiosity and blind rage for Godzilla to show. What would this gargantuan piece of work look like?

 

And I waited. Still waited. 

 

No Godzilla.  Impatience prompted me to settle this anyway right then and there.    Activating Plan B, I steeled myself to corner him with sharply pointed questions about the unsettling collection of ladies underwear reproducing in my apartment like so many horny dust bunnies. Into the apartment I charged, seething with “I gotcha” imperative.    

 

GodZILLA!

Busted, Dusted and Hot Roller Encrusted

  

My coral colored linen suit, although straining on his body like an overstuffed burrito, gave Geoff that perfect Dress for Success panache I had so long cultivated for myself.  I could hear the seams, zippers and buttons groaning as they tried in vain to encompass his girdle clad ass.  His make-up was applied with consummate subtlety; his pink press-on nails and charming coordinated neck scarf punctuated his very own signature look.  They were my clothes he had wedged himself into, but he had deftly transformed them into his own happy-place couture. The granny panties and the huge girdle he purchased online in secret were just the next steps on the journey. The only imperfections in this 3-second first impression he had so carefully assembled was the single forgotten hot roller dangling in his hair.  And if you looked real close, you could see his leg hair flattened out beneath my taupe pantyhose.

 

Otherwise, he was very well put together for a dude. 

 

So caught up in practicing his runway walk in heels in front of the full length mirror, I surprised him. 

He froze.  I froze. 

 

Here was a man, a stunning man, who only needed to run his hands through his hair and throw on a shirt, tie and a suit to face the world.  So easy for men.  And yet…

 

I understood.

 

A sound bubbled up from a great depth and spilled out of me like water.   I laughed. Hard.  And when I stopped laughing, caught my breath and wiped the tears away, I knew exactly what we needed to do.

 “Let’s go shopping.”

LOL Lizzie Curry (An Email Play)

SCENE ONE

(Two pools of light spill onto the stage. In one pool, an attractive woman at her desktop computer, typing. There is a large glass of water next to her.  In the other pool of light, a very tall Native American man enters and closes the “door” behind him pinching off the sounds of an appreciative audience and his walk-off music. He flings his cowboy hat on the dressing table. He has just completed a comedy stand-up set in Vegas. He sits, wipes his face with a towel, and flips open his laptop on his dressing table and begins clicking through emails.)

CHLOE

(She types and speaks as she does -)  To: FunnyGuyID10T@ yahoo.com
Subject:  Jacy is that you? 
Dear Funny Guy.  Sorry if this isn’t Jacy Nighthawk’s email. Just delete. But if it is Jacy Nighthawk – Hi, it’s me.   It’s Chloe.  I like the I-D-10-T handle…But you sell yourself short.  (She smiles and hits Send.)

JACY

(He is clicking through his mail with his mouse and stops abruptly.  He stands and paces, apparently troubled by what he saw on his screen. He leans over, clicks and types, speaking aloud - ) Reply.  LizzieCurry@ aol.com, how did you get this email address?

CHLOE

 There you are!  (She clicks and types -)  Aranck, your brother in New York.  He’s still walking the high steel on all the 9/11 restoration work.  He thought you’d be happy to hear from me.  He was happy to hear from me. He said that you are still on the road and this is the best way to say hi.  I love that your name means “moon” and his means “stars.”  So appropriate. (She proofs it out loud, pauses and “Send”s – She waits for a response and there is none.  Then she adds and “Send”s.)  Should I not email you?

JACY

(Who has been staring at the screen, types slowly and presses enter with hesitation.)  That’d be good.

CHLOE

Oh. No  (She types and speaks -) Reply. Well….Bye then.  Miss you.  Even after 27 years, Starbuck.
 

JACY

(He reacts as if shot by an arrow.)  Ah damn, she did it.  I knew she would deal that card. Not falling for it.  No.  Not gonna.  Nope.  (He stands resolutely for a beat.  Looks at his watch, looks at the ceiling, shakes it off, goes for the door, freezes…and then bolts to the keyboard.  He types and speaks -)  From: FunnyGuyID10T@yahoo.com, To:    LizzieCurry@ aol.com, Subject: Bad Mojo.  Chloe, you still there?

CHLOE

Ha!  Never underestimate…(She types and speaks -) I’m still here.  Knew you couldn’t resist the charms of the white she-devil from the past. Chat, kimo sabe?

JACY

(He laughs out loud and types -)  Reply. - Shit, woman, you haven’t changed.  You go first.  You started this.

CHLOE

Last chance, Chlo, don’t chase him away. (She types as she speaks.)  Ok. I’ve been following your tour.  Still slaying them in Vegas with that Native American collection of dark ironies I see.  Comedy didn’t seem to be your strong suit, Big Chief Grumpy Injun, but whatever.  I got married to a great normal guy, good job, two grown kids …It’s been a good life.  Not dramatic but good.

JACY

This is not good.  I should bail. (He types.) Reply.  Glad everything worked out, normal and all.

CHLOE

Hmmm.  There’s that cigar store Indian you hide behind, big puss. (She types and speaks -)  Life is good.  Better than you’ll ever know.  Live large, Crazy Horse.  That’s my advice to you. You’ll remember this. (She pauses and picks up an old theatrical Playbill. and she types-)  I’ve been remembering some of the highlights, and like it or not, you rank up there.  That’s why I wanted to find you.  Summer stock.   The Tempest, remember?  You did the Prospero to my Miranda…

 JACY

(He snorts and laughs and types with a smile.)  If you’ll recall, my Prospero was also energetically doing your Miranda every night before, during and after the show, the perv.  In the dressing room, the alley out back, the balcony, available vehicles. A shrink could dine out for days on that.  (He hits enter, thinks a little, flinches and types quickly-)  You’re husband doesn’t read your email?  I don’t want some balding Caucasian executive dude with a slide rule and a pocket protector gunning for me…

CHLOE

(She types carefully-) Reply. No worries.  He won’t be.  (Cheerfully.)  Remember some of the other plays we did?  Of Mice and Men? That scene with Lenny and Curley’s Wife?  They couldn’t pass up casting a 6 foot 6 inch tall redskin, could they?  If George wasn’t so flamingly gay, we might’ve had something there…You played quite a believable homicidal dimwit, I must say. From where did you draw your inspiration?  La! La!

JACY

(He brings up a belly laugh and types-) Reply.  Inspired by you, you maniac! And I truly enjoyed breaking your pretty little neck every night for two weeks…lol.  LOL means “laugh out loud” I think.

CHLOE

(She clicks the mouse and types smiling-)  Reply.  And The Rainmaker.  We were perfect.  Audiences wept.  Critics wet themselves. Big mess. (She pauses, straightens up and types) Starbuck Kennedy, Lizzie Curry loved you. So much.  Still do.  Love the memory. You were my Rainmaker.   Love you still. (She presses enter and covers her mouth.)

JACY

(He reads and  freaks, races out the door. A beat. He comes back in -) This is gonna stop here. (He types furiously -) Truth?  Here you go - Too much.  You loved me too much.  I couldn’t breathe. (He stabs “Send” and dissolves into his chair -)

CHLOE

(She puts her head down, then up, then types -) I know. I know I know I know I know I know I know I know I know I know I know I know I know Tonto didn’t like to be tied down.  Too confining for native man.  We busted up so, so…I don’t know.

JACY

(He reads, writes, “Send”s)  I was an idiot to throw her in your face. She was nothing, trash…Not anything like you.

CHLOE

(She drinks the water as she reads, smiles and slowly types -) What was I like Starbuck?

JACY

I give up. I surrender. White flag, white she-devil.  (He clicks Reply and types and speaks-)  Well, you were goofy.  Beautiful.  Insecure. Blonde and passionate. Competitive, A pain in my ass. Conflicted.  Hot in the sack. A better writer than actress… There is a lot about you to list.  Hope you didn’t waste it on a suburban “big wheel in the driveway” life…

CHLOE

(She’s getting sleepy, but types and speaks with deliberation -) It doesn’t make any difference now, but did you love me?

JACY

(Jacy types, smiling, his body finally loose and open.)Yes.  I did.  Shields are down now.  For what it’s worth, I think of you on your birthday, on my birthday, on the fall equinox. Remember how we used to celebrate that? I did love you.  I  question why you cross my mind now even 27 years later.  (He pauses, hits “Send”.  He physically tries to suppress, but fails. And types -) My best guess is that I do still love you.  Some comedian here, eh? ha-ha.  A horse went into a bar…why the long face? blahdeblahdeblah.  You still unnerve me. (He hits “Send”.)

CHLOE

(She is laying her head down next to the keyboard to read now. She picks her head up with some effort to type.)  Thank u. I needed to hear.  So, I’m going to go now.  Gettg sleepy.  I can sleep now.

JACY

(Anxious not to lose contact, he types quickly -)  Wait, I’m not done Lizzie Curry.  Tell me more about you.  Your husband, kids.  Maybe we can meet up on my next tour…I know, come to Vegas!  Something for everybody here.  (He hits “Send” with bravado. Hopeful now –laughing, he types -) And what happens here stays here, if you want to come alone…Shit, I just propositioned a married woman.  I will rot in hell.  Wanna come anyway? (He “Send”s)

CHLOE

(Typing with difficulty, the pill bottle she knocks down rolls from the desk to her feet, she says-) th-They were beautiful, Jacy.  My flesh ‘nd blood.  My moon and stars.  My big wheel in the driveway. They went on ahead of me.   We crashed in mmMontana. Fuel line leak r simthin.  I survived, but got to say ggoodbye to them. They were llooking into my eyes, I was, ah, um, ssinging to them in the ccold, telling them not to be afraid, I’d see them soon, we’ll be together.  Chanting like what you used to do, in time with my heartbeat as their eyes closed one by one. Y did my heart keep beating?  I think some of your pppeople were with mmme.  Singinggg .  Starbuck, don’t panic…No tears. I’m going to b with them.  That’s why I needed to tie things up with you…I love you too. Love is huge…meant to spread out. Like a blanket.  Look fr me when you come ok? Needed to …nedded to sleepppppp.  (She rallies a little.) Yu no, I Question why I survIved……I belong ed  with them…but u needed 2 kno love too. So there it is. Lov. It is all bout  pls scuse typngg, sleeppey…
that u singginnng???

JACY

(The dawning is excruciating, he knows what she is doing, and Jacy is helpless. He types frantically -) Chloe, NO! Stop it.  I know funny and this isn’t. F’instance:  What do you call a truck full of Indian Agents going off a cliff?  A good start…Ok ok ok ok ok ok ok ok ? Chloe, laugh. (He “Send”s and waits with mortal anxiety)


(Chloe has put her head down on the desk, closes her eyes, smiles. The pool of light surrounding her slowly irises down fading to dark during the following sequence.)

JACY

(Tries to use phone, tries to shake the computer, cries out, pauses and then sits to write.) Chloe LAUGH…LOL.  LOL. LOL Chloe, for me?  Lizzie Curry Laugh Out Loud…(He waits.  No response. Stands, wipes his eyes and slowly begins chanting her soul to rest.  At its crescendo - )

(Blackout)

Less Said Better (An Email Play)

ACT I, SCENE 1

(Three pools of light coalesce on three individuals sitting equidistant from each other in an arc across center stage.  Stage right sits an attractive woman dressed in shorts, soccer team shirt, and sneakers.  She is sitting on a park bench, net bag of soccer balls at her feet, with a laptop computer.  At center amidst satin pillows, candles and incense, a long haired man in a gauzy Nehru shirt and pull string pants sits in lotus position and observes a laptop computer in front of him.  At stage left, there is a man in shorts, Red Sox t-shirt and sneakers, surrounded by baseball equipment which he fondles like they are sacred and a laptop into which he is staring sourly.)

NANCY

(She types and speaks as she types)

From: SoccerMom247@ hotmail.com
To: CoachDaddy4u@ hotmail.com
CC: Headshrinker@marital harmony.com
Subject: The Progressive Story of Nancy and Ian.

(She shifts, thinks and plunges in typing, speaking as she does)
 
Once there was… Send! (She clicks “Send”)

IAN

(Staring, frowning at screen, saying what he is typing -)

From: CoachDaddy4u@ hotmail.com 
To: SoccerMom365822@ hotmail.com 
CC: HeadShrinker@maritalharmony.com
Subject:   The Progressive Story of Nancy and Ian

(Pauses, and with a snort, types with two fingers in staccato jabs.)
This is STUPID.
 
(He goes to tap another key and just about does before he loses control and jumps up and down in suppressed frustration. He then slightly composes himself and types, speaking as he does -)
Once there was…a couple who ----  (Then he types in a rage)  -----should be splitting up but have to do this STUPID progressive story to appease a STUPID new age touchy feely hippy court-appointed STUPID therapist!

           (He triumphantly clicks “Send”)

SHRINK

Oh well. At least that was cathartic. (He types, speaking as he does) 
From: HeadShrinker@marital harmony.com. 
To SoccerMom247@hotmail.com and CoachDaddy4u@hotmail.com 
Regarding:  This is Stupid.
Ian, take a deep breath, go to your place of serenity, and start again. Only three words at a time.  Those are the rules.  You agreed, remember?

IAN

(Looking at screen with revulsion, he pantomimes blowing his brains out with a finger gun to his temple.)

Shoot me, shoot me now.

(He mouse clicks and types, speaking as he does)  Reply all. Subject: Regarding:  I Still Think This is STUPID!  (Takes a deep breath, types)   Once there was …a couple who…   (He clicks "send," reluctantly)

NANCY

(She reads, clicks her mouse and types)  Reply all. Subject:  Sports Dork! (She gloats at her insult and then types)  Once there was…a couple who… couldn’t talk without …
 

IAN 

(He reads, clicks his mouse, revs up and types) Sports Dork, eh?   Subject:  Frigid Brittle Ice Queen!  (He says) Are we havin’fun yet??? (He gloats too and prissily adds to the sentence)  Once there was.. a couple who… couldn’t talk without… WANTING TO STRANGLE… (He hits “Send” and jumps up in victory like he just hit a home run)   And the crowd goes wild!! Rrraaaaah!               

SHRINK

Oh oh.  (He types)   From: HeadShrinker at marital harmony.com.  To: Soccer Mom 247@hotmail.com and CoachDaddy4u@hotmail.com. Subject:  Progressive Story of Nancy and Ian.   Ian.  Nancy. You’re in your dark places.  Unbind yourselves from the ropes of anger now.

NANCY

(She reads, clicks her mouse and types)   From Soccer Mom 247@hotmail.com.  To CoachDaddy4u@hotmail.com.  CC:  Headshrinker at marital harmony.com.  Subject:  Hopeless.    (She defiantly brushes a tear away and types -)  Once there was… a couple who …couldn’t talk without… wanting to strangle… the life out …

SHRINK

Oops, too late.

IAN

Out of what?  Each other?  Me?   (Typing and speaking -)Subject: Strangle Me? Fine.  (Speaking)   I didn’t know it went this far; she wants me gone. Dead.  (He is kind of shocked.  He types and speaks) Once there was a couple who couldn’t talk without wanting to strangle the life out…of the conversation.

SHRINK

(Typing and speaking)   Good save Ian.  Go on.  Why?

NANCY

My turn.   (She types and speaks)   Subject: Re: I’m Lonely.  (Her back is turned and she is composing herself) Once there was a couple who couldn’t talk without wanting to strangle the life out of the conversation. Period.  (She types and says) There’s no time…

SHRINK

(Typing)  Very good, Nancy and Ian.  Keep going.

IAN

Auuuuuugghhhhhh!    (He types)   Reply All.  To: Headshrinker.  Subject:  Shut the hell up, Yoda!   (He pounds enter)

SHRINK

(Reads, smiles enigmatically, he is encouraged)   And so I will…
 

IAN

I hate this I hate this I hate this I haaaattttte this…I  hate  this….Ihatethis.  DAAMNNNNIT!   (He types and says) Reply all.  Subject: Re:  I HATE this!   (He sweeps his hands down his face, through his hair and reads.)  Once there was a couple who couldn’t talk without wanting to strangle the life out of the conversation.  There’s no time  (He types) …to…just…sit -

NANCY

(Looking at screen, deep sigh)   Time. It’s time.  (She types) Subject: Re:  Try…For Me?   (She pauses and says -) C’mon honey. You know what we need to do. I know what we need to do.  (She reads) Once there was a couple who couldn’t talk without wanting to strangle the life out of the conversation.  There’s no time to just sit…  (She types) and hold hands… (Clicks "send.")

IAN

What the fu...?  (He types and says -) Subject: Re:  What? That’s what you want?   (He thinks out loud, pacing, trying to sort this out)   I married you didn’t I?  I shouldn’t have to do all that romance-y flowers, candy, edible panties stuff anymore should I? All that crap is understood isn’t it?  Why does this have to be so hard?  You’re never there anyway with work and kids and whatever.  Try to get a piece of you and you’re tired or busy. Or I’m too hairy or sweaty. I give up. I just need to know what’s going on… (He reads aloud)  Once there was a couple who couldn’t talk without wanting to strangle the life out of the conversation.  There’s no time to just sit and hold hands…  (He types)…and…catch…up.

NANCY

Catch up.  Sure.  You are never home.  If it’s not a game, it’s practice. Or poker, or working late…This is what I want…  (She types and says-)  Subject: Re:  Touch. Yes. Just touch… (She reads) Once there was a couple who couldn’t talk without wanting to strangle the life out of the conversation. There’s no time to just sit and hold hands… and catch up.  (She types)   They…were…strangers

IAN

I knew that. I knew it.  I’m not stupid. I just don’t know what to do, didn’t know how…I just don’t know. How could I know what she wants? Know what I want? Dammnit!  (He types and says -) Subject: Re: You feel that way?  (He reads aloud.) Once there was a couple who couldn’t talk without wanting to strangle the life out of the conversation.  There’s no time to just sit and hold hands and catch up. They were strangers  (He types) and didn’t know

NANCY

Of course you didn’t know I felt that way.  I didn’t tell you.When was there time?   I guess your ESP is off. I thought you could read my mind.  My mistake. (She types and says -) Subject: Re: I do feel that way. I don’t know you anymore.  (She says)  And you don’t know me. God, by now we’ve probably turned over every cell in our bodies twice over.  We’re not the same.  How do we become our younger selves… when we just talked for hours? And everything was new… (She reads aloud) Once there was a couple who couldn’t talk without wanting to strangle the life out of the conversation.  There’s no time to just sit and hold hands… and catch up.  They were strangers and didn’t know  (She types) how to become…

IAN

(He types and says-)  Subject: RE: That’s not stupid.  (He pauses, sits, stifles a sniffle, wipes his nose and reads aloud)  Once there was a couple who couldn’t talk without wanting to strangle the life out of the conversation.  There’s no time to just sit and hold hands… and catch up.  They were strangers and didn’t know how to become –  (He takes a deep breath and says)  Run for cover!  Incoming! (He types) lovers…like…before.  (He hesitates, and then gently hits “Send”. He says, making a sound effect.) EEEEEeeeeerrr. Boom.

NANCY

(She chuckles, and wipes a tear)   That’s so hot. He has no idea.  So, not stupid, eh?   (She types) Subject: Re: Glad you think so.   (She reads)   Once there was a couple who couldn’t talk without wanting to strangle the life out of the conversation.  There’s no time to just sit and hold hands… and catch up.  They were strangers and didn’t know how to become lovers like before. Period. (She types and “Send”s) I want you…

IAN

(Frozen staring into the screen.  He types and says-)    Subject: Re: No words… (He types and “Send”s) I miss you.

NANCY

(She types and “Send”s)  Subject:  Re: Less said better.  Come hold hands…

SHRINK

(He types and “Send”s)   Subject:  Ian and Nancy.   My work’s done.

IAN & NANCY

(Simultaneously they type and “Send”)   Subject:  Shut the hell up, Yoda!

(Blackout)

Dog Park Divas: Shaved Pomeranian

One hell of a funny gal, The Queen of WTF? does this and I have to give her mad props for providing the inspiration.  She may have created a monster here! 



I made that!  Yes, yes I did.  Fun and cathartic at  the same time.  Try it!

P.S. Update! Yes, Bella is my Pomeranian. Yes, she stars here in her cartoon form. No, I did not shave her! See?

License to Drive: The Photo, The Papers & WWBOD?

After ranting at God and the Fates and breaking glass and exploding leftover cherry bombs in the back yard until my Arab neighbor came out and said, “You must stop that now crazy lady” kicking myself in the ass for a reasonable amount of time, I fired up my bestest friend who is always there to play poker with me in the cold dark night when 3 a.m. comes and my mind is revving in a frenzy of unbridled somewhat destructive thoughts trusty laptop and diddled up the Florida DMV website and, yay, I made an appointment online for the next day, midday, to renew my license. The poop is in a pile. I’m going to fix this, I thought to myself, I am going to feel so much better being an organized law-abiding citizen of the roadway.


News flash! Renewal of license includes getting a new photo taken. I am phobic about it. We all know that this is likely to be the most hideous soul-stealing depiction of my very being ever, surpassing even the one from 3rd grade with the black plastic Buddy Holly glasses and the buck teeth unkind image so I spent three hours the next morning starting from bare-ass scratch to groom myself into something acceptable for this portrait that will haunt me for almost a decade to come the dreaded license photo. I primped with the malignant self-absorption of reality show “star.” I practiced smiling in the mirror, the head tilt, the taming of the double chin by flexing the muscles, all of it.

I got in my car and “snuck” out to the DMV Driver’s License Office near the University. I was unbelievably freaking lucky to get by with this what with my Law Enforcement pheromones on tilt these days not noticed by any of the police going there even though I sweated and creeped and looked like I was up to something sinister may have looked a tad nervous. Tucked back in a dowdy strip mall and fronted by a (yum) Dunkin Donuts, the DL Office was gyrating like a flaming Santeria ritual sacrifice of small animals in a Miami suburb salsa dance marathon on a Saturday night in San Juan.


Now, understand that I don’t judge this phenomenon and, in fact it is kind of cute a giant pain in the ass that they do this, our Hispanic brothers and sisters here in Central Florida never go anywhere alone. From the 6 week old newborn to the 99 year old “abuela,” they roam in packs travel in groups talking, laughing, arguing and gumming up the works taking up lots of space. Wal-mart is an adventure on Saturday, oh, about 10:00 a.m. I love it when they talk trash and don’t think I understand. But that’s another story…

And, holy shit saints and all who protect us, they can argue! The reception desk at the Driver’s License Office was hoppin’ and bobbin’ with unhappy agitated Spanish speaking folk with a few Middle Easterners and a smattering of Germans from Canada sprinkled in to make it a seething hot mess of a Babylon a fine international stew.

I soon knew why.

When I stepped up, all smug exuding my “born in the USA, I got this knocked” mode ready to rock, I casually flipped my expired license to the grim-faced dead-ringer for Rev. Jesse Wright African American elder sitting there and said, “Here to renew.”

“Appointment?”

“Yes sir. 12:45”

“Don’t see it. But we take walk- ins. About two hour wait.”

Gaack! “Ok I guess.” What the hell happened to my online appointment?

Then he asks me in a flat tone of voice that betrayed all the abuse he has received of late, his body language perfectly arranged in pre-flinch anticipation -

“Original Birth Certificate?

"No."

"Social Security card?"

"Nuh uh."

"Marriage license?"

"Nope"

"Two forms of I.D. other, like utilities bill, insurance card or mortgage statement?"

"Negative..."

"Passport?”

"Nyet!"

Then he pointed to the not very well communicated new rules promulgated by some helium-headed politician just to make everyone’s lives more difficult small print-out taped to the wall. January 2010, the State of Florida now requires any and all of this paperwork to prove that you are who you say you are to get a license.

Really? NO, REALLY?

I had none of it on me. Nor did a lot of people applying for a license, apparently, hence the homicidal tense atmosphere there amongst the folk who don’t speak English as a first language and perhaps were not here legally but were hoping to tip in by having at least a Driver’s License.

At least I have “my papers.” Just not with me.

Crump! BLAM! I felt my head exploding. I was going to go all bitchy and stabby on everyone dissolve into a puddle of tears and whatever other liquids that could leak out of me, so I stomped out of there in a histrionic huff fled.

Slinking back to the car, I drove back home, again blessedly eluding the smokies and gathered all the documents I needed. All the while I heard the snarky Nazi of lore just before he is going to make my life hell, “Your papers? Schnell! Mach schnell!” told myself all this fuss has got to be a steaming pile of manure manufactured by dumb asses for a good reason.

Regroup! Got a ride next morning at the butt-crack of dawn to stand in line not needing no damn disappearing appointment and be first up to bat. I ended up being third up to bat. Dunkin Donuts catered the morning. The line outside was a smorgasbord of people once again, Latin gentlemen chattering away, wide-eyed Middle eastern ladies in full burka, black teens with low-riding pants and blinding bling in the light of the sun rising, elderly Germans with their Bermuda shorts hoisted up high upon ample tummies, nurses in scrubs, and little old bright white Anglo glow-in-the-dark me.

After two of them asked why I had so much paper with me, I gave a loud annoying rant a helpful tutorial to everyone there about the documents and half the people scurried off never to return the line thinned by half. So glad I thought to speak up since I leveraged it into being first in line, Yay me! could help.

Then the thought hit us both at the same time: WWBOD?

What would Barack Obama do if he wanted a Driver’s License in Florida?

That pesky original birth certificate requirement could sure leave him scrambling to produce it walking!

And, of course, my new license photo looks like unadulterated crap just what I thought it would.

License To Drive: Permission To Rant

The birthday came and went without the remotest synapse firing in my brain of whether my driver license was in need of renewal. Last time I renewed it, I was 10 years younger than now, a helluva lot more organized, lucked into an actually kind of cute photo on it, and better at meeting deadlines. So, naturally, now that I have an All Destination VIP Pass on the Flaky Train, I hear “whoop, whoop” all up in my car’s rear end.

“Am I getting popped?”

“Yes, Mom, you are,” comes the reply from the backseat. Déjà vu all over again. What is it about me that attracts law enforcement? Very fucked up craptacular. This time, a female Officer Krupke materializes in my rearview mirror just as I was pulling into my destination.

Now, driving alone and being snared by law enforcement’s finest would not have been, in and of itself, humiliating. No, it would have been an angry, slap-myself-in-the-forehead episode, and after beating myself up for a couple of hours and that third comforting cocktail, I’d be back all balanced out and smiling.

I’d just furtively pay the fine from my secret manicure/pedicure/wine/facial/clothes  Church Tithe fund and vow to tell no one. NO ONE! Humiliation averted for yet another day! Huzzah!

But NOOOO, the fickle fates just HAD to have me transporting teenage girlies who thought this was so damn funny witnesses. To wit, my flipping’ inappropriately giggling daughter and her wait until my Dad and Twitter hears about this BFF, the daughter of a county sheriff’s deputy.

Humiliation thus amped to the tenth power, tears and slamming things around to follow.

Nervous fidgeting in the back seat and suppressed hysterical laughter anxious whispers –

“Go get your Dad!”

“I can’t. He’s not home!”

“Oh damn it. Mom you’re on your own.”

Cha-CHING! Expired License by two weeks. Citation. Bloody hell, I was so close to getting that manicure.

And the Officer wanted to know how I was going to get my car home, about two blocks away, since “you can’t drive with an expired license.”

“Does the girl drive yet?”

“Yes, I can drive!” chirped “the girl” oh shit she didn’t just say that helpfully from the back seat.

My head snapped around and I transfixed Little Miss Loose Lips with a volcanic stare –

“She does not have her permit yet, so no she CAN’T drive even though I am a bad, bad Mom and let her tool around her grandparents gated community quite often just for fun.”

“Ok. I am going to go now to where I picked you up on that street back there where I will be picking off more soccer moms until my monthly quota is met and the Sheriff can buy that shiny new helicopter he's been wanting  and I don’t want to see you driving this car. You get it?” *wink*

“Got it”

I snuck the Cruiser home avoiding “that street back there” so she wouldn’t have to compromise her integrity, and plotted my trip to the Department of Motor Vehicles Driver’s License seething lava pond from the depths of hell office to renew my license.

To be continued…